I declare, I love, I hate and I know.

About This Story

My mom recently stumbled across this paper while sorting through old boxes and sent it to me. I wrote it during my freshman year of high school when I was just 14 years old. Reading it again nearly two decades later felt a little like opening a time capsule.

What struck me most wasn't how much I've changed—it was how much I've stayed the same. My love for Alaska, learning, writing, mountains, dogs, meaningful conversations, and the people closest to me are all still woven into who I am today. Many of the things I declared, loved, hated, feared, and questioned at 14 remain surprisingly familiar at 32.

One section, however, stopped me in my tracks. At just 14 years old, I wrote extensively about my fear of losing my dad. At the time, it was only a fear—one I couldn't fully understand and hoped I wouldn't have to face for a very long time. Looking back now, after having lost him, those words carry a different weight. The pain I feared was real. It was every bit as devastating as I imagined, and in many ways even more so.

There is something both heartbreaking and beautiful about seeing a younger version of yourself so clearly. This paper is imperfect, dramatic, honest, and undeniably written by a teenager. But it is also a reminder that some parts of us remain constant throughout our lives, even as the world around us changes.

For better or worse, this was me at 14.

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I DECLARE, I LOVE

I declare that I am young. That my age is my wealth. I declare that I love to learn. I love to gain knowledge and to always know. I declare my love for Alaska. I look forward to every morning when I get to wake up and see it. I declare that I wish to be intellectual. I wish to have long, meaningful conversations every day. I love television, but I hate that I love it. I love waterfalls and blue raspberry Jolly Ranchers. I love traveling.

I love the hot streets of Athens and the watery channels of Venice. I love the differences in everyone. I love the idea of uniqueness.

I love the smell of horses. The smell of dirt. I love the feeling you get when you step barefoot into cool, gushy mud. I love writing. I love thought. I love hearing raindrops on the roof at night. I love the snow. It makes winter bright and fun. I love my snowmachines. I love that they are beat up and well-used. I love my dogs. I love the herd of them that greets me every time I come home. I love Puk, Percy, Simon, Dagget, Liz, and Shorty. I love my friends' dogs. I love the nameless puppy that is a part of mine. I love mountains. I love their ability to intimidate. I love to climb trees. I used to love running barefoot through the forest. I wish I still did.

I love my mother. I love her style, her hugs, and her caring personality. I love that she loves me. I love my father. I love his rustic life, his strong will, and no matter what, his ability to smile in the darkest of times. I love my nephews. I love how they are like me. I love their smiles, laughter, and broad interests in almost anything. I love Rowan, a little girl I have babysat since she was born. I love how she loves me. I love to be loved. I love my stepdad. I love his spunk and how he is kind to me no matter what.

I HATE, I KNOW

I hate grouping. I hate cliques. I hate criticism. I hate killing. I hate lies. I despise money. Yet I love it. I hate what people will do for it. I hate what it can do to you. In the end, I mainly hate hate. I hate spiders. I hate the pitter-patter of them crawling on the floor at night. I hate the color of my kitchen countertop. Neon orange. It's too sixties. I hate the smell of my house. I hate what alcohol does to people. I hate anger. I hate not having running water. I hate not being able to take a bath. Lucky Mrs. Keenan. I hate science, but I love to know. I hate that I am not good at math because I actually like it.

Surprisingly enough, I love me. I admit I am vain. I admit I spend countless moments of my day glancing into store windows or cellphone reflections. I love my nose. I love it because it is more my mother's than mine. I love that I am becoming her. I love my humor. I love laughing at anything and everything possible. If I laugh, I smile. I love to smile. I may not love my smile, but I love doing it. I love scars, when they're on me but not on my face. I love the stories behind them. I love being tan. I love that I am usually tan. I love my legs. I love my teeth. I love nice teeth. I love my name. I love its length. I love my Indian name, Little Bear Macoons. I love its ring. I love its uniqueness.

I don't hate myself. I just hate my eyebrows, or lack thereof. I hate my tummy. I hate everything about my tummy. I hate my knees because they hurt, but I don't hate their appearance. I hate the pain in my shoulder that won't go away. I hate my hair. I hate how I constantly want to change it, no matter what. I am afraid of change. I hate my voice. I hate my lisp thanks to braces. I hate my toes. They're always dirty because of my choice in shoes. I hate my shape. I hate how disproportionate it is.

I am surprised by how people can act. I am surprised at how love makes people act. I am surprised I can love. I am surprised I do love. I am surprised by the world and the way we treat the Earth. I am surprised that it will all soon be over, or that we'll continue living by killing. But as I say this, I classify myself as a hypocrite. I saw it coming. I hate cliques, but I'm in them. I am afraid of change, but I contribute to it. I love becoming my mother, but I want it to slow down.

I am afraid of death. I'm afraid of loss. I'm afraid of crying. I miss Davorie, a friend of mine. She passed away, and I hate it. I hated crying for three days straight. I hated feeling sick from not eating. I hate knowing that she'll never be back. I hate knowing I can't give her a hug. I hate the thought that I'll lose my dad and my mom one day. I hate anticipating it and feeling horrid. I hate missing people. I hate not being able to talk with my dad. I love him.

I hate that whenever he shows a sign of weakness, I'm afraid. Afraid of losing him. I hate not being with him every second. I hate not being able to keep him safe. I hate wondering what he'll think of life. In the end, I hate thinking about death.

I hate death.

Sierra Winter Owner & Designer | The Sierra Winter Way ✉️ Email: sierrawintersmith@outlook.com 🌐 Website: www.artworkbysierrawinter.com 📞 Phone: 1-907-491-5016 (text preferred due to limited cell service)

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