Decade

Today I went back to my childhood bedroom and met myself a decade younger.

I found her green eyes as deep as saucers, runway lights flickering to her side.

I stepped inside the jarrah doorframe;

feet sinking into the carpet with each time-bending step.

I sat upon the white doona,

adorned with a familiar light green pattern,

and breathed —

expansive enough to fill both my 24- and 14-year-old lungs,

connected.

I breathe for us both now.

It began gently as I noticed her frail frame,

held her hand to still the trembling.

We sat there in silence,

the cacophony of unsaid love and understanding filling the bedroom.

Slowly, I built the courage to look her in the eyes,

afraid of what would be reflected back.

I was swept away in an instant.

Transported back to a time

where all the company in the world

couldn’t numb her loneliness.

In those eyes I see her light,

replaced by shadows

even as she walks directly in the sun.

I see her hunger, so consuming

she swears she’ll never eat again.

I see her accolades and academia —

band-aids for wounds of low self-esteem.

I. see. her.

A complex, sensitive, grieving young girl.

I came here with a plan —

a script of things I wished to say.

Or things I wish someone had said to me.

A script I’ve been subconsciously writing

my entire life.

Our legs touch as we sit side by side.

I’m amazed at how much our body has grown.

Our hearts ache for the versions of ourselves

we don’t recognise.

In this moment, I am her protector.

One, two, three.

I hold her hands,

comforted by the touch of someone I love.

And I begin to wish —

wish I could shield her

from the upcoming mistakes she’ll make.

Wish someone had told her

she has always been worthy,

that her doubt is the product of a cruel world.

A world she didn’t choose to be born into,

but will have to weather as best she can.

I tell her the ways she’ll try to cope —

which ones to keep,

and which ones to run far and fast away from,

never looking back.

A world where women are praised for being smaller,

given badges of useless moral ground.

I take her phone and delete

all the breeding grounds of comparison,

lifeless codes that won’t just shrink her body,

but her mind and soul.

I tell her of the relationships

that will enter her heart —

how her first boyfriend will teach her

both immense love and great pain.

How her first girlfriend will confuse and excite her,

and that she shouldn’t dare be scared

of what others will say.

And that friendship, above all else,

is the purest gift.

I explain to her that her goals and ambitions

will morph into shapes recognised as failure,

but are truthfully redirections

of the same passions.

I impart the lessons I’ve learned

from careers lost

and unexpected opportunities seized.

We sit in silence now,

letting those wishes go off

and find a star.

And as the moments pass

and our breaths find rhythm,

I know I have to leave her —

my heart swelling, aching in my chest.

I am so proud of the girl I met today,

and all I know she’ll survive.