Several times a year, we ask our teen readers from around the country to write a letter to the author of a recent YC story that has impacted them. In Fall 2024, teens wrote about connecting to stories on trans identity, living with a disabled sibling, dealing with an anxiety disorder, and coming to terms with a mentally ill parent. Congratulations to our winners and look for our next contest in Spring 2025.
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1st Place
Tariq L., 18,
Lagos, Nigeria
Reintroducing Myself to the World
Hey Marlin,
Bro, I really commend your courage. Change is hard to embrace because it means stepping out of our comfort zone and venturing into the unknown. You were open to change, and that’s incredibly inspiring. To be trans, or to embrace any queer identity, means leading a different kind of life. It’s not always a life of struggle, but often, you have to actively demand joy and peace of mind in defiance. I love how you decided to truly live your life rather than watch someone else live it for you.
I relate to your story so much because I’m an AMAB, queer, and non-binary person who often wishes my parents had named me after one of the planets in the universe or even one of the stars. My name, Tariq, is of Arabic origin and translates to “the night visitor,” often associated with the image of a star. I love my name, but it doesn’t always feel affirming to me. A name is such a big part of our identity—it’s how the world recognizes us, and it should be something that affirms who we are. I admire that you didn’t let anxieties about what others might think stop you from reintroducing yourself to the world. Queerness is about redefining ourselves in ways that feel right.
As a queer African, I often feel like my intersecting identities are a paradox. Queerness is often seen as un-African, so I resonate deeply with your experience of being looked down upon within your culture. You absolutely deserve to celebrate both your Chinese and queer identity with pride. And dude, I have to say, Marlin is such a cool name! I love that it’s inspired by the ocean. I’m also passionate about the ocean, and just like queerness, it’s free and limitless.
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2nd Place
Anonymous, 15
Houston, TX
To Zi Qi,
I’ve often thought of writing as a second voice, one used in lieu or in conjunction with speaking. Ironically, I often feel that those who are the quietest, those who are the least talkative, can have the most to say. For you, your early selective mutism was an example of this – reading your article, I can tell that you are an eloquent person, and someone who is quite able to speak, even if in childhood you weren’t able to talk.
Speaking personally – when I read your article, it was yet another example to me of how often we tie speech to intelligence, to consciousness, to life. But, I’ve seen a counterexample to this subconsciously-held belief, because my brother who has non-verbal autism can speak to us without being able to talk.
When we first realized that he was speech-delayed, we did everything we could to get him to talk. We sang to him, we enunciated our words around him, and we even stopped speaking Spanish, my mother and father’s native languages, around him so that he couldn’t get confused in any way. He still didn’t speak. It felt as though we did everything, and yet we failed at an essential task.
Some time’s gone by, and we’ve adopted a much different perspective on my brother. He is an equal in the house now, and someone that we always accommodate, because we’ve seen that he has a soul, a mind, and that we had forgotten this in our quest to get him to be our society’s definition of normal. Shamefully, the truth was evident only recently to me: My brother doesn’t need to speak to be a net positive in the world. His love for us and his passion for life is more than enough.
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3rd Place
Anonymous, 15
NJ
Dear R.P.,
I also grew up without a father figure. I’ve always wanted a dad, an ‘appa’, to teach me how to catch a ball in the backyard or tell me foolish jokes. My mother and father officially divorced around 2019, but he was gone much before that when he was diagnosed with several mental illnesses (the violent kind) and a brain-paralyzing stroke before I was seven.
Since then, it’s just been my siblings and my mother under the same roof, a one-bedroom apartment with chipping paint and old windows. My mother, a single woman with a minimum-wage job and a strong Korean accent, struggles often. Her parents were abusive and negligent, and as the eldest daughter she bore the brunt of the violence. I’m grateful that although sometimes she’s self-absorbed in the way you described, my ‘eomma’ has developed as a better maternal character over the years. She loves me and I’m happy to accept that endearment.
It’s so intriguing how you paint generational trauma and moving forward. Although my mother has suffered from the hands of her guardians and financial stress burdens her, she constantly tries to be a better person and look towards the future. As her daughter, I’ve wallowed in my self-pity for numerous years, swallowing and internalizing my feelings.
Although my mother’s worries have become my worries under our tiny roof, it is unacceptable for me to lash out at my community or bury my emotions. I want to get out of my crappy apartment and live happily ever after with my family. For me to do that, I need to forge my own path that wasn’t exemplified to me by my absent father, while gradually improving my issues with outside help like you accomplished.
