Youth: it's in the right hands

Too young to matter, old enough to care: why youth deserves a seat at the table.

One of my dearest friends is in her thirties. As a newly acquainted resident of a new city, she quickly became one of my first phone calls in need of help, general advice, and each moment of excitement. Ten months in, and she is still my favorite girls-night accomplice and one of the few individuals who has seen me through each tumultuous phase of this outlandishly foreign life I have attempted to build for myself. Whether it was searching for a new job, meeting new friends, or applying for an opportunity to contribute to my community, one prevalent deterrent has been plastered across my back and detailed in my value as an individual: I'm too young. The people I hold closest to my heart are comparatively much older than I am, and I’ve never seen them as any less valuable because of it. Why does youth have an inherently negative connotation, and why are the hurdles to discrediting that idea so exorbitantly high?

The call I make each night to my former dance coach, who has since become my best friend, has three kids; one is the same age as me. My best friend back home is a year older, and my friend group consists of two hardworking young women in their twenties. Tangentially, during my time working as a nanny, I became closely acquainted with a plethora of women to whom I can only hope to be half as honest and kind as they are someday. In each of these relationships, I have found there to be one extraordinarily insignificant construct, that being the number of years attached to their time on this earth. Their age will never cease to be the least interesting thing about them.

In each opportunity “granted” to me, my role has been to prove my worth, despite my age; to conceal it, per se. How do you expel the stereotypical trajectory that accompanies being a teenager attempting to work and live as an adult? How do you get to be taken seriously?

I showed up late to work. Amidst far too much confusion, and an embarrassingly chaotic phone call later, I hopped in a car and made my way to work to mortifyingly confront my mistake. I was greeted with nothing but understanding, and several colleagues who could relate to the feeling of an honest oversight. At the end of my shift, I was presented with my write-up and sat in a very humid office listening to the disappointment and explanation as to why I was very obviously at fault. To say I was unsettled would be an understatement. I felt as though all of the saving-face I had done was no longer worth anything when I had just proved exactly why a nineteen-year-old couldn’t be trusted to be an adult. Truth be told, I held myself accountable: I didn’t argue, I didn’t explain, I nodded, and smiled, and made the promise that it wouldn’t happen again. Isn’t that enough?

Now I sit at a cafe table, it is almost 90 degrees, and I feel the glow of June on my skin. My hair is frizzy, my skin has beads of sweat, and I feel content with having 6 more months left of classifying myself as the demographic to which youth is wasted. It is my first time experiencing life and all that comes with accountability, humility, and navigating the process of learning. Learning to be an adult, learning to be a part of something greater than myself, and learning to find the balance in growing up while relishing the joys of youthfulness. Making mistakes is scary, but what better way to classify myself as “worthwhile” than the simple act of holding myself to a sophisticated standard?

I don’t want to broadcast my age, nor do I feel comfortable keeping it behind closed doors anymore. I’m choosing to no longer waste it away, but rather to embrace it, while approaching my endeavors with the knowledge that it is a disadvantage. A reason to work harder, hold my head high, and give an unwavering amount of openness to learn.

The most beautiful women in my life are older than I am, and someday down the line, I hope to be classified as beautiful as well, not despite it, but rather because of my youth.

With love always,

Olivia Jean