There are a million other things I should be doing right now, but I read this story (or the beginning of that story) and it reminded me of my own story. When she said “I was twelve, a very young age to be kissing, yes…” I remembered myself, my own story, and how very different a story can be.

I was 12 when I had my first innocent “real kiss” through a friend’s bedroom window. I was so scared and nervous, and though he had been my “boyfriend” for months, that kiss in the cold night air changed everything about our relationship. By that summer, I would give myself away to a boy in the most fundamental way you can give yourself away.

I was thirteen.

At 36, nearly 37, my thoughts on that have ranged wildly throughout my lifetime. For years, I would have told you that I loved that boy. That while I was clearly too young to be engaging in that particular activity, I was older than my years and we were in love and so it was okay. It was mutual, and both of our firsts, and awkward and even a little bit beautiful, if disappointing.

For years after those years, I would have told you that it was stupid, but I was young and hormonal and he was four years older and while he did not take advantage of me, he should have known better. That no amount of love makes thirteen acceptable.

And now, I have a little girl. She turns six in five days. She will be thirteen in seven years. So my perspective has changed. Oh boy, has it.

I am not particularly interested in feeling ashamed about it, because this particular past is 24 years old, and I cannot change it. I am not interested in vilifying anyone, either, because even though I was far below the age of consent no one meant to hurt anyone, and while my partner was older, he was not much more mature or prepared for life.

At 37, I am more interested in understanding it, because I believe that this is what can help me make sure my kids do not make the same choices.

I was thirteen. I was struggling with everything in my life. I had spent the bulk of my middle school years being in trouble. Trouble for my smart mouth, trouble for my bad attitude, trouble, it seemed, for the very fact of my existence. I had problems at home– a father I felt I could never please, a sister who was suddenly distant and seemed to hate me though we had always been best friends. Though at 37 I know that everyone is fighting their own battle, and both my dad and my sister were fighting BIG battles, at the time and at 13 these things were impossible to see. The veil of teenage narcissism is thick.

I dealt with those problems by knowing everything and lashing out at any authority figure I could. I got detention for things like saluting my teacher. My friends laughed– I was encouraged. I don’t know if any of them knew what was going on at home. If they did, I doubt any of them knew what to do about it. They, too, were 13.

In dance, which was everything to me, I was in a dance troupe where I was weighed every week, in front of all of the other girls. Because I looked older (I had breasts at an early age), and because I was actually a pretty good dancer, I was in a group where I was the youngest girl by almost two years. Every week, I was given a critique about how my developing body was forming– too much weight (116 pounds). Too thick in the middle. I looked in the mirror, and I saw a girl who was ugly, awkward, and fat. My mother still did my makeup and curled my hair, and I did not look like the glamorous 17 year-olds on my troupe.

I tried to tell a couple of grown-ups about what was going on, but I can’t tell you I was clear, or that they were people who felt particularly empowered to get involved.

I felt I had no worth. I could not have told you a single redeeming thing about myself without qualifying the statement, or telling you about another person who did that thing better. Who was better than me. Prettier than me. Smarter than me.

But with T, I did not feel that way. He told me everything I so desperately wanted to hear. That I was beautiful, that I was funny, that I was smart, that I was strong. That everything would pass. That everything would be okay. That we could face anything together. He did not tell me these things because he had an ulterior motive, please don’t misunderstand. He told me these things because he really, truly loved me, and saw those things, to the extent that any seventeen year old boy is capable. He, too, was fighting his own battles.

When everything seemed hopeless and huge and more than I could possibly live through, he was the voice on the other end of the line telling me that I could. Even though I didn’t believe him. Even though at times I even said that I wanted to die, because I just couldn’t stand it any more (and because I have a touch of the drama.)

And so, on the day when I gave my innocence away, I felt a little bit less alone. I felt a little bit less worthless. Because someone saw worth in me. I did not see that worth, but I reveled in seeing another person’s valuation of me as worthy.

We were together until I was almost 16. In that time, things did start to change. I grew less awkward. My father’s anger and disapproval seemed to matter to me less as my world expanded beyond my own home. I stopped fighting back so much– at home, and at school– in the interest of making the way smoother for myself. I learned to lean on some adults instead of pushing them away. I learned that dance wasn’t everything, and I stopped dancing in the troupe that had so badly infected my self esteem. I matured, and things stopped feeling so much like the end of the world.

Though I had always gotten good grades, I finally started to see myself as smart. Because teachers no longer had to wade through my bad attitude and snark, they saw and honed talents in me. A choir teacher helped me see that I really could sing. An English teacher showed me that I really could write. The school counselor recommended me to several leadership camps and conferences, and so I saw a leader in myself that I had never seen before. Maybe they were showing me the whole time– but I was far too wrapped up in the negative story I was telling myself to listen to them.

And, of course, when I no longer needed T to show me that I had worth, when I could see that worth for myself, the relationship was over.

I cannot say today that I wish I had done differently… because I really believe that if you change one thing about your past, especially something big like that, you change so many other things. But I also cannot tell you it was a right thing.

I can only try to make sure that my children make their choices from a better place.

When the dark thoughts come calling, and I know that they will because they do for us all, I want the voice telling them in the darkness that they are worthy to come from themselves. I want them to know that it will be okay, that they are strong enough, that this too, shall pass. I want them to look in the mirror and see bodies that are strong and healthy, that are growing and changing. I want them to know that they are smart and that they can figure out whatever life hands them. I want them to know that we are all a work in progress– none of us have become all we are meant to be. At 37, this is still true for me. I imagine it will always be so.

And if it gets dark, really dark, and they cannot hear themselves anymore, or cannot believe it, I hope that they will know that they can talk to me. To their dad. To someone, anyone, rather than thinking it would be better to not live or to bury their worth in another person.

Parenting is so damn hard. I know my own parents thought the same things. So I have no answers. We are all just doing the best we can.