For a beautiful girl they call Evie, on the occasion of her 13th year...

Again, one of my closest friends asked me to write what I wish I'd known when I was 13. Her cousin was having this important birthday, and she's far more mature than most 13 year olds, but still can't escape adolescence. So Evie is unique in that she would appreciate the written word as well as material things. And so I wrote this. It felt good. Better than most writing does, actually.

So here's to Evie turning 14 soon...

I wish I knew on my 13th birthday that I came into this world with a purpose. I knew I was loved, assumed that I mattered, and had every intention of making a difference one day. But to know I showed up just as someone I would’ve loved and known and learned new songs from passed away would’ve blown my mind. It’s best that I didn’t know something so epic.

{I was a baby Atlas, even then. I was too small to be so necessary.}

I knew a lot. I wasn’t arrogant about it, and I can honestly say I never thought I had it all figured out. Plenty of others thought that for me and that was pressure enough. I mostly believed my parents had the answers. (Mostly.) So I can say what I understood, what I’ve rewritten history now to believe I understood, and what I wish I’d written down more of…

I understood mental illness in many ugly ways, but I genuinely thought I could make it better. I believed if I were funny enough, she would be able to get through the day easier. I cleaned obsessively so my mama’s smile would be bigger, and it always, always was. She was thankful, even on her darkest days.

I learned to be grateful that year, in a way that only a freaking Jensen parent would teach you. We’d gotten a little whiny—not in tone but in words—and so for Thanksgiving of my 13th year we volunteered as a family for the first time at the Salvation Army. My dad drove meals to those who couldn’t get there because it was mostly to so-called “bad” neighborhoods. I knew some of my friends probably lived there. I think Derick served side dishes and helped clean. Matthew sulked and tried not to be affected and failed miserably at it, ending up with a Santa hat on his head and bringing pies to little old ladies, charming their asses off. I'll be honest, I was a little embarrassed at first of who would see me. Not because I thought I was too good for anyone, but because I was embarrassed of everything then: my breasts, my hair, my freckles, my chicken legs, my stellar caterpillar eyebrows. I straightened the dessert table over and over and watched as my mother went from table to chair visiting with people, asking them about their day, their families, the weather… And she changed some lives. She never saw me looking through the horror that is 13, 14, and 15 years old into who hope I am now: a quieter version of her kindnesses. She took three adolescent kids who were likely pissing her off and wearing her out, stuck us in an auditorium with homeless strangers we were expected to feed, and then forgot to force us to work. She was in her element; sharing herself, overwhelming the shy, and hugging people who might not have been touched in months. I doubt she even noticed that part. She didn’t forget to parent us that day, she just gathered our selfishness for us and served it with a piece of pumpkin pie. I knew then that Thanksgiving would be the best day of the year, even on the most difficult ones.

I wish I could’ve talked to everyone that day, like she did. So, for the next several years, I tried. I am far more introverted than anyone realizes now, because I changed outwardly so I could make a difference, hopefully at the precise time someone needed me most. I just wanted to light up a room like that.

I was an overwhelmed, vertically challenged, intelligent, sarcastically loving teenager who had already seen too much but didn’t yet know enough to be cynical.

I don’t remember hormones—that was considered an excuse. I knew I wasn’t a pioneer and that to blame any bad attitude on PMS was to completely devastate and disregard all women who fought and DIED to have jobs, wear pants, vote and even DRIVE in this country.

I figured out that while hormones might not be a valid argument, debilitating cramps were. But by the time I figured that out I was 17 and was already well on my way to being a badass, as far as pain tolerance goes. That is legitimately what I think did it—a stoic approach to the stupid menstrual cycle.

I was learning how to work a solid 12 Step Program, which still makes more sense to me than Scripture. I got myself a Higher Power sometime around that age, and for a good 15 years, he served me well. In this way, I suppose I’m 13 all over again.

I knew I did something right to get those brothers of mine.

I knew I didn’t want to kiss boys, but I sure wanted to hang out with one and hold his hand ALL. DAY. LONG. I knew eventually that would all come, and I don’t remember being in a hurry to bring on the pain. I read Ramona Quimby and Sweet Valley High; I knew some shit was about to go down.

I learned to cling to my composure.

I didn’t know that one of my closest friends would be pregnant before I turned 15. I had no clue how I would handle that, or that I would be fortunate enough to have the intrinsic grace to not give a fuck what anyone thought about her—I was keeping her for life, “illegitimate” baby and all. No way could I have comprehended then the full circle I’d experience at 31, when that baby called me and told me she was running away, she was running to my parents, and what did I think? The 13-year-old little girl promise I made to her held up, and she got away from a father who didn’t want her then, and can’t stand her now. I didn’t know I would be a surrogate mother before I’d ever really even been kissed.

I held tightly to visits with cousins, not yet aware of how much those bonds would free me as I got older. I loved My Cousin Jeff without abandon, so when we lost him three years later, I could sleep, knowing that he knew. We all conquered adolescence together, a country apart and a casserole together.

I fully comprehended that my dad would always help me, stand right behind me, or advise me, but that he wouldn’t fight the bad guys for me alone. I had to help, so that one day I’d be the kind of woman who calls her dad because she wants to; to be a daddy’s girl but in a healthy way—the way you ask for reassurance of your latest decision or just to hear him laugh because you did something spacey AGAIN and you really ought to give back that Master’s degree before you're found out.

{I didn’t realize I’d rarely hear him call me Stephanie for nearly the next couple decades. I’m only Punk, as I was then, am now, and will be until I’m gone.}

I learned what a mutual admiration society was because my grandpa, your cousin, Charlie, and me all had one.

I knew who my best friend was and that I’d never be alone—I would always, always make it to the other side— because I have a Beck.

{We still have one of the greatest love stories of all time.}

Love and strength to you,
Stephanie