Thomsen Young

Being 16 is a lot.

You’re juggling extracurriculars, schoolwork, and the pressure to perform — not just in class, but in life. You’re figuring out who you are while still living under your parents’ roof, craving independence but knowing their rules still shape your day-to-day. You just want some space.

Sometimes, when you need to breathe, you shut the door to your basement room — the one tucked next to the entertainment center your dad set up. It’s the only place that feels remotely like yours.

You sit on the floor with your student Bible open — not always reading, sometimes just staring, wondering. Praying, maybe. Doubting, often. You want to do the right thing. You want to be “good.” You think maybe God’s proud of you when you do everything perfectly. But you’re quietly scared He won’t be if you mess up.

What you think is “perfect” right now — it’s not. Not really. It’s just you trying so hard to be enough. And I wish I could sit beside you in that basement, lean against that wall with you, and say:

You don’t have to earn love — not from your parents, your church, or from God.

The Letter Itself

Dear 16-year-old me,

I see you.

You’re not broken because you’re quiet. You’re not less than because you’re still figuring things out. You don’t need to change who you are to earn belonging — not with people, and definitely not with God.

You’ve been carrying the pressure to be the “perfect Christian” — always showing up, smiling, avoiding mistakes. But deep down, you’re afraid that if people knew your doubts, your questions, or your loneliness… they’d pull away. You even wonder if God would too.

Here’s what I wish you knew:

God never loved you because you had it all together. He loved you when you were confused, when you were doubting, when you felt overlooked. His love is not based on your performance. It’s based on His unchanging character.

You don’t have to hustle for approval — not from youth leaders, not from your parents, not even from God. You already have it.

You’re going to grow. You’re going to wrestle with hard questions. But you’ll find that God can handle every one of them — and He’ll still be right there.

You are not too quiet to be used.

You are not too broken to be whole.

You are not too different to be known and loved.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what I would say if I wrote a letter to myself at 16. I’ve been sitting with it for over an hour now — and honestly, it’s been driving me a little crazy. There’s just so much I remember.

I remember getting my first car — a white Toyota Corolla — and driving my younger brothers around. I took that responsibility seriously. One needed to get to soccer practice, another had to be picked up from school, and the youngest always had something going on. Each of them had different personalities, different needs — and as the oldest, I felt the weight of making sure they were taken care of. I knew that role, and I owned it.

And every time I got behind the wheel, I wore the same necklace — the one with the verse 2 Timothy 1:7 etched into it: “For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.” That verse stayed close to my chest, even when I didn’t always feel powerful, loving, or steady. It reminded me that I wasn’t doing all this alone.

I remember waking up at 5 a.m. every morning for swimming practice — or rather, my dad waking me up. If I didn’t budge fast enough, he’d gently shake my shoulders… and if it was cutting it close, he’d rip the blankets off without hesitation. Practice was two hours in the morning, then another two in the evening. It was exhausting. It felt like a lot. Life felt like a lot.

But even in the tiredness, even in the grind, there was a verse I used to hold onto — a verse that stuck in my mind every time I pushed through laps or drills in water polo:

“Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one gets the prize? Run in such a way as to get the prize… I do not run like someone running aimlessly… I strike a blow to my body and make it my slave…” (1 Corinthians 9:24–27)

That scripture became more than just a verse — it was a mindset. A motivation. I wasn’t just training to win games or stay in shape. I was training with purpose. I believed that somehow, all this discipline, all this hard work, would shape me not just physically, but spiritually. I wanted to run in a way that honored God — to chase after something that would last.

I remember being focused on school, trying hard to keep up academically while also managing sports, homework, and friendships — or at least trying to.

My parents were strict but flexible. They gave us boundaries, but they still let us go out with friends. I didn’t always understand their rules, but looking back, maybe they were just trying to protect us in ways I couldn’t see.

And then there was the other stuff — the quiet stuff. Like being deaf and hard of hearing. Like not knowing if I fit in at a new public high school after years at a private Christian school. Like wondering if I was being held back because I didn’t trust people easily — we’d moved around a lot, and it was hard to form close friendships.

I remember being a Christian, five years into my faith, and still wondering what it all really meant. I had so many questions:

• Am I doing this right?
• Do I need to be perfect?
• Why doesn’t God talk to me like He talks to other people?

There were unanswered prayers. Doubts. Confusion. I started wondering if God even existed. I didn’t always recognize the Holy Spirit’s voice — I thought maybe it was just my own thoughts. I wish I had known then that still, small voice was Him guiding me. I just didn’t have the language for it.

I also wish I had known that your value isn’t measured by how many friends you have, how spiritual you look, or how well you hide your doubts.

And I hid mine really well.

I had low confidence. I struggled with communication. I barely dated. I had a hard time making new friends, especially after switching schools. I felt different. And I had no idea what life after high school would look like — let alone how money worked, how to choose a career, or how to find something I was truly passionate about.

I thought life would just fall into place after graduation. I didn’t realize how much intention it would take — or how much help I’d need to ask for.

That’s probably what I’d tell myself most:

Don’t try to do it all on your own.

Ask for help.

Seek wisdom.

And above all — rely on God more than you rely on yourself.

I’m 43 now, almost 44. And even now, I still don’t have all the answers. Maybe I could’ve made better decisions, been wiser, or asked more questions. But hindsight isn’t meant to shame us — it’s meant to teach us.

So maybe this reflection isn’t just for me. Maybe it’s for someone else who’s 16 right now. Or 26. Or 56. Maybe it’s for you.

Maybe it’s time to stop comparing yourself. Because comparison steals both your confidence and your calling.

Maybe it’s time to trust that God’s plan for your life is unfolding — even when you can’t see it.

Maybe that’s enough for today.

Reflection for the Reader

If you’re anything like I was at 16 — overwhelmed, overcommitted, uncertain of your place in the world — let this be your reminder: God isn’t asking you to be perfect. He’s asking you to press on.

As Paul wrote in Philippians 3:13–14:

“Brothers and sisters, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.”

There’s grace in forgetting what’s behind. There’s strength in reaching forward — even if you don’t see the full picture yet. The prize isn’t performance, success, or popularity — the prize is Christ Himself.

Wherever you are on your journey, take a deep breath: you’re not behind. You’re being shaped. And your story isn’t finished.

Closing Prayer

God,

Thank You for the reminder that I don’t have to carry yesterday’s weight. Help me let go of what’s behind and lean into what’s ahead — even when it feels unclear. Strengthen me to run this race with purpose, not performance. Remind me that I’m not alone in the training or the trials.

You’ve called me heavenward — help me keep pressing on.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.