It was small but it was mine. The place where I listened to the music I liked even if no-one else did. Where I thought about how I was in love, even though I had not even dared speak to the boy yet. It was the place I felt safe. A place where I dreamed dreams. Where I curled up and cried because I didn’t think I was pretty enough. It was where I began to write poetry; angst ridden teenage prose just for my eyes, too unsure of myself to ever share it. My place to escape to when the world became too much. Where I tugged at my flesh and thought I was fat. It was where I spent time with friends and we would laugh until we cried. Where I would lean on the window sill and look up at the stars, wondering what I would be doing in thirty years.
I look back at my teenage self in that small room all those years ago and I want to say, ‘Things will be okay you know, life won’t be perfect, but you have got so many good things to look forward to.’
She is still with me, but no longer worries whether she is pretty enough. She is happy, married to a good man and so proud of her amazing son. She dares to share her words and still laughs until she cries. And now, when she looks up at the stars, she doesn’t worry about the future so much because she know it’s right now that matters.
Writing, growing, learning and connecting with February prompt-a-day over at write alm; today’s is ‘childhood bedroom’.