Dear sweet, 16-year-old Hänni,

I want you to know, your worries are warranted. You know those suspicions you have—the ones that make you so afraid? The ones that keep you up at night, bartering with a nebulous God, your allegiance for his sweet solace? “Dear Lord,” you pray, “If you give me friends, I’ll be a good Christian, I swear.” And you think you could keep that vow, if only God would answer you in the way you want. That is, if God waved his magic wand and gifted you the perfect partner-in-teenage-crime—someone to trade snack packs with and pass notes to in Mrs. Lawton’s nerdy Honors English class—it would mean you aren’t what you think you are.

It would mean you are just like everybody else you grew up with in that tiny, strip-mall of a town.

It would mean you are not, as you have felt for some time now,
D I F F E R E N T.

That is, all the many small cruelties inflicted by others your age weren’t really acts of rejection, but rather misunderstandings. The jocks who, unprovoked, poured a 2 liter of Pepsi down your neck? Accident. The popular boy who screamed through the halls that you were a bitch because you wouldn’t give him your lunch? Misheard. The girl with the mullet who was your only friend until she decided not to be, she perceived you as so uncool? Case of crossed wires.

Yes, if you had friends, it would mean you belong. Because being different means a lifetime of loneliness in Wasilla, Alaska, that frozen place where you were raised. At least you think that now that you’re 16.

But guess what Hänni? You *are* different. And it’ll take an exchange student interview and a transcontinental flight halfway across the globe to realize it, but you will be changed. And you will feel better.

Because in Japan, that strange foreign country where sushi is a staple, you will meet incredible people who are wayward and feisty, just like you. These square pegs—kids from Vermont, Wisconsin, the Netherlands, and Canada—they will become your best friends … maybe the best friends you’ll ever have.

And you’ll miss them so much. Oh my God, you’ll miss them. The day you stand on a platform, waving goodbye to your best friends, fellow teenage expatriates, Bliss, Justin, Michiel, Anne, and Ian, that will be the first saddest day of your life. Many years later you’ll mention this on a thing called a blog. You’ll do this in hopes that your 16-year-old friends will find you and let you know they are well. You want them to know that you are well too.

Because in the interim between 16 and 29 you will have lots of good times, as you embrace your quirkiness and surround yourself with others who do likewise … but there will be some very hard times as well. The second saddest day of your life—the day you say goodbye to the friend who pledged to love you faithfully til-death-did-you-part, but who bedded another while your heart was still beating, as yet unbroken—that will hurt. But you will survive. You see, Hänni, the most important thing you need to do is learn to love yourself. Once you’ve done that, everything else will fall into place. I promise.

Oh, and one other thing: you should also go ahead and dye your hair purple—If someone doesn’t accept you into their life or program because you have punky-colored locks, then you’re better off without them. Trust me. You will be a published writer, just like you’ve always wanted, and you’ll do it on your own terms.

–keep writing
–keep rocking
–keep wearing rainbow-colored socks

And lastly, dear 16-year-old Hänni, you need stop worrying about growing up. Mostly because, you never will.

xoxoH