This morning I put on a little lacy tank top that I had thought about the night before. I put it on, with jeans and a sweater, looked at myself in the mirror, and whispered, “nope” at my reflection. I took it off and put on a t-shirt instead. One that falls off the side of my shoulders and bares my collarbone and bra strap in an almost scandalous and yet reasonable way. I am sixteen and want so desperately to be noticed and to disappear at the same time.

Six months ago I didn’t eat lunch for the first time. Well, not for the first time - I’d had a hard time keeping things down for a while, some bug or virus that was running its course through the school. But on this particular day, I chose not to eat my lunch. I don’t know what I thought I would gain from missing one meal. One meal wouldn’t change the way I looked, not one bit. But in my mind, it was about the choice. Choosing to not eat in front of the others surrounding me. Choosing to go hungry, to almost pass out from low blood sugar. I thought resisting my hunger gave me power, but really it made  me weak. I was sixteen, and I wanted to look like Kate Moss, but I also wanted to be strong.

On Monday, I played in a field hockey game against Fryeburg Academy. My skirt became untucked and my spandex Nike Pros rode up my legs as I ran, chafing my already sore legs. 22 other teen girls surrounded me on the field, half in white and half in blue. If a girl from the other team falls, you offer your hand and help her up. If she gets hurt, you back up, take a knee, and give her a round of applause when she limps off the field. At the end of the game, no matter what the score was, you shake the hands of your opponents and look them in the eyes, and mean it when you say “good game”. The Monday game was not one we were supposed to win, but we did, and Fryeburg still shook our hands. While walking off the field, my teammates all commented on how gorgeous the girls on the other team were, and how well they played. I am sixteen and am so quick to gush over the incredible qualities of other girls because I know they don’t speak that way about themselves, just the way I don’t speak that way about myself. 

In a month I will not be sixteen anymore. In a month a lot might be different, but a lot will stay constant. I will be seventeen and will try to love myself more every day. 

A month and a half ago, I blew out two big gold candles: a 1 and a 7. As smoke wisped through the air, the smell of burnt wax and sugar entering my nostrils, the candles drooped ever so slightly into the molten chocolate lava cake in the mini trivet in front of me. My mothers, aunt and uncle, sister, and cousins surrounded me. Faces once illuminated by the soft candlelight were now cheering through the darkness of the kitchen, waiting for someone to switch on the lights. My grandmother was not there, and I selfishly was grateful. She has a history of ruining perfect, tender moments with unintended dagger-like comments. 

Just about a year ago, I woke up to a frosty Maine morning (my first of many) and did the bravest thing I’ve ever done; walked into a new school with no friends, no happiness, and not a lot to lose. I don’t think about that day too often- the weight of importance it holds to me being where I am now is frightening, despite the fact that I’m happier than I’ve been in a long time. 

Two days ago, I opened up the first half of this essay, which I wrote almost three months ago, and kind of laughed at myself. Not because I didn’t like it, or that I thought it was bad. But because I make self-love sound like a passive resolution, whereas I really consider it an uphill battle through thorns and mirrors and girls with spray tans on the Old Orchard Boardwalk. A hike through the combined voices of a lost friend, a relationship that was never meant to be, and a love unresolved who now walks beside me as a companion in debauchery and tomfoolery. I am always on my way up the hill; even when I stop for a break of water, I try never to walk back down. Each of the voices I heard were ones that once knocked me a little further down the hill, made me stumble over my own feet, and roll through sharp pebbles and jagged roots. The most humble, forgiving thing I’ve ever done was to let one of those people make it up to me- let one of those people climb the hill with me. 

I am 17, but I am also 16, 15, and 14, and every age I’ve ever been, because I wouldn’t be 17 without the years before it shaping me into the person I am today. I may not even be here at all. But the world didn’t end when I was 15, and it got a little brighter at 16. And now, now that I’m 17, I’m ready to start living again. Not in the cliche, drastic decisions and stupid choices way. In the simple, day-to-day way, going to bed early and getting up to watch the sunset with my mom. Seeing friends after school, laughing at lunch kind of way. To climb up the hill to self-love and to live life to the fullest are not mutually exclusive acts. I am 17, and then I will be 18, and then 19, and then 20 and so on after. But right now, I’m 17, and I’m doing just fine.