7th Grade. I am standing in a new school, in a new town, in the smallest state in the United States of America. Awkward. Alone. Self-Conscious. Who wears 7th Grade well? I didn’t. It came with tight jeans, hated hair, insecurities that bred while I slept. I loathed my life and felt oh, so ordinary. I walk into this new school which is to me “the big city”. I feel the eyes upon me. New girl. Awkward magnified. How I wish I felt…special. I ask the teacher what to do, as I swim in a sea of unfamiliar faces and halls and realize I am sinking. Just another face. The teacher is not so sensitive to my current circumstance but busy with a million mundane tasks, distracted. Still, she manages to direct me, only mildly annoyed. I stalk the halls wishing I could escape somehow through crevices in the hallway walls. The angst of one thousand ordinary moments longing to be something more than ordinary.
I watch my daughter scale this period in life. She thinks I have no knowledge of puberty or adolescence. I see her struggle and remember too well the pain of the years. Some get by unscathed. Others, escape by grace, look back, head shaking, relieved that those years are but a temporary season.
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