Joan Didion said something in her collection of essays, Slouching Toward Bethlehem, that has stuck with me after almost everything else has faded away. She said, “I think we are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not.”

I was reminded of this quote again because of something that happens to nearly all 22-24 year olds. Something that makes them have a sudden panic attack about how much of their life is already tumbling down the road behind them like badly secured luggage. Something that makes them realize how much they have not accomplished (or can’t brag about yet). Something that gives them a sudden horrifying image of their acne spotted, braces sporting, bushy haired adolescent self.

That’s right, this is the year of my five year high school reunion.

My impending reunion reminds me of Joan Didion’s words because I’ve become fully aware that I have been estranging my past self with a vehemence akin to someone who’s betrayed me by doing something horrible, like running over my pet pig or stealing my identity and my savings to fund a lavish vacation in Acapulco. I’ve been suppressing all the undesirable younger versions of my self over the years, trying to squeeze them from my brain like a tofu press squeezing out water.

I’ll show you why:

This Emily makes me wince every time I think of her for a few reasons. For one, look how happy she was. This was basically my permanent facial expression from ages 5-11. She would cry if anyone so much as looked at her and was basically just terrified of all humans and human activities (such as basketball, as you can see).

For a while, this Emily started compensating for her shyness in strange and unfortunate ways. When she wasn’t sitting in the corner avoiding all eye contact, she was at the front of the room, hand stretched in the air, ready to unload whatever useless statements she felt made her seem more important or better than everybody else. She was annoying as hell. I can’t even tell you how many times I heard either “Do you even talk?” or “Oh my god, SHUT UP!” in my youth. Obviously I needed to find a happy medium.

That Emily grew up. Unfortunately, it was into this Emily:

This version possessed all of the quietness and obnoxiousness of my elementary self, but with the added bonus of hormones and teen angst. Her hair was greasy, she always seemed to oversleep and forget to either brush her teeth or put on deodorant (oh god, I wish I was kidding). She had no sense of style or who she was. She looked at everyone else to determine what she wore, how she behaved, and what she wanted out of life. She wanted to be popular, to be known, so she tried too hard in all the wrong ways. I can’t stand to think of her because I run all the scenarios of everything I should have done differently back then.

This is the Emily that graduated high school. This is the person I’m afraid everyone will see if I go to the reunion.

I’ve shut her out for the past few years because I’m ashamed of her. Until I read Joan Didion’s words, it never occurred to me to accept her. To acknowledge all of the versions of my self, whether I’m proud of them or not.

Because whoever she was, whatever she did, she became this person:

She became someone, while far from perfect, who knows what she wants out of life. Someone who worked her ass off to earn the degree she never thought she would actually get. It wasn’t a practical degree, but it was the one that made her happy. She became someone who shoved her shyness aside long enough in order to make lifelong friends.

There are still so many things I need to work on to be the best version of myself. But I just wanted to take this time to acknowledge the worst versions, and to let them know while I don’t agree with what they did, I finally accept them.

P.S. I apologize for referring to myself in third person for 90% of this post.