15 Year Old Me Had It All, So Why Do I Get Sad Thinking About Her?

Someone mentioned quinceañeras to me recently and for some reason my heartbeat quickened and shoulders tensed. Wait a minute, I thought, confused by my trembling hands, why am I freaking out? I didn’t even have one!

It’s not like I had a traumatic adolescence. As a matter of fact, high school rocked! Middle school was awkward as all hell (getting boobs while having a noticeable mustache will do that to you), but high school ruled! Fifteen itself was a pretty sweet year, come to think of it. I was a sophomore so I was already comfortable with the academic pace of my honors classes and I was excelling in them, I was friendly with everyone and had a solid core of close friends, I had a good relationship with my parents who had a pretty good relationship with each other, my sister was cute as a button at ten years old, I had figured out how to make my face look its best with minimal effort, and I would go home every day to a warm meal and fall asleep with no problem after a healthy dose of The Daily Show with Jon Stewart and The Colbert Report. Probably the most dramatic heart-wrenching thing in my life was my will-they-won’t-they relationship with my friend B (half-pictured above) who I wrote a million and a half diary entries about. We ended up getting together and it’ll be seven years this November. I should, um, actually start brainstorming what I’m going to get him because I’m all out of ideas here. I’m not a goddamn Etsy shop!

Back to 15: My parents asked me point-blank if I wanted a quinceañera and I gave them a quick “no gracias!” without even thinking about it. I had seen way too many of my friends’ families sink into debt because of them and worst of all, I’d been to them. The skyhigh hairdo, the hours of wearing heels, the random guests who were invited because they were the wife of the cousin of the neighborhood laundromat lady… what a nightmare. It was months of rehearsal, emotionally blackmailing my friends so they would be damas and chambelanes, thousands of dollars, and then all that mingling while in a gigantic dress. Yeah, no thanks. I was happier spending my afternoons doing homework and watching TV than listening to “Tiempo De Vals” by Chayanne for hours on end. Even now that song haunts me… un dos tres un dos tres. My parents breathed a sigh of relief and bought a much needed new car instead, our trusty Toyota Camry, which we still have. Instead of a quinceañera, they threw me a carne asada with family at my aunt’s house, I wore a $15 polka dot dress from Ross Dress for Less and felt beautiful in it, and I had a wonderful time. I didn’t have to dance, I didn’t have to mingle with people I didn’t know, and I hung out with my cousins and sister while the adults gossiped. Oh and they had a dog! It was a blast.

So what’s the problem, then? Why do I immediately retreat into “ahhhh I don’t want to think about it!!! LALALA I CAN’T HEAR YOU! TOPIC CHANGE PLEASE!!!” mode when I hear the word quinceañera? What’s so wrong with fifteen?

Unnerved by my intense reaction to the topic, I took a deep breath to steady my thoughts. When that didn’t work, I shakily retreated to the bathroom and splashed some water on my face. I looked in the mirror and saw that my mascara was running; I looked at myself and saw a wide-eyed, terrified raccoon-like creature. “Alright Guzman,” I said aloud, completely aware of how silly I sounded but being grounded by the sound of my own voice nonetheless. “What’s the problem, kid?”

It clicked. I looked down, suddenly unable to look myself in the eye.

It was there all along, really, but I just didn’t want to think about it.

Fifteen year old me was sure that she would never change but is now a complete stranger to me. That terrifies me. I’m sure of who I am now, but what if I’m unrecognizable to myself in eight years? What if this me disappears just like fifteen year old me did?

Fifteen year old me was obsessed with My Chemical Romance and her favorite song was “I’m Not Okay (I Promise)”, which is admittedly still a banger but far from twenty-three year old me’s favorite. Fifteen year old me’s best friends were wonderful funny people, but people that I haven’t seen since I was eighteen. Fifteen year old me would have vomited at the thought of herself in a sorority but that’s where college-me found her friends for life. Fifteen year old me was extremely anxious about what college she would get into while twenty-three year old me has on occasion stood in front of her framed USC diploma just to flip it off. Fifteen year old me didn’t know how to impress B and twenty-three year old me texts him that she has gas and he texts back “Yeah, I’m poopy today too.”

Fifteen year old me doesn’t exist anymore. She’s dead.

I looked at the mirror in horror. Oh my God. I’m old!!! And I’m getting older just standing here!

Fifteen year old me didn’t know real struggle while twenty-three year old me is worn from her battles. I wouldn’t even want to go back in time and tell teenage me about the things that I’ve been through because it would break her heart.

Yeah, life is worse now. Things have settled now from how bad they were a couple years ago but the bad things that happened can’t be changed and they maimed me; I have scars and I can’t change that.

But you know what?

I would not go back.

Fifteen year old me looked in the mirror and didn’t like what she saw. Twenty-three year old me steps outside with no makeup with a wide smile on her face. Fifteen year old me clutched her writing close to her chest and thought that no one would ever like it. Twenty-three year old me has had her work read thousands of times. Fifteen year old me pinched her fat and weighed herself religiously. Twenty-three year old me is the first to text the groupchat “Who wants pizza?”. Fifteen year old me had a charmed easy life, but she didn’t love herself. Twenty-three year old me has been through things that would make fifteen-year old me’s head spin, but knows that she can persevere through that and more.

I like fifteen year old me. I love twenty-three year old me. Here’s hoping thirty-one year old me takes the cake.

This is part of a collection of stories on quinceañeras. To read more, visit here: