A Letter to My Teenage Self: Notes from Therapy

Girl, you would not think you’re cool now. You’d hate how “basic” we are. We like Taylor Swift and wear dresses. I think you’d also be a little thrilled knowing you did end up joining the girly side and dropped the try-hard tomboy act. The tomboy in you would be grossed out by all the pink and Pinterest, though.

You’d be stunned that the person you spend the most time with now… is Mom.
You have two puppies who adore you.
You have a cool job. Not an aerospace engineer (sorry), but we did try engineering school. We work as an estimator — big numbers — which sounds like a drag, I know, but it’s chill and we actually love it.

You drive a truck!
You’re not friends with the girls you once thought were your soulmates, but that’s okay. Kam, Avery, Phillisha, and Celeste are way better anyway.

I know you’re still shocked about the “Mom” comment, so let me explain.
Once you turned 18, you became this rebellious woman who just wanted to get a job and figure life out. You didn’t talk to Mom for six months. We learned a lot in that time. Eventually, we made up just enough to make living together habitable.

It’s been eight years. Her abuse was a lot — and it nearly broke you. But she did stop. She got married our junior year, and that’s when the physical stuff stopped. Her words, though? Still sharp. Still cutting. But we’re learning to let them flow through us instead of into us.

You still fear her. Which is wild, knowing we’re still choosing to live with her.

I went to see a doctor — to talk about Mom — and she told us, “You just have to accept it.”
Yeah, right?

But she’s right.
She also said, “Your mom is never going to apologize to you.”
Ouch.

Doc clearly doesn’t know how hard-headed we are. We require apologies. We hold resentment. We keep score.

But that’s where the real Doctor comes in — aka GOD.
We’ve gotten real close with Him. I know you’d be happy to hear that.

Now… about dating (I know that’s what you care about most). I’m skipping it for now. It’s a learning experience, but don’t rush it. Seriously.

Drop your shoulders. Unclench your jaw. And SMILE MORE.
I wish I smiled more growing up, even though it didn’t always feel like I had a reason to — but we were alive. That’s plenty to smile about.

Also: stop wearing leggings and sweatpants everywhere.
And for the love of the Lord, make your brows thinner.

I’m still scared of Mom, even though she hasn’t laid a hand on me since I turned 18. It was never fair.
Life isn’t fair though — doesn’t mean it hurts any less.

I’m learning to move on, but it’s complicated. It’s complex. Most days, I don’t think about it — 99% of the time I’m fine.
But that 1%?
That’s when the fear grips my chest.

I catch myself analyzing her mood. Listening for the tone in her voice. Watching her body language. Noticing the sound of her steps — are they heavy or light? Is she angry?
Did I forget something?
Did I do something wrong?

She still says things in a way that makes me feel like the villain. Like I never should’ve been born. And even though I know she doesn’t mean it like that… I don’t think she fully understands the weight of her words.

She carries a victim mentality — always “woe is me,” always focused on what life took from her. But she forgets that I was there through all of it.
The abuse.
The bankruptcy.
The debt.
The alcoholism.
The job loss.

I was there — every day. Because I had nowhere else to go.

The person you seek comfort in is the person I fear. But I still try to carve out any little bit of nurturing in her that might be hiding somewhere.

She had a hard past.
Oh, how I wish she was like me and could see the light instead of being consumed by the dark.

The good news?
It’s made me a ridiculously optimistic person.

The bad news?
I still harbor fear — even eight years later.

So how do we move on from that?

I know she can’t physically hurt me anymore.
But emotionally? She still can.

Is this when I turn to God for guidance?
Duh, girl.