I’d like a do-over of middle school please. Had you asked me six days ago whether I would volunteer to go back in time and redo middle school, I would have vehemently opposed. I often think of my middle school time as the “lost years.” The years I would prefer never to think about again because of how painful they seemed. But this week, I volunteered to serve as a team leader for a youth camp and was challenged to remember it all. And as much as I enjoy conducting leadership development workshops for adults, there is nothing like spending time with our youth and hearing them share their struggles and worries.

I was asked in gest this week, “What do middle schoolers have to worry about?”

A lot. They carry tremendous burdens on their shoulders, but they’re not going to share them if adults scoff at the notion that they worry. While I wasn’t assigned to any one particular age group, I was “adopted” by the sixth grade girls. Perhaps the girls felt comfortable because most of them were taller and wore a bigger shoe size than me. (I was mistaken for a middle schooler on more than one occasion this week.) But these girls whom I had seen walk with swagger and confidence prior to the camp became uncertain, and often lost, this week as they asked me to accompany them to the bathroom, to lunch, to…pretty much everywhere. This is the transition summer between fifth and sixth grade. They were no longer the leaders, but the peons, and they weren’t sure how to respond to the much bigger and more mature seventh and eighth graders around them.

But that closeness gave me the opportunity to know them, and I did ask them about their greatest worries.

Fear. Relationships. Rejection. Failure. Not being loved.

For a moment, I forgot that I was talking to young girls instead of my peers. Their worries sounded awfully similar to the ones that keep me up at night.

“Ms. Nhung, I don’t know how to stay out of the drama in relationships. Even if I’m not a part of it, I’m drawn in by other friends and I’m not sure how to stay out of it without having someone made at me. I know that I should say something because I know how wrong it is to gossip, but it’s so hard not to do what other girls do. I just want them to like me.”

“I’m afraid, Ms. Nhung. All the time. I’m afraid that I’m not good enough, smart enough, pretty enough. My brother is the good one that everyone is always praising. What about me? Does no one see how hard I try?”

“Ms. Nhung, some days I don’t know if anyone loves me. My parents tell me they do, and most days I know they mean it, but other days they’re angry and frustrated about their jobs and money, and they don’t have time for me and don’t always see that I feel alone.”

Do middle schoolers worry? Absolutely-in spades. We talked. We cried. We sang. We hugged. And in the midst of all that, we acknowledged how very similar we are, despite the 20 years that separated my middle school years from theirs. During my middle school years, I never shared my worries and concerns with one adult. I thought I was alone in my struggles because other kids seemed to have it more together. It took great courage for these girls to speak up. I often don’t encounter adults that have the same courage. When I asked them why they were so willing to share some of their deepest pain with me, they said these words that will forever stay with me.

“Ms. Nhung, we trust you and we know you won’t use any of this to harm us. Sometimes, we want so much to talk to somebody about what’s going on inside, but we never know how to start the conversation. Most adults, especially parents, freak out when you tell them you’re worried and afraid. It’s nice to have someone ask and listen without interrupting.”

Humility comes with a price. It means giving up the right to speak, the right to dole out advice, the right to believe we know more and have it all figured out. Thank you, girls, for your trust. I will do my best to honor that trust.

Anyone want to go back to middle school with me and do it all over again?