“Sometimes I wish I could go back in time and punch thirteen-year-old me in the face,” I announced. “She needed someone to tell her to haul her ass off the bathroom floor and get back to class. She needed someone to tell her that what she was worried about now wouldn’t matter a year from now and that one day she would feel silly for wasting so much time crying in the handicap stall.”

Everyone who heard me laughed empathetically. Their smiles seemed to say, Yes, I know what that feels like. And it’s true, they do, it’s universal. This feeling of shame about your past selves. The knowledge that the people you used to be are not who you are now, and in the best way. The collective understanding that everyone goes through phases before they find themselves, phases that most of us aren’t proud of.

What’s that thing parents always comfort themselves with? It’s just a phase. Phases are expected, natural, but goodness, are they frustrating. How easy life would be if we could zap forward and become our best selves whenever we wanted! But alas, we’re all stuck in an endless cycle of death and rebirth, like phoenixes with low impulse control. But it isn’t our fault; it’s inevitable and healthy.

But is it healthy to reflect on those patterns with negativity?

Let me tell you a bit about thirteen-year-old Jillian. She was fearful of pretty much everything. Crowds, people, abandonment, rejection, judgment, bees, being ugly, being hated. She hated indecision and apathy, and hated feeling like she had to desperately explain to people why she was anxious all the time, and she didn’t feel understood, not really, because everyone was always telling her that her fears were insignificant. That she shouldn’t worry all the time. So she always felt like she had to justify it. And if she couldn’t, (and she often couldn’t, not to the satisfaction of other people) then she would get more panicked, more upset, distressed by the idea that she might go her whole life without anyone “getting it.” She had anxiety and bipolar and often found herself on the bathroom floor at school, crying her eyes out about midterms or a B grade on a test or any number of things that to some other kid would have seemed insignificant but to her, they weren’t. All she knew she was good at, for sure, was getting good grades. And she only had one goal: college. So, to her, a bad grade was as terrifying as the crowds at the state fair. Scary as hell.

As I reflect on her now, nothing about her strikes me as signs of a troublemaker, or a “bad kid,” or someone who was emotionally charged for attention or for any ulterior motive. She was a person I was once, and as such, she deserves my empathy. Not sympathy, because I know her story. It’s my story, or it was once. She was me. I had to be her then so I could be me now. It was a necessary part of my life that I had to undergo in that exact moment so I could become the person I am now.

So I guess she didn’t need a punch in the face. She did need to pull herself together, but she was doing the best she could with the tools she had. And even if she wasn’t, she was just an anxious kid who felt alone even when she wasn’t. She felt isolated and misunderstood. Can anyone resent her for acting how she did, after knowing what caused it? Maybe they could, but I can’t. She was me once.

I’m learning that I need to love these past selves. They were me once. They were a necessary part of my journey. As the quote goes, I love the person I’ve become because I fought to become her. These women I used to be, these girls, these kids, they were all a part of the fight to find myself. I had to keep wearing and shedding that armor until I found what fit.

I often resent myself for how I treated my family at my lowest points. But that wasn’t me. That was a girl who was traumatized by herself and by the remnants of a four-year-old with rejection and abandonment issues. That was a woman that I had to fight against the whole time I was her. I was at war from the inside at that time, constantly battling this girl in pain and trying to envision who I wanted to become instead. It felt impossible.

I became me, though, in spite of how hard it was. And in many ways, I had to be that girl in pain because I needed to know how I never wanted to treat anyone ever again. I needed to be the worst version of myself first before I could become anything else.

The hardest thing for me now is looking back on fifteen-year-old me with compassion. In some ways, I still despise her. I hate how she behaved. But however much I don’t like it, she was me once. And I can’t keep moving forward until I accept that whatever happened with her needed to happen in order for me to find the best version of myself yet.

I’m not perfect. But I’m stronger now. More resilient. Persistent. Determined. Passionate. Driven. Many of those things I have always been, but they’re all in the foreground now. I try to make those qualities the first things people think of me. I think, How do I want people to describe me to others? I think, Passionate. Driven. Hard-working. Kind. And I try to make choices that show that.

But I’m still a work-in-progress, just like you. And that’s okay, I think. The destination wouldn’t be half as beautiful without the journey.