There’s just this very very delicate thing. It’s a girl, between girlhood and womanhood, opening her eyes and slowly learning what it’s going to take to navigate adulthood.
As this thing unwraps, crinkling like cellophane around a new mascara, you get to see how many layers there are.
How to dress, how to perform, how to be real behind closed doors. How to be real without closed doors, how to give and how to take, how to reveal.
Watching you navigate this – looking older than your age, being so mature for your age – I, too, can easily forget you’re in a process. That tears can well up as easily as giggles can escape. The labyrinth of shame or mortification takes its toll, while you simultaneously explore your natural goofiness and light-heartedness.
And slowly, as I work hard not to compare, not to rely on my own teenage story as a north star, I work on giving you space, while holding out a hand; recognizing which of your fears are mere obstacles to overcome, and which are true terrors; my hand is out, take it when you want, take both even, and maybe those baby steps towards young adulthood will be just a little more steady.
Whadya got: