Note to self

Since before I was born my daddy has been taking photos with a 35mm camera—the old-fashioned kind where you had to feed the film in on a spool and wind it up at the end before you open the camera—and he’s always had them made into slides. 

We never had printed pictures at my house unless someone else took them. But we always had a slide projector and boxes of slide carousels. 

Every once in a while we would hang a white sheet on a wall, set up the whole shebang, and look at slides, some of which were from before we kids even existed. Now, “we kids” are in our 50s and 60s and live hours from each other so there’s no good time for a slide-watching party. 

A few months ago I had the idea to scan all the slides, of which there are now literal thousands, and make a thumb drive of them all for each of us siblings. 

I got a nifty scanning gadget on Amazon that plugs into my laptop and saves them right to the desktop. I realize I sound like an old person talking about nifty gadgets and all—maybe because I am—but this newfangled technology is the bees’ knees and I can operate it without the help of a young whippersnapper. Okay, I’ll stop.

Anyway, I’ve been having fun going through boxes and boxes of slides. My parents were smart to label most of them or I wouldn’t know who some of these people were. At least we have a vague idea of where the photo was taken and the approximate year. 

Yesterday I came across some pictures that were taken in the summer of 1977. I was going into my junior year of high school. 

I sat and stared at my sixteen-year-old self and was surprised at all the thoughts and feelings that came up. She was so young. A child. Her teeth were straight; it was before her wisdom teeth pushed in and wrecked the rest. She had no lines on her face. A few freckles. Eyebrows she didn’t know how to shape. Green eyes she thought were drab that became her husband’s favorite. Straight hair because she never knew what else to do with it and was afraid to try. Afraid to look different. Afraid to stand out. Afraid to make a mistake.

She smiled but there was always a little bit of holding back. She was so insecure. She doubted herself. She thought she wasn’t enough—wasn’t pretty enough or outgoing enough or smart enough or talented enough. She struggled to fit in. Didn’t know where she belonged. With the band kids? The athletic kids? She was neither of those. She craved friendships but was just a little awkward. Didn’t know how to make smalltalk. (Still doesn’t.) Wanted boys to like her but not too much.

She preferred hiding to being out front. Unless she was forced otherwise, she always sat in the back of the class, even in chemistry and physics where her father was the teacher. She didn’t raise her hand even when she knew all the answers because what if she was wrong? Didn’t play team sports, except for one year of soccer where she was . . . let’s just say not great. She stopped taking piano lessons just short of being good at it.

She was always afraid of something—looking bad or looking too good, having no fun or getting in trouble, what people would think or not think. Afraid of taking chances and afraid of not amounting to anything. Afraid to try for fear of failure. Afraid of disappointing anyone and everyone. So full of fears.

I looked deeply into her eyes and asked, “What do I wish she had known, back then at the tender age of sixteen?”

I wish she had known how many people liked her just as she was. I wish she had believed she was likeable, even lovable. 

I wish she’d believed she was pretty and that nobody cared if she had bunions on her feet or hair on her arms. I wish she could have stopped wishing to be something she wasn’t not what she was. 

I wish she’d understood how much value she brought to the lives of people around her. I wish she’d valued herself. 

I wish she had known she didn’t have to give in order to get. I wish she’d know that what she was getting wasn’t love.

I wish she’d believed she was special, perfect just the way she was. I wish she could have stopped trying so hard, stopped striving.

I wish she’d believed she wasn’t responsible for keeping everyone happy. I wish she’d known she didn’t have to do what everyone else wanted just to keep the peace, and that the “peace” she thought she was getting was at her own expense, leaving her empty. I wish she’d understood how much it was costing her.

I wish she’d known that pleasing everyone was really just a selfish move, trying to gain control where she had none and didn’t need it. I wish she’d known she could walk away.

I wish she had learned to say no.

I wish she had understood she had a voice and that it was worth using and hearing. I wish she’d had a some confidence—even a little. I wish she’d understood her capabilities.

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But 16 was a long time ago and she didn’t know those things then. There was a lot she didn’t understand and didn’t believe, so she muddled through, doing life the only way she knew how.

Now, at 61, a palindrome in time away from that girl, I could wallow in my regret at all the things I just didn’t know and the decisions I made based on my myriad misunderstandings. I bet you could too.

Instead, I remind myself to show a lot of grace to that girl because of all she didn’t know.

She did the best she could.