Dear 14-year-old Me,

14-year-old me is in the back row of this photo, with braces and short hair,
behind the boy in orange.

I sat in Mr. Griggs' ninth grade history class watching a movie about the Mayans.

For some reason, my primary school education covered the Aztecs, Incas and Mayans no fewer than four different times. We never quite got to the Holocaust, but I learned about that from Anne Frank and Elie Wiesel.

But back to History. We came a part of the video about the Mayan calendar. The music swelled as the narrator's voice grew steadily more dramatic. The ticking of a clock grew faster and louder above the music until his final word "... the calendar ends on December 21. Twenty twelve!"

Dun dun dun.

The year rang out like a fatal exclamation point. The date wasn't for ten more years, and I wasn't sure I believed it would really mark the end of the world. But I was just insecure enough to think it might be true. I tried to imagine what I might be doing on that day.

I realized that was a full two years after I would graduate from college. I wondered vaguely how long graduate school would take. If it were two years, I'd just be finishing it. I imagined I would be living in Provo, going to school at BYU. I wondered if I would really study something writing-related. Then I did the math—I would be 24 years old.

Goodness, it seemed like forever. I would be twenty-four. So old. Then I realized another possibility—What if I'm married? Will I have any children?

It's funny to me that I remember that day so clearly. Maybe something inside me was waiting for today to come, just to see where I ended up. To see if I lived in Provo. If I was maybe even married.

That day in ninth grade, the future seemed so hazy. I couldn't even imagine what I would look like. But I like to think that if I could go back and talk to my 14-year-old self, she might like me.

I would probably have to explain to her why I chose not to get my master's degree right after graduation. I would explain to her that I chose instead to go to work to earn some money for my family while my husband got his master's degree.

She's 14, so she would ask all about this husband. She would ask if she knew him yet. But I wouldn't tell her anything, because figuring out that Ryan was the one was one of the highlights of my life.

Then I would tell her that the job was amazing and I loved it. But I wouldn't tell her where it was, even though that would impress her. Because that was fun to figure out too.

Then I would tell her that my husband's graduate degree allowed me to write from home, just like I always wanted to do. And then I would tell her the best news of all. I am a mother.

I just hope that if my younger self could see me today—trying to squeeze out revisions on three or four chapters of my book before the baby wakes up, packing for myself and my child, getting lunch for my family ready, wearing average clothes and still without the long, thick hair she always wanted—she would somehow be proud.

At the risk of sounding boastful, I kind of think she would be.

-----------------------------

Thank you, so much, to everyone who read and/or shared by last post. I wrote it just for myself, not intending to post it, but Ryan said it needed to be published. I was shaking as I posted it. 

It was by far my most-visited post of all time.

I hope it helped some of you to read it as much as it helped me to write it. And really, thank you, all of you. I'm pretty humbled.

Merry Christmas, everyone!