By Heather Robinson.
“I wish you could go back and tell yourself what you know now…”
Taylor Swift’s song ‘Fifteen’ plays in my head when I think back to who I was almost ten years ago. Man, I feel old just writing that. I'm practically two decades old and I never imagined how life would be now. Yet, at the same time, I’m not surprised by how things have turned out. I guess I always knew that I could do it, that I could be the person my ten-year-old self dreamed of being.
“I wish you could go back and tell yourself what you know now…”
Taylor Swift’s song ‘Fifteen’ plays in my head when I think back to who I was almost ten years ago. Man, I feel old just writing that. I'm practically two decades old and I never imagined how life would be now. Yet, at the same time, I’m not surprised by how things have turned out. I guess I always knew that I could do it, that I could be the person my ten-year-old self dreamed of being.
Which for your information, isn't absolutely fantastic, but at that age my problems were different to my problems now. The issues that concerned me back then still remain relevant to people my own age. I however, overcame those problems at some point in the last decade. We never stop to think about the many milestones in our lives or the events that shaped who we are today, and it takes a while for us to notice when a problem has ceased being a problem. If I could go back, back to my tracksuit and hairband days, my roller-blading days, my long stringy hair in need of a cut days, my cropped too short bob after eventually getting it cut days, and my insecurities about how I looked days, well, I’d have a whole lot to say.
First off, I would tell myself to outright refuse to let my mother cut my hair with the kitchen scissors one sunny weekday in September. I’d demand a trip to the hairdressers and I certainly wouldn’t have worn it in little braids the next day, suffering the wrath of my friend Jordan, who screamed “What did you do to your hair?” when I walked into the classroom. Yet, I handled it well I think. I smiled cheerfully, never alluding to the traumatic revealing of my new haircut in my parent’s bedroom mirror and how I broke down sobbing upon seeing it. My mother insisted that I looked “lovely” and that I was being “ridiculous”. I was neither. Presently, I’d also warn myself of the frizzy hair fiasco that would ultimately consume my eleven year old self. I’d tell me what to do to stop my roots from tightly curling and I’d do something about that middle parting.
The next thing I would change would be my endless wearing of tracksuits and runners. I wasn’t even sporty. I went rollerblading a lot, I cycled my bike too but that was it. I could understand if it stemmed from necessity and smart-thinking but alas, the real reason behind my chosen uniform is kind of sad. I was crazily insecure and fearful of other people’s opinions concerning me. It ruled my life. For some strange reason I had it in my head that tracksuits were the only appropriate thing for me to wear because ‘cool people wore tracksuits too’. I wasn’t confident enough to wear what I wanted to wear which wasn’t even very radical. I would pour over the photo shoots or teen celebrity pictures in magazines like ‘Girl Talk’ and mentally recreate the outfits whenever I was in Penney’s. Now I don’t even own a hoodie, never mind tracksuits.
When I was ten I began to develop insecurities concerning my appearance that outweighed my lack of confidence in the wardrobe area. These perceived flaws really affected my life, all the way up to transition year in secondary school. A new girl, my now best friend, became a part of our class the year before and she was very skinny. When I look back on photos now I wonder why I ever thought I was bigger than average, I felt enormous next to her. If I could go back now, I’d tell my younger self to STOP COMPARING myself to other people. I’d tell her that confidence, real confidence, is what makes you an attractive person, not pale-faced malnourishment. I would tell her that she is beautiful and that she’ll grow into herself more and more. Our bodies aren’t set in stone at that age and I’d let her know that she still has loads more changing to do. I’d warn her of what was to come, and how at some stage, she’d be proud of her body.
I know I can’t go back and say all of this so I’m doing the better thing. I tell my nine year old sister every day that she’s cute and beautiful. We tell her often that her body is perfect how it is and that she shouldn’t worry about it. We let her know constantly that we’re here for her and that when her body starts changing, when her hair gets frizzier (it’s a family thing) and things get weird, that we’ll be there for her all of the time. We’ll have all the tips, tricks and advice. She has so much confidence and I couldn’t be any prouder of her. It’s never too late to make a difference and we, my other sister and I, want to give our sibling the best chance she has. Being here for her now is better than going back for myself. If I’d turned out differently, my influence on her wouldn’t be the same, she may not be the amazing individual she is now. So in spite of my ten year old self, it all worked out. Don’t be afraid to be yourself, be afraid of pretending to be someone else.
First off, I would tell myself to outright refuse to let my mother cut my hair with the kitchen scissors one sunny weekday in September. I’d demand a trip to the hairdressers and I certainly wouldn’t have worn it in little braids the next day, suffering the wrath of my friend Jordan, who screamed “What did you do to your hair?” when I walked into the classroom. Yet, I handled it well I think. I smiled cheerfully, never alluding to the traumatic revealing of my new haircut in my parent’s bedroom mirror and how I broke down sobbing upon seeing it. My mother insisted that I looked “lovely” and that I was being “ridiculous”. I was neither. Presently, I’d also warn myself of the frizzy hair fiasco that would ultimately consume my eleven year old self. I’d tell me what to do to stop my roots from tightly curling and I’d do something about that middle parting.
The next thing I would change would be my endless wearing of tracksuits and runners. I wasn’t even sporty. I went rollerblading a lot, I cycled my bike too but that was it. I could understand if it stemmed from necessity and smart-thinking but alas, the real reason behind my chosen uniform is kind of sad. I was crazily insecure and fearful of other people’s opinions concerning me. It ruled my life. For some strange reason I had it in my head that tracksuits were the only appropriate thing for me to wear because ‘cool people wore tracksuits too’. I wasn’t confident enough to wear what I wanted to wear which wasn’t even very radical. I would pour over the photo shoots or teen celebrity pictures in magazines like ‘Girl Talk’ and mentally recreate the outfits whenever I was in Penney’s. Now I don’t even own a hoodie, never mind tracksuits.
When I was ten I began to develop insecurities concerning my appearance that outweighed my lack of confidence in the wardrobe area. These perceived flaws really affected my life, all the way up to transition year in secondary school. A new girl, my now best friend, became a part of our class the year before and she was very skinny. When I look back on photos now I wonder why I ever thought I was bigger than average, I felt enormous next to her. If I could go back now, I’d tell my younger self to STOP COMPARING myself to other people. I’d tell her that confidence, real confidence, is what makes you an attractive person, not pale-faced malnourishment. I would tell her that she is beautiful and that she’ll grow into herself more and more. Our bodies aren’t set in stone at that age and I’d let her know that she still has loads more changing to do. I’d warn her of what was to come, and how at some stage, she’d be proud of her body.
I know I can’t go back and say all of this so I’m doing the better thing. I tell my nine year old sister every day that she’s cute and beautiful. We tell her often that her body is perfect how it is and that she shouldn’t worry about it. We let her know constantly that we’re here for her and that when her body starts changing, when her hair gets frizzier (it’s a family thing) and things get weird, that we’ll be there for her all of the time. We’ll have all the tips, tricks and advice. She has so much confidence and I couldn’t be any prouder of her. It’s never too late to make a difference and we, my other sister and I, want to give our sibling the best chance she has. Being here for her now is better than going back for myself. If I’d turned out differently, my influence on her wouldn’t be the same, she may not be the amazing individual she is now. So in spite of my ten year old self, it all worked out. Don’t be afraid to be yourself, be afraid of pretending to be someone else.