"Oh God, I Was Only Fifteen" by Khen Julia (Oxford County)
Content note: the following essay explores substance abuse.
Oh God, forgive the boy I used to be, the one who confused disobedience with liberty. The one who believed that the noise of his own confusion could be drowned in smoke and alcohol. I can still clearly recall that boy: fifteen, lost in a loving but insensitive home, and furious for reasons he could not identify. Being the only son of Romeo and Liberty and the second of three children, he felt as though he didn't belong. He saw a stranger in the mirror, one who chased belonging in places where it was not, laughed too loudly at inappropriate times, and smiled too little. He hurt people even though he didn't want to. Every night when he staggered into the house that used to smell of trust, he could hear the sound of his parents' disappointment, even though he didn't want to break their hearts.
Oh God, forgive that boy for believing he was unbeatable. He pretended not to care, wearing his haughtiness like armor. He thought he was finally alive, smoked in the dim streetlight, and laughed with the wrong crowd. He thought that the taste of alcohol could calm his inner turmoil. He was unaware that every drink was a betrayal, a gradual tainting of all the purity his parents had instilled in him. In addition to stealing cash from his mother's purse, he also took his family's trust. He stole his mother's tranquility, his father's sleep, and his siblings' silent adoration. He was too young to realize that shame endures long after the laughter stops and that guilt weighs more than any chain.
Oh God, forgive him for the mornings he was unable to look his parents in the eye and the evenings he returned home smelling like smoke. He recalls his mother crying softly, as though even she was sick of being noticed. He recalls how his father's silence was more acerbic than a slap. That boy was unaware that love could hurt and even bruise itself in its attempt to reach the inaccessible. He believed that his wildness made him strong, but all he was doing was running—from himself, from disappointment, from expectations. He was unaware that rebellion is merely another way to beg for love that says, "I see you even when you are broken," attention, and understanding.
Oh God, forgive him for treating himself cruelly. For viewing suffering as a punishment rather than a teaching opportunity. When he was fifteen, he wished to fade away, to enter a different reality free of his errors. Like an old friend, he whispered to darkness, flirting with it. He believed that by taking his own life, the chaos he had caused would stop. However, something—perhaps fate or mercy—drew him back in the midst of that storm. One morning when he woke up, he saw his mother's face at the kitchen table, her hands shaking as she prayed, her eyes swollen. For the first time, he experienced what true love looked like—not the kind that only forgives once, but the kind that continues to forgive even when it hurts.
Oh God, forgive him for taking so long to learn. Even though he is seventeen now, he feels different when he walks the same streets. The lights now lead him home instead of beckoning him to sin. He now understands that redemption is a gradual, agonizing process rather than an instant. He still despises his reflection in the mirror on some days. On certain days, the guilt resurfaces, implying that he will never be sufficient. However, he continues to walk, breathe, and pray. He makes an effort to treat the boy he used to be with kindness. Because that boy wasn't bad. He was just lost—searching for a light in a world that told him to hide his pain.
Oh God, forgive him for still having trouble forgiving himself. That is the hardest part. It is easy to apologize to others, to say sorry and hope they believe it. But facing the younger version of himself, the one who lied, stole, and hurt, is another fight. Sometimes, when he closes his eyes, he sees that boy sitting in the corner of his memory, crying and whispering that he didn’t mean to destroy everything. In that silence, he tries to say, “I understand. I forgive you.” It is not perfect. It is not complete. But it is a start.
Oh God, forgive him and help him remember that forgiveness is not the same as forgetting. It means choosing to live differently because of what he has done. It means standing before his parents now, taller and quieter, and promising to be better. It means picking up the pieces and realizing that each one still belongs to the same heart. The same boy who failed, who stumbled, but who finally wants to heal. He knows he can never erase what he did—but maybe, through every prayer, every honest word, and every sober morning, he can rewrite who he becomes.
Oh God, forgive the boy who once thought he was beyond saving. Now he understands that grace does not disappear even in the darkest corners. It follows, waits, and whispers: “Come home.” Maybe forgiveness is not about changing the past. Maybe it is about loving the boy who lived through it.
Now, when he prays, he does not ask for a new story. He asks for the strength to love the one he already has.
KHEN JULIA is a seventeen year old homeschooled writer from South Paris, Maine who loves diving into nonfiction and real stories that don’t sugarcoat life. His piece, “Oh God, I Was Only Fifteen,” is a true story, reflecting on growing up confused, angry, and learning—sometimes the hard way—what accountability and grace really means.