As I begin the swan song of my teenagedom (excuse me, I don’t know how to make 19 sound important ((because it’s not)), I’ve thought about what being a teenager has meant to me. Adolescence is such a quintessential part of, at the very least, American culture. We look back on it with nostalgia and secondhand embarrassment. I think about my evolution from the ice cream truck to $1.05 slushies from Speedway. I think about how I traded in glitter hair gel for Kool-Aid hair dye, strawberry lipgloss for red lipstick, and bike rides for a driver’s license.
Somehow and sometime, I became more familiar with 2 AM than dusk and more comfortable with the scars on my face and body than I ever thought I’d be. Somehow and sometime, I’ve forgiven who I’ve been, dreamed about who I’ll become, and become okay with who I am.
Diana. You’re 13 and you think that your worth is measured by the number of points you get on an exam, the number of friends you have, and the number of calories you eat. You’re 14 and you think that only other people can break your heart. You’re 15 and you don’t plan on making it to 16. You’re 16 and you think your mom is your worst enemy and that smoking cigarettes is ironically cool. You’re 17 and you’re learning that the road to recovery is closer to self-destruction than you’ll ever admit. You’re 18 and you know what freedom tastes like, and sometimes it’s more bitter than sweet.
Diana. There’s going to be a lot of love lost. Not everyone has good intentions, but everyone has a life, soul, mind, and heart. You’re going to make the same mistakes and not get enough sleep. You’re still stubborn as hell, but lucky for you, you’ll meet like-minded souls who are patient with you when you’re not patient with yourself.
Diana. I’m not going to lie to you. Life doesn’t get better. At least, not in the way you want it to. There’s a lot of room for improvement, and you’re still going to struggle with the same insecurities you’ve had since you were 12. You don’t grow out of depression and you’re going to be indecisive, impulsive, and a little reckless with yourself. But the bruises will fade and you will heal.
Life doesn’t get better and the world doesn’t become a nicer place to live in, but you get stronger. Your skin gets a bit thicker. And you let your heart grow bigger and make room for your own soul. Every breath gets easier. Your body feels less like a cage and more like a home.
Today I’m nineteen, and if I could do the last eighteen years over again, I would tell myself life doesn’t get better, easier, or more forgiving.
Diana. Life doesn’t get better. But you do.
xx. Diana
on being diana 