I remember the natural tunnel vision of teenage-hood. The small, long, unflatteringly lit cave where everything seems to have monumental repercussions. I remember how a single off kilter interaction could ruin a day, or even a relationship. I remember how my own reflection was constantly under a microscope, analyzing for imperfections, failures, and lack. The slight glances of unfriendly faces could unleash an avalanche of negative thoughts about myself and build castles of conspiracy in my imagination. High school can be hard.

Standing now with the open sky vantage point of an adult, those daily stresses seem minute. They were trivial and fleeting. I can see now with extreme clarity, the inconsequential nature of every fear, every lie, every worry that invaded my teenage thoughts, and worked tirelessly to take up permanent residence in my mind.

I can see clearly now, what my teenager cannot perceive.

 
My oldest daughter had a rough end to the school year. Some friends that had been close, became suddenly unkind. They got lost in their own insecurities and made choices to push others down to try to elevate themselves. It was sudden, it was confusing, it hurt. My daughter is now seeing the last days of summer quickly falling off the calendar, and the pain of seeing these people everyday in class is threatening to steal her joy. My girl is strong. She is brave and wise. But no one wants to walk into close quarters with friends who have betrayed. It's uncomfortable.

I am uniquely positioned in my daughters life, as all parents or influential adults are in their child's lives. I can see things she cannot. I get to experience her life with a birds eye view, with perspective she doesn't have.

I get the privilege of painting for her, a full color, boundless horizon, masterpiece of her life. I get to reach into her heart and pull out every bit of gold, every diamond, every uniqueness, every aptitude, every good and perfect thing in her, and lay them out for her to see. I get to hold her close as we fly up out of the tunnel, into the bright expansive sky of her future.

I get to give her hope.

 
I get to show her that the fleeting opinions of others do not define her identity. That every pain offers an opportunity to either come under or to rise above. I get to remind her that she's made of the stuff that rises above. I get to show her that who she is, and who she chooses to be in the face of adversity, matters so much more than the juvenile dramatics of the kids around her. I get to amplify the wonder of the 80 years of full life ahead of her, and corral back into it's place the microscopic nature of fleeting high school theatrics.

Kids are up against so many pressures that are trying to make their tunnel ever smaller. We get to pull them up and out, into the bright beautiful sunrise.

Your perspective matters. You have hope to give. Let your child see what you see.