By Brit Eaton, via Gina Fox

What kind of grown woman goes back to junior high school, literally and figuratively? Well, me, apparently.

Twenty-seven years since French-rolled jeans, rainbow bangs, and REM on repeat—a little older and perhaps a little wiser—I made a conscious choice to go back to the building where it all began…where I nearly lost myself and my life.  

Now, they don’t just let anyone into school buildings these days, but I didn’t have to dodge security or call in advance to gain permission for non-parental entry.

Here’s a little context: At long last, my hometown district got funding for a new junior high school building. And before the old one would be demolished, they invited alumni to come walk the hallowed halls one last time.

It made me so happy, and I knew I had to get in on it. Not to reminisce or reconnect—but to fight the seasonal establishment, whoever they were at the time. I hoped to get a front-row seat to the demolition of the original object of my struggles, complete with popcorn and 3-D glasses. Bring on the wrecking ball.

Before you think I’m overreacting, I should let you know that it was in this broken-down building that I first experienced trauma.

Things like bullying, even after I’d turned the other cheek.

Sexual assault, even after I knew “no” meant no.

Spiritual abuse, even at school-sanctioned prayer gatherings.

Gender discrimination, intellectual tear-down, political manipulation, and socioeconomic marginalization.

Yes, even as an upper-middle-class white kid with a ton of privilege.

So I went, ready to burn the place down. But a strange thing happened when I got there. I had a chance to see it all with fresh eyes, the stuff of my present-day nightmares.

The bathrooms I spent my lunches crying in.

The deep classroom closets where my innocence was taken.

The old and busted golden lockers that made me late and hid my shame.

The classrooms where I couldn’t focus and felt I’d never belong.

The central steps I’d collapsed down one day—wondering if life was worth living at age 14.

Yes, I had friends. They were good, for the most part. But most of them were hurting as badly as me, so they didn’t know how to help.

Yes, I had involved parents. They were there for me one hundred percent. But they couldn’t find context for a world they didn’t understand. Neither could I.

My administrators? They turned a blind eye, or so it felt. To be fair, I don’t think they even knew what to look for in 1994—and I certainly didn’t know what to ask for, either. They know better now.

But here’s what I want you to hear, to know with your whole heart:

My past, through a healed, whole, Jesus-centered lens, seemed so…small.

“Stop dwelling on the past. Don’t even remember these former things. I am doing something brand new, something unheard of. Even now it sprouts and grows and matures.”

Isaiah 43:18-19 TPT

I walked the halls with my sweet baby sister, my safe person. We marveled at a structure that was once so overwhelming…that now had little-to-no power. I named the pain nestled concretely within the water-damaged ceilings, the puke-pink walls, and the creaky 127-year-old wooden steps of what we always called the “red brick.” The sights, the smells…they were all still there. But they had no power.

I gazed solemnly into the same gym locker room mirrors where I was told (and believed) that I would never be enough—physically, emotionally, intellectually, or spiritually. But they had no power.

I sat on those fateful central steps where I’d fallen…the ones that still seemed so ominous in my dreams…and realized how tiny they were in real life. They always were, I just didn’t have eyes to see it. They had no power.

At 41 years old, I went back to Junior High and got reacquainted with my 14-year-old self. And for the first time since 1994, I had true, authentic, honest compassion for her. Sure, she could have been braver, maybe stronger. But she could have also been far more loved.

I can’t go back in time and be the person I needed…someone who would perhaps keep me from attempting suicide six short months later at 15. But, I can be that person today. The one who might be moved with compassion to make a difference in the lives of an emerging generation of would-be believers in a good Father God.

For one person who needs to know how much their life matters.

For one person who has no one to go to, and nowhere else to go.

For one life that might transform thousands of lives, long after mine is over.

I’m living proof there is HOPE. I’m still breathing, still searching, still chasing after God, fully aware and eternally grateful that he was and is with me, every step of the journey.

“Listen to my testimony: I cried to God in my distress and he answered me. He freed me from all my fears!”

Psalm 34:4 TPT

We go through what we go through so we can help others go through what we went through. In time, I hope we can unapologetically remove the systemic spiritual barriers that keep our young kids from complete freedom. They deserve better. I did, too. I know that now. And so will my daughter.

Thank you, Jesus, for a brand-new life. One I don’t deserve. Thank you for healing, grace, forgiveness—and hope.

Brit’s testimony is adapted from a multi-author devotional book called “Anchored in Freedom: Turning Trials into Testimonies of Triumph.” Chapter 12, p. 103. (c) 2024 by Gina Fox. Used with permission.