Don’t Peak at Pep Rallies

This time of year, I find myself thinking about 17-year-old Lorri.

High school graduation season.
Caps flying. Cards with crisp bills inside.
All those “you’re gonna do great things” speeches that sounded so sure.

She had a plan.
Or at least she thought she did.

She had no idea how much she’d carry.
No idea how fast life would grow complicated—or how many times she’d have to start over from scratch.
She didn’t know yet that grief would knock on her door before she’d unpack her dreams.
That the picture she painted of adulthood would blur, smudge, and sometimes completely disappear.

But she also didn’t know this:

That she’d rise.
That she’d build a life she didn’t even know to dream of.
That she’d become someone who helps others hold the pieces, someone who leads with both grit and softness.
Someone who laughs harder, loves deeper, and listens better than almost anyone.

This time of year always brings her back to me.
Not in mourning—but in memory.
Not with shame—but with so much compassion.

And I wish I could tell her…

Hey you.

I know you’re rolling your eyes already, but just—hold still a second.

I see you. Trying so hard to be grown. To stay out of the way. To be loved without asking for too much. You think if you can just keep it all together, everything around you will stay together too.

But love, life doesn’t work like that.

At seventeen, you were already tired.
Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes, but the kind that comes from living in constant emotional whiplash—watching the grown-ups unravel, trying to stay small enough not to tip the scale.

Your parents had separated back in eighth grade, but the divorce didn’t finalize until tenth or eleventh. It was a long, weary process for everyone—years of tension and quiet breakdowns that stretched across all of high school. You wore the weight of those years like an invisible coat and still smiled for the photos.

You didn’t know yet you’d lose your dad.
You didn’t know your high school boyfriend would vanish from your life too, leaving you staring down loss after loss before you’d even figured out who you were becoming.
You were just trying to survive the hallway politics, the yearbook deadlines, the Sunday night anxiety that never fully left your chest.

You were already aching—and still, more was coming.

But here’s what I wish you could’ve heard (and I know you wouldn’t have listened):
You are not broken.
You are not too much.
And you do not have to earn your worth by being agreeable, small, or always okay.

You didn’t lose yourself—not permanently.
That wounded little bird grew wings no one saw coming.
And now?

She doesn’t just fly.
She builds nests for other people’s healing.
She leads. She mothers. She writes. She heals out loud.

You’ve become a woman who laughs loudly, loves deeply, and leads with a kind of tenderness that only comes from scars turned sacred.

You will walk through fire and come out glowing.
You will cry over playing 9 holes at Palmetto Golf Club in Aiken and know it’s grief and joy, all tangled up in grace.
You will find your way back to yourself again and again—and every time, you’ll come back stronger.

So keep going, girl.
Even if you wouldn’t have listened,
I’ll keep showing up to tell you anyway.

Love,
Me.
The version of you who actually made it.

And P.S.—
There are rumors that high school and shortly after are “the best years of your life.”

I’m here to tell you: they might be the best years so far… but hear me out.

Your best years?
They’re still ahead.
They are richer. Wiser. Louder. Softer. Bolder.
And they are so much better than 16 to 24 ever dreamed of being.

Don’t peak in pep rallies.
You’re just getting started.