I have a 19-year-old daughter now, and I’ve gotta say, she’s pretty terrific. Smart, funny, gorgeous, light years ahead of where I was when I was her age. I wish I could say it was because I’m such an awesome parent, but if I’m going to be honest with myself, I don’t think that’s it. 

I think she’s the way she is because she’s had a great dad in her life. Not a perfect one, but present, loving, and affirming. A strong, constant male presence who has continued to love her and love me, always demonstrating what a healthy relationship looks like. Most importantly, reminding her that her worth, her value, isn’t determined by her body or her bank account. 

I had a great dad, too. He also demonstrated unconditional love, constantly reminding me that who I was was enough. Unfortunately, he died unexpectedly when I was 16. My mom had to work two jobs to keep a roof over our heads. So, I lost not just a fantastic dad but a mom who’d been incredibly involved in my life. 

Two months after he left us, an angry, bitter teenager spiraled out of control, lost her virginity, and began drinking heavily. Don’t tell me a two-parent home isn’t necessary or important in our kid’s lives. While I understand that statement is not a reality for many people today, it doesn’t negate the fact that it’s true. 

Looking back on that time in my life, I wish I could write a letter to that girl and warn her of the path she was on. I don’t know if she would listen, but here’s what I’d tell her…

Dear Younger Me, 

Beautiful girl, you can’t see it now through the haze of alcohol and drugs, but the road you’re currently on is one set for destruction. The boys you allow to touch your body don’t care about you, even though, for the briefest moment in time, you feel loved, valued, wanted. 

Feelings, like those boys, lie. 

You will wake up in the morning more broken than you got into bed the night before. 

And alone.

The people you’ve chosen to surround yourself with are not your friends. They are as wounded as you; a wounded soul can not help another. All they will do is bleed on you, and one day, you will find yourself drowning in a pool of someone else’s blood. 

This road you’ve chosen will carry you into the hands of those who will abuse you, crush your heart, and break your spirit. 

And you will allow it.

In the process, you will become jaded and merciless. You will say and do things you never believed you were capable of. You will hurt the heart of anyone who shows kindness to you because you will mistake it for weakness. 

And you will hate yourself even more for it. 

You will lie, cheat, and steal your way through your teenage years and early 20s, consuming drugs and alcohol because it numbs it all.

For a while. 

Only because of the mercy of God will you live through this time of waking up in strangers’ houses, walking drunk, down the side of the road alone at 2 am, and drinking until you are black-out drunk every weekend.

 And many weekdays.

But you won’t escape unscathed from your path. No. There’s always a consequence.

You will be forced to hold your friend’s hand as they lie dying from a drug overdose while you scream until your voice is gone at everyone to call an ambulance, to do something, to help.

You will watch, feeling as though you are outside your body, as boys who you thought were your friends sexually assault you. And then hear them when they go to school the next day and tell everyone what a whore you are.

You will give in to what the rumors say you are and embrace everything you hate.

You will push anyone who cares about you as far and forever away as you can.

And then, finally, if you don’t get off the path you are on, you will allow yourself to be lied to when you walk into a Planned Parenthood at 19, the same age as our daughter now, carrying the innocent consequence of the choices you have made. 

You will listen as they tell you the 11-week-old life you carry is not a baby but simply a clump of cells with no intrinsic value. And then you will choose to abort that life, and as you lie in the recovery room, listening to someone sobbing in the room next to yours, (or is it you who is sobbing?) the truth will settle quietly in your heart. 

And then, sweet girl, you will spend the rest of your life imagining her. Yes, you will be sure it was a girl. Her eyes, hair, and what her laugh would have sounded like. You will think of her every December because that would have been her birth month, and with the birth of your subsequent children, you will remember there was another first.

It will forever change you even if you never speak of it again. The guilt and regret will consume you.

I promise you that if you don’t let go of your anger and hurt, you will continue to destroy your life with both hands until, one day, you will realize you are utterly alone.

But there’s one more thing I want you to know. The most important thing.

There is hope.

When you’ve reached the very end of your pain and feel like there is nothing left to live for, look up because Jesus is there, where He’s always been, waiting for you. 

And in the years to come, He will heal you and make you whole again. 

I want you to know that even though you can’t see through the darkness of this path you’re on, there is beauty for your ashes ahead. I can promise that someday you will know, without a doubt, that your worth is wrapped up not in other people’s opinions of you but in a gentle savior. 

You will forgive—both others and yourself. 

You will find love—both for others and yourself.

You will find peace—both with others and with yourself.

I don’t want this path for you, but maybe it’s supposed to be this way. Maybe your purpose will be your testimony.

Just maybe you’re called to use your voice for those who sit in the silence of the choices they made on their own dark paths. 

For the girl in the room next to you who couldn’t stop sobbing all those years ago.

For the women who sit surrounded by others, yet desperately alone, on church pews, or at sporting events, or corporate events consumed by crushing regret.

Who flinch at the mention of the word “abortion.”

Silent out of fear of judgment from the voices of the world. 

Or those next to them on the pew.

So if you don’t heed my advice, please just remember this. You are stronger than those around you believe, braver than you think, and loved more by your heavenly Father than you can imagine. 

Even now. 

In the midst of sin and shame.

And when you are healed, and the time has come to speak for those silenced by their own shame, religious beliefs, or current political opinion, don’t whisper. 

Roar.

Love,

Older Me

Maybe it’s time to follow my own advice.

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