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The Rebels We Were, The Parents We Fear Becoming

 We used to think being reckless was a personality trait. Back in high school, we believed chaos was cool like it gave us some kind of social currency. The louder you were, the more you mattered. The more rules you broke, the more alive you felt. And bullying? It wasn’t always blatant it was in the way we laughed a little too hard when someone tripped, or in the way we played along when a friend turned someone else into a punchline. We called it “just jokes,” but deep down, we knew.


And let’s not forget the ultimate flex,the boyfriend or girlfriend you’d casually parade around campus. It wasn’t about love or connection, it was about status. Having someone to hold hands with in the hallways, to whisper jokes to in between classes, was like wearing a badge of honor. You weren’t just in a relationship; you were in a competition. Look at me, I’m desired, I’ve got my person, and isn’t that cute? We’d trade notes like we were trading stock options “Oh, I’m with Jamie now. He’s got that muscle shirt.” “Well, I’m with Sam, and he drives a cool car.” We didn’t know what real affection felt like. We only knew the shallow joy of being seen like having a boyfriend or girlfriend was just another accessory we could show off, a way to say, "I’m doing fine."


At 16, we were drawn to everything we weren’t supposed to touch. Sneaking out, drinking things that tasted like nail polish remover, pretending we weren’t scared even when our hearts were pounding. We wanted to be the main character, the misunderstood rebel with cigarette smoke curling around our heads like a halo of defiance. We thought we were untouchable. Turns out, we were just kids with God complexes and no health insurance.


And now, at 19, we look at the mess we made and laugh. Sometimes. Other times, it haunts us. The people we hurt, the ones who hurt us, the things we did to feel something, or worse, to feel nothing. Regret is funny like that. You can swear you have none, but some memories sit in the back of your mind like unopened letters from your past self. You don’t want to read them, but you know they’re there.


Now, the real horror movie plot twist? We’re terrified of having kids like us. Because, honestly, we barely survived ourselves. We can’t even handle our own emotional breakdowns without blasting music and pretending we're in a sad indie film montage how the hell are we supposed to handle a mini version of us slamming doors and sneaking out the way we did? The idea alone feels like karma tapping us on the shoulder, whispering, “Your turn.”


But here’s the thing: It’s okay. We were kids trying to figure things out. We still are. Life doesn’t hand out manuals just mistakes and the hope that we’ll learn from them. The past is a messy, weird, sometimes painful, sometimes hilarious scrapbook of everything that made us who we are. No one gets through it unscathed. And maybe that’s the point.


So, to anyone reading this, if you feel like you were a disaster in your teenage years, join the club. We all crash into life at full speed, thinking we know everything, only to realize we know nothing. And that’s okay. We’re all growing. Things happen. The best we can do is keep moving forward, laugh at the chaos when we can, and try to be just a little bit better than we were yesterday.


And if we do end up with kids like us? Well. At least we’ll know all their tricks.


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