Thank you for writing and being a role-model.
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Honorable Mentions
Shriya Tandon, 14
Irving, Texas
Dear Zi Qi Li,
Reading your story deeply resonated with me. Though I don’t have selective mutism, I’m very scared of talking to new people, and it’s hard for me to do something as simple as say hi to someone new.
When I was younger, my parents always told me that I was very social. I made so many friends wherever I went and talked to everyone. According to them I was a ray of sunshine, lighting up any room I went into with my cheerful smile. But now when my parents see me sitting alone in a corner at parties, they ask me, “What happened? Where’s your sunny smile and your bubbly personality?”
Fifth grade was when I got crippling social anxiety. Being locked inside during the pandemic left me alone with nothing but my thoughts. As I began overthinking, I started to believe that everyone hated me and that no one wanted to talk to me. Why would anyone want to hear what I had to say? Going to school in 6th grade made me lose even more confidence. Why was everyone so popular and cool but I wasn’t? I slowly stopped talking to people and became even more insecure about myself.
But in 8th grade, something changed. I finally made my school’s basketball team after months of hard work. As I showed off my basketball skills, I had newfound confidence in myself. If I could make the basketball team, a sport I was bad at before, I could strike up a conversation with another person, right? Even though it is still scary to talk to new people, I am getting better at it, just like you.
If there’s one thing that I learned, it is that your voice matters.
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Y. L., 15
NJ
I Accepted the Short End of the Stick
Dear Writer,
I hope you know that you’re not alone, especially with this experience. People with special needs siblings may feel unable to speak about their experiences for a variety of reasons, including a self-inflicted obligation to always be okay. Your words are a haven for those who believe they are not entitled to the emotions they face.
Throughout my childhood, my older brother, who was unable to walk or eat without assistance, required the majority of my parents’ attention. Because I knew my parents likely carried the same wishes, my heart physically hurt when you overheard, “I just wish he was able to have a normal life. He deserves it, and so does she.” At times, it doesn’t feel fair, and “it isn’t ideal, but neither is life”.
Your story has reminded me that the way I choose to move forward is in my control. I can settle on brooding about my situation, or I can carry out all of life’s offered adventures. For this reason, I’ve concluded I’ll seek to soak up all of life around me because I’ve been given the chance that he wasn’t. Of course, my life could have been drastically different without him. However, I don’t want to have known a life without him; he shaped the morals I carry across my daily life. He made me the resilient, independent girl I am today.
In recent years, I witnessed our generation coin a colloquial term to describe our situation: the glass child. Representative of the healthy siblings of individuals with special needs, the expression focuses on feeling seen right through, physically like glass.
Sure, glass is transparent. But do you know what glass is also?
Solid. You’re stronger than you could ever imagine.
To all the glass children out there,
Cheers.
Y.L.
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Candy Chai, 14
Staten Island, NY
I deeply resonate with Zi Qi’s journey. Throughout my elementary school years, the mere thought of conversing terrified me. I often drifted through my days in a haunting silence, my voice reduced to whispers when my family would ask, “Candy, how was school?” My typical response, a simple “It’s okay” in Cantonese, left them puzzled and sometimes frustrated, craving more details about my day. Each school day felt like an obstacle, triggering waves of anxiety that often moved me to tears. I would craft excuses to avoid school, claiming I wasn’t feeling well or even fabricating a nosebleed, hoping for comfort at home. When my excuses worked, relief washed over me, but if they didn’t, I would cry on the way to school.
On particularly tough days, the assistant principal, sensing my distress, would intervene with compassion. She often suggested we retreat to the art room, where the vibrant colors and calming atmosphere momentarily distracted me from my worries. Inside, tears streamed down my cheeks as she spoke softly to my teacher, assuring them that they would contact my parents. I struggled to understand why this was necessary, especially when returning home meant hearing my mother’s sharp voice: “YOU SHOULD TALK MORE!” Her threats of sending me to a stricter boarding school only amplified my anxiety.
As I transitioned to a new chapter, public speaking became essential, particularly during nerve-wracking sixth-grade presentations. Now, reflecting on my past, I recognize that my family genuinely wanted to support me in overcoming my shyness. Despite my embarrassment, I eventually found the courage to make friends and engage with my teachers, gradually breaking free from the silence that had once defined my school experience.