When I was 15, life was tough. The boy I liked didn’t like me. And the boy who liked me wouldn’t leave me alone. My basketball coach didn’t care if I had asthma (or short, chubby legs). My friends and I were accused of being a clique. And my mom was always on my case for something.
Life was tough, I’m telling you.
Looking back, of course, I can’t quite summon the angst and anxiety of that freshman girl. It’s not that what I worried about wasn’t important; it was. But those things carry a different importance this far down the road. For example, it’s hard to remember just how desperate young, unrequited love can feel after being married for 10 years.
What I can recall, however, is the rock bottom feeling of being completely overwhelmed with life. Partly because the feeling was so strong then that even 16 years isn’t enough time to completely dull its pain.
Partly because in the deepest, most insecure part of my heart, I’m still 15.