Little Me

I came across this old photo of me and my dad. I always had long, unruly hair. And I still wake up some mornings looking like that wild little girl. Well, a much older version.

I see the innocence in this photo. I’ve heard of counselors guiding people in speaking to their child selves. I’ve never experienced this, but I wonder where that desire comes from, to wish we could kneel down and look ourselves in the eyes and say a little something. For my older, wiser eyes to stare into those brown little ones and speak a bit of truth.

I looked into this photo tonight, wishing I could warn her of so much. Almost ashamed to even tell her of the ways we’d compromise. The hurt we’d carry. The boundary lines we’d continually let slide. How could she ever believe me when I tell her each wrong we endured would make her a littler stronger. A little more creative. A little more able to dig somewhere deep and pull up the emotions into words.

I look at myself in the mirror today and shake my head, ashamed. Yet, I see this photo of myself so young and swallow an ache in my throat. It’s not quite her fault. She trusts. She believes the best. She wants others to just do the same. But instead, life happens. People hurt. And she lets it slide a bit more.

I wish I could tell her a simple life would be a boring life. A painless life wouldn’t stir any colors of creativity. A sheltered life would only be self-serving.

So I see little me and I let a tear fall. I remember that she deserves more. She’s worth better.

And I move forward.