Dear 16-year-old Self,

Dear 16-year-old Self,
Dare you to move. That's the song that describes the summer in which we were 16. Of course, most of that summer can be summarized in that song and "Meant to Live."

That summer you met Adam. And you thought he was the greatest thing since sliced bread (fun fact: you still think this and you're 25 now). He was/is funny, smart, sexy and it was inevitable that you would fall for him. I mean, who wouldn't? He was also a little aloof and a little strange, but that didn't make you step back, it made you step forward. And so, when you think of "Dare you to move" by Switchfoot, you will forever picture yourself, in your camouflage t-shirt, sitting on the beach at TRC with him.

That was the summer you admitted to an adult about the cutting. That adult was Adam. He hugged you so tightly you believed that your broken pieces might fall back into place and for a little while they seemed to. You were happier. You adored him (again, you still do). You wanted to be with him, because he was older and he was smart and he knew French and you were so desperate to escape your reality that you wanted to create a new one with him.

Most of all you felt like he dared you to move, dared you to do something for yourself and be the person you were meant to be. So when he wrote "bonne courage" on your hand, you felt it was a sign. I still think it is.

Being of good courage is hard, 16, but you're going to have to be courageous to make it through to 25.

You'll lose touch with Adam for a while, but don't worry. When you finally reconnect, its perfect and far better than anything you had at 16. Even if you are married to someone else, you will still find the nerve to tell him how you really feel about him, still. Because you do still have feelings for him. I think we always will.

love,
Me.

Little Sister

I remember the day you were born as if it were yesterday. I remember holding you for the first time and thinking you were such a pretty baby. I remember feeding you, changing you, watching you grow up.

In March you will be 18 and I feel like it was yesterday that I was chasing you around the house, your giggles echoing down the hallway. I still feel bad for scraping your little heel when I tried to let you ride my bike with me. I still remember the panic I felt when you wouldn't eat, slowly wasting away until you were skin and bones. I remember thinking that I wanted you to get better, but also wanting you to no longer be in pain.

I think of these things, memories made over a lifetime and I wish you were little again so that I could do a few things over. I wish I had played Barbies with you more. I wish I had read to you more. I wish we were cuddled up on the couch watching "Help!" again.

I'm so proud of you though, my beautiful child. Even though I am nostalgic, even though I miss baby cuddles and listening to you playing in your cupboard.

I'm so jealous, darling. I feel like you are so much prettier, so much smarter, so much more interesting than I ever was or ever will be. You tell me I'm pretty, but I can't help thinking you are the most gorgeous person to ever set foot on this planet. And I'm not just saying that because you are my baby sister. I'm not just saying it because I've always thought you were prettier than me.

I'm saying it because I never want you to feel like you aren't pretty. I'm saying it because I want to build your self-esteem up. I want you to always believe you are beautiful; without being a snob, without being a bitch. I want you to believe what I never have; that you have worth and are beautiful.