The Time I Met My Teenaged Self

Being Happy

The Story

In January, I began the journey of reading all my old high school journals as research for a memoir I wanted to write about the time I had cancer. (You can read more about that experience here.) I mentally prepared myself to re-live every surgery, every radioactive iodine treatment, every sobering conversation with a doctor— plus the fear that presaged each of these events. I’d journaled consistently throughout high school, starting less than a year after my diagnosis the summer before ninth grade, so I knew that reading those notebooks would be the best way to take myself back in time.

As I opened the first journal, I took a deep breath and imagined myself diving into a dark pool, where I’d rediscover monsters once intimately known and deliberately forgotten.

But I didn’t find monsters. I didn’t find fear. I barely even found details about my cancer journey. What I found, on almost every page, was happiness.

I couldn’t believe it. At fourteen, fifteen, sixteen years old, I was battling an aggressive cancer. My family was consumed with it, my parents juggling the logistics of hospitals and doctors along with their full-time jobs. My thyroid medication made my metabolism and hormones jump around even more than in typical puberty. There was constant pressure to keep my illness under wraps at school; I didn’t want to be labeled as “the cancer kid” or receive pity from classmates.

Yet reading the journals, there was no doubt about it— during those years, I was primarily happy. I bubbled over onto the page about the school musical; new friends I’d made; the music I loved on the radio; sleepovers with my best friend; a Disney vacation my parents had planned. I used the surgeries and treatments like mileposts, necessary stops— but when they were over, I put them behind me and kept on living. I practiced my flute and studied for tests. I went to the mall. I watched movies. I called my friends. That was my life, not the cancer.

I expected to read the journals and find the roots of a lifelong trauma. Instead, I found my teenaged self, and realized how resilient she was. Yes, she’d need to process and grieve things later, with the perspective of age. But at the time, she dealt with it the best she could. She was happy! And even better, in the journals, she made it clear WHY she was happy.

Teenaged Me was happy because she gave love and was loved. She wrote about the love from her parents, sister and friends. She wrote about admiration and praise from her teachers. She glowed under their love and attention, and she gave love and attention to others. Teenaged Me liked being the one her friends confided in when they were feeling down over a fight, a boy, a test. She showed her love by helping others, being a witty and smart conversationalist, and fiercely protecting her friendships. She was busy, but always doing things she loved, prioritizing the people she loved.

Teenaged Me understood that happiness is love, and love is attention. She was happy because she gave attention to the people and things she loved most, instead of the cancer.

The good news? Ever since reading the journals, I feel deeply connected to that version of me. I feel more resilient, more focused, more passionate. I’m so grateful for this deep dive into my past self.

The bad news is that no one’s going to read a memoir about a happy girl with cancer!

But maybe they’ll read a newsletter about a girl who figured out how to be happy, despite— or alongside— cancer.

Photo by Melissa Askew on Unsplash

Stuff You Might Like To Know

You may notice that this newsletter is a bit shorter. I’m focusing more on the personal essay and cutting down on the character descriptions and action steps. I’m trying to make the newsletter a bit more manageable to write weekly, so I’ll be playing with the format a bit. Please let me know your thoughts!

I’m currently reading LEAVE THE WORLD BEHIND by Rumann Alam (2020 novel) and it’s somehow makes me feel both creepily uncomfortable and addicted to knowing what will happen next; I have no idea how Alam achieved this sorcery.

I’m watching Kids Chopped with my daughter, and I cannot get over how gifted the preteen chefs are. Actually I’m even more impressed by their parents, who must have spent hours when the kids were younger, making sure they didn’t cut off their fingers or burn their arms.

I’m listening to the Les Miserables 10th Anniversary soundtrack. I could listen to Colm Wilkinson sing “Bring Him Home” 1,000 more times and never be tired of it.

Here’s to us, in all of our imperfect, striving goodness.

Keep hoping. Keep caring. Keep trying.