By Lina Norris-Raman, TIWP Student

You weren’t cringy, you were seven.
You were just a kid, with a mouthful of mismatched words,
and knees that carried the constellations of a thousand scrapes,
from a fall, from a rise, from a life perpetually learning to stand.

You weren’t cringy—you were a child discovering your orbit.
You weren’t annoying, you were eight.
You were a high-pitched plea for a moment, a sliver of space,
to be seen, to be heard like the steady hum of adults.
You just wanted to be a part of the song.

You weren’t annoying—you just wanted to be listened to.
You weren’t friendless, you were nine.
You were a whisper in a new school’s loud halls,
A post pandemic, pre-anxious little girl that cared about doing what she felt like instead of what she looked like doing it.

You weren’t friendless, you were just the you that the world had made
You weren’t weird, you were ten.
You were a galaxy of thoughts in constant chaos,
a mind full of strange obsessions and not so quiet wonders.
You spoke what was on your mind, thinking that authenticity was a magnet.

You weren’t weird—you were just a universe unfolding.
You weren’t clueless, you were eleven.
You were standing in the hallway, a stranger to your own reflection,
a visitor in a body that changed without your permission.
You were lost in a maze of hormones and insecurity,
trying to read a map that was still being written.

You weren’t clueless—you were just overwhelmed by the weather.
You weren’t ugly, you were twelve.
You were a painting in the process of becoming, with colors still blurring,
a portrait waiting for its final breath.
You were caught between two selves—
the memory of who you were,
and the vision of who you were becoming.

You weren’t ugly—you were just in progress.
You aren’t inadequate, you’re thirteen.
You are a fire just learning to hold its heat,
a book with blank pages waiting for your story.
You are not inadequate.
You are just doing your best to write yourself into being.