Our fifteen-year-old self is our harshest critic. All the things it thought we were capable of when it was in charge. All the things it was sure it would achieve later in life. All the obstacles it knew we’d have the power to overcome. The words “safe” and “average” would never be part of us or our vocabulary. We were too special, too strong. That young self was ready to be as inspired and ruthless as a conquering army over the rest of our days. And although since then we’ve grown to smile at (or scorn) the part of ourselves that thought bell-bottom pants were cool and we were capable of licking the world, something of that young soul lives on and watches, too often like a child ashamed of its parents. Only we are our own parents now and our own child. No one gets left behind; every part of us sits in judgment of the other.