Dear Fifteen-Year-Old Me,
In response to the permission slip you asked me to sign a few days ago:

There was a time you’d come home from school, grab a few popsicles, and run over to the neighbor girl’s house to ask her to play. The two of you would ask your older brother to join you, and the three of you would start a game tag. Soon enough, a few of the older neighborhood kids would join and the game grew. Everyone would run around hiding, trying not to get tagged. Eventually, the sun would start to set and everyone’s parents slowly called them back inside. You were always a little sad, but also a little happy because that meant it was time for dinner. Dinner was your favorite meal, and I know you can hardly imagine it now, but your favorite part of dinner was that dessert was right after. 

You and the neighbor girl were best friends for a long time, til’ she moved away. You used to sit out by the pool and talk about your future with her, mainly just your hopes and dreams, but at seven years old all you had was hopes and dreams. It was beautiful. You wanted to be the first female president, an Olympic athlete, a writer, a good friend, and a scientist. You also shared what you didn’t want. You didn’t want to take orders from adults or perfectly follow every rule. You never wanted to be asked to talk less or be quieter again; you told your friend you would never be silent when you had so much to say.

Do you remember any of this? Can you even remember who you were before you let others tell you who to be?

You’re fifteen now. Fifteen and hungry. Fifteen and cold. Fifteen and lost. Your dream of being President died when you decided you value being agreeable over being courageous. You aren’t chasing being an Olympian anymore, or an athlete at all really, considering you’re reading this from some hospital bed in the eating disorders unit at some children’s hospital in some city you’ve never seen before. You still write, but now it’s in a journal you show a psychiatrist once a week. You try, but it’s hard to be a good friend right now. You don’t believe you are smart enough to pursue science so you quit. 

Ironically, your life is dictated by self-imposed rules and orders from adults. Your rules tell you all the things you aren’t allowed to eat, say, or do. The orders usually tell you the opposite. You’ve silenced yourself since you still believe you are inherently not enough and that you have nothing worth saying anymore. 

Here’s the thing kiddo: I have good news and I have bad news. The bad news is as bad as things are right now, they get worse. You will betray yourself so many times you can no longer trust your own thoughts and feelings. You will betray the little girl playing tag so many times that you believe she is gone forever. You will betray yourself so deeply you will ask me if you can leave this world because you do not feel worthy of the breaths you take. 

The good news is, that as bad things get, that is also how good they get. You find people within the lines of memoirs, the hallways of hospitals, and old friends in your contact list that help you reconnect with yourself. You will eventually trust yourself again. You find out that the little girl you betrayed is waiting for you, arms wide open, ready to forgive you. While you aren’t chasing a Presidency or the Olympics, you do study science in college and start playing sports again. You prioritize being a good friend always and once you find your voice again, you use it to talk about the things that matter most to you. And most importantly, you find your worth.

So, fifteen-year-old me, I say this with love when I tell you I will not sign your permission slip asking me if you can leave this world because I’ve seen how bright your future is. I’ve seen the love you give and receive. I’ve seen the beaches you visit, the mistakes you make, the hearts you break, the lives you save, the cats you pet, the parking tickets you collect, the awards you earn, and all the millions of ways you realize you are absolutely, innately, enough. 

With love and courage always,
Twenty-Year-Old You.