Girls Don’t Get Nicer and Math Doesn’t Get Easier

Dear 9-year-old me — one day being different will be “in”

Dear 10-year-old me — you don’t have to be good at something to like it

Dear 11-year-old — it’s not the end of the world

Dear 12-year-old me — your mother was right

Dear 13-year-old me — don’t worry! They’ll grow, and then you’ll hate them.

Dear 14-year-old me — girls don’t get nicer, and math doesn’t get easier.

Dear 15-year-old me — don’t leave the house dressed like that, you’ll be cold.

Dear 16-year-old me — they’ll talk about you whether you take a puff or you don’t, so have F-U-N.

Dear 17-year-old me — it’s true, writers don’t make money. Keep writing.

Dear 18-year-old me — treasure this moment, this age, this youth. You’ll miss this age!

Dear 19-year-old me — it’s not the end of the world

Dear 20-year-old me — you’re allowed to cry

Dear 21-year-old me — love yourself

Dear 22-year-old me — you can’t please everyone. So start with yourself.

Dear 23-year-old me — you’re prettier with a few extra pounds.

Dear 24-year-old me — when you know, you know.

Dear 24-and-a-half-year-old me — if you’re writing this instead of studying for a test on Information Systems tomorrow, you’re:

  • Not built for the academy
  • Doing something right.
About the Author
Mor Lewit was born and raised in Tel Aviv, Israel and moved to Atlanta, GA in 2001. Ten jappy, starbucks-filled years later she moved back to Israel to join the army. She is currently studying communications and management at Ben Gurion University and on the side draws and laughs to preserve her sanity.
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