A friend recently asked me: “If you could talk to the 19-year-old you, what would you tell her?” And I’ve not stopped thinking about it since. Here is my response …

1. Nothing, and I mean NOTHING, about the “perfect” plan you’re laying out for your life will turn out the way you’re hoping. And oh, girl–will that suck. And sometimes it will hurt–badly. BUT. It WILL be okay. I promise. In the end, your life will be more colorful than you can even imagine. You will have experiences you can’t even dream up right now. You will see things and be a part of things that will settle into your bones and propel you forward with passion. You will meet really important people, people who will change your life and come to mean the world to you. And you wouldn’t have met them if things turned out the way you wanted. Just go with it. Get mad when you need to get mad, and cry when you need to cry. We’re not really good at not getting our way, I know. And like I said, it will hurt. And sometimes it’ll be hard. But getting mad and being sad, is okay. Don’t forget that, yeah? Just … every once in a while, take step back and look at the gorgeous, interesting, successful, heartbreaking, happyful life you’ve been given because, AND ONLY because, your plan didn’t turn out. I promise. It really is better than you can plan yourself.
2. Trust your instincts and your follow your tastes. Who cares what other people think? Learn how to be yourself sooner. I spent a long time not doing what I wanted to do and not being who I wanted to be because I was too worried about everyone else.
3. Take “just because” classes at college. At least one a semester. There are so many things to learn and so many things that interest you. Just learn.
4. DO THE STUDY ABROAD.
5. Start a savings account. Seriously. Start. a. savings. account.
6. Be nicer to your skin, especially the skin around your eyes. Don’t tug on it as much as you do, and don’t forget to wash your face every night, and for heaven’s sake–moisturize, moisturize, moisturize.
7. Don’t listen to your parents. Join the Peace Corps.
8. The heartbreak will pass. Really. It will. And actually, you’d be smarter to not fall for him in the first place. That was one of the stupidest choices I ever made. So yeah. Just don’t go there.
9. Keep a journal. Seriously. Keep a journal.
10. Learn how to talk to Heavenly Father. Like for real talk. Not the stupid, pointless, repetitive prayers you pray most of the time. Learn how to have an actual conversation with Him and learn how to hear Him. Listen more.
11. Enjoy every second of that summer fling you’ll have with the Frenchman. And in fact–kiss him more than you already will. And don’t ever regret it. Don’t let yourself think that it “wasn’t the best idea.” Because you were living. Honest to goodness living. And you were experiencing all sorts of tastes and sights and sounds and feelings that will make you a richer woman in the long run.
12. Don’t get those bright, chunky blonde highlights. Just don’t do it. It’s a horrible idea.
13. Learn how to exercise. You have been battling your body long enough. Save yourself from another decade of war. Be better to it. Stop hating it. And love it.
14. Read more.

I’m not really sure how or where to start this post. And I suppose the answer is to start at the very beginning. At least that’s what I hear Maria von Trapp singing in my ear. But the problem is that I’m not sure where the beginning is.

I mean, at what point, in the course of a girl’s life, does she begin to hate her body. How do you find the day?

As children we can’t stop ourselves from jumping into pictures, making crazy faces, and loving the resulting photos. We are oblivious to the nuances and peculiarities of our bodies, simply happy that they’ll pedal a bicycle, skip down the street, and hang one-handed from the monkey bars.

But all of a sudden, we cross some threshold. We become “aware.” And we begin to shy away from photos, hiding from the cameras, hoping to be put in the back row. We begin inspecting ourselves in the mirror, eyes trailing from head to toe like a dot-to-dot under a magnifying glass, suddenly certain that our hair is too stringy, too curly, too straight, that our nose is too freckled, ears too uneven, chin too pointy, skin too pale, buttocks too round, or perhaps too flat, boobs too big, boobs too small, stomach too flabby, thighs too fat, ankles too thick, toes too long, need I go on?, all the while carrying on an internal dialogue wherein we tell ourselves that we’re not pretty enough, not tall enough, not tan enough, not thin enough, not curvy enough … not. not. not. Enough.

But where is the day that begins? When does it happen?

I have blurry memories.

There was the day in seventh grade that Joel Vierra pointed out that Shannon Schlesman was great at English, and that he was good at math, and that I was good at lots of subjects. “You’re well-rounded,” he said. And then he chuckled, “Get it? Well-rounded.”

There was the day in fifth grade when I didn’t sign up for swim team—not because I didn’t want to. But because I couldn’t bear the thought of putting on the swim suit.

Or the afternoon I’d forgotten my sheer, filmy ballet skirt in my dance bag. And so I pulled on the cotton skirt I’d worn to school that day, fully aware that I needed something to cover my belly. No one had to tell me. I just knew. It wasn’t flat like the other girls’.

Ballet class began, but when my teacher noticed my attire, he stopped class to tell me to take the skirt off—that I would have to dance that day in just my leotard and tights. And I stood there at the bar, my eyes on the floor, everyone else’s on me, heart pounding, ears burning, and told him no. He stood there in silence for a minute and then told me again to take it off. And still, I quietly whispered, “no.”

I had never told an adult, let alone a teacher, “no” before. I’m nothing if not an obedient teacher’s pet. But I was certain, that day, that it was more humiliating to stand in front of everyone wearing only my leotard plastered to every curve of my body than to do disobey.

I was in second grade. Eight years old.

I quit ballet soon after—not because I wasn’t good, and not because I didn’t love it. But because I knew, and was certain everyone else knew, that my body was not a ballerina’s body.

But when did that happen? When did I finally know? And how? When began this seemingly endless battle with my body? How many years have I been looking in the mirror silently telling myself that the reflection looking back is wrong?