Revisiting 13

Buckle up, I'm processing real-time.

My oldest daughter Willa turned 13 last week.

I know it’s a cliché, but it’s true: it goes by fast. All week, I felt like I was floating through a dream sequence—watching her baby face blur in and out of her thirteen-year-old face, now hovering a half-inch above mine as she breezes past me in the kitchen, heading out with friends.

One morning, while making my bed, I felt a tug toward the storage cabinets in my room—the ones that hold baby books, mementos, photos, and yearbooks. The ones we keep safely tucked away, not just to preserve memories, but maybe to protect ourselves from the full-body cringe of seeing our younger selves.

I pulled out a photo album—the first in a series I kept through middle and high school—my hands remembering it before my brain did. As I flipped through the plastic sleeves, I was hit with a wave of cringe and nostalgia, trying to grasp the connective tissue between Willa’s thirteen and mine.

There I was: awkward and cool, irritable and silly, smart and naive—full of contradictions.
Sounds familiar.

I winced at my overly plucked eyebrows—victims of a panicked attempt to manage beauty anxiety that, of course, only made it worse. I noticed how joyful I looked with friends. The freedom in my goofy costumes, silly faces, loud laughter. I could almost hear the impressions we thought were comedy gold (and that would absolutely not fly today).

There were the obligatory family photos too—me reluctantly smiling while my mom called “Smile!” from behind the camera, that tone now muscle memory in my own mouth.

“Mom!!” someone called from downstairs and I was jolted back to real life—the one I used to dream about in those photos. Finally, an adult.

I sat for one more precious moment alone, wrestling with the urge to bury my mind back in time. To spend one more minute in the Before. Before I was a parent. Before she turned thirteen.

We laugh at the same things. We connect over pop songs and nostalgic teen movies from the ‘90s and early 2000s (the golden era of rom-coms, IMO). She’s bolder in new situations than I was. She doesn’t overthink sleepovers. She doesn’t need as much downtime. She openly wants cool, trendy things—braver than my false modesty.

I don’t just love her. I really like her. And that’s a gift.

But when friction inevitably shows up, I tread lightly, still finding my footing. I’m a psychologist—I should have this figured out, right?
(Spoiler: I don’t.)

People in my real life don’t love it when I slip into therapist mode. The calm voice, the vocab-heavy detours. One smirk tells me: drop the act and give it to them straight.

Still, my job has helped. I’m comfortable saying things like, “You’re feeling overwhelmed. Where do you feel it in your body?” Or, “It’s okay to be mad, but it’s not okay to speak to us disrespectfully.”

And yet, this new stage requires a leveling-up.
Maybe checking in with thirteen-year-old me can help.

I remember that girl vividly:
Obsessing over music lyrics.
Flaring with full-body irritation when the radio station played the wrong song.
Sketching butterflies.
Practicing my handwriting.
Choreographing dances in the basement.
Journaling.
Pre-planning outfits.
Whispering on the phone past my cutoff time.
Buying junk food with spare change.
Slamming my bedroom door.
Dreaming of the freedom of being grown up.

My room was my fortress.

We’re not that different, my daughter and I.

Sometimes I think I overestimated my influence as her mom. I see her struggles and trace them back to toddlerhood—same issues, bigger stage, seemingly hard-wired. I see my struggles reflected, too.

I wonder: How far have I come? How is there still so much left to learn?

I ache for the inevitable bumps ahead. It’s like watching a train barrel toward a car on the tracks while you’re tied up across the street, shouting warnings that might not be heard.

My mind starts spinning: How can I work harder? Smarter? More efficiently? Should I tell her dopamine hits catch up with you? That avoiding your feelings only makes them louder later? Maybe a PowerPoint on emotional regulation?

I’m not used to feeling this helpless. This uncertain.

Maybe the things I’m desperate to tell her… are the things I need to hear.
At 42.
And maybe at 13, too.

This is the whisper I’m following:
This is anxiety. This is overwhelm. And it makes sense. I care deeply.
This is new terrain—for both of us.

So what can I do?

I can keep talking to her.
I can keep telling her what I think and feel.
I can keep checking in with my copilot, staying on the same flight path even with turbulence.
I can remember that rage is information—but not a great place to act from.
And maybe, I can lean on creativity again. Like I did back then.

Perhaps butterfly sketches will help.

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Call to Action: What do you remember about being thirteen?

What did you need back then—from yourself, from others?

If you have a tween or teen in your life now, maybe that version of you has something to say.

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Psychology Weave-In (for Future Me, when I’m about to lose my cool):

This reflection taps into a core psychological concept: inner child work. Revisiting our adolescent self—especially in moments of parenting—isn’t just nostalgic. It’s functional. It offers a compassionate lens to see both our kids and ourselves with more clarity. When we meet our own younger selves with curiosity and kindness, we access empathy, soften control urges, and reduce our reactivity. That teenage version of us isn’t irrelevant—she might be the bridge.

Also, teen brains are literally wired for exploration, sensitivity, and emotional extremes. They’re not broken—they’re becoming. The more we understand that, the less we personalize their storms.

(And now I’m off to forget I wrote this and try to fix things with a laminated worksheet. 🙃)

This look about sums it up.