Interviewing My 16-Year-Old Self: Damn, That Girl Had Nerve by Deborah Samuel
Deborah Samuel is the author of Grace Through Fire: A Memoir of Murder, Tragedy, and Resilience
If I could sit across from my sixteen-year-old self today, at fifty-eight, I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t be intimidated by me.
She’d probably check me out, wonder how the hell she got that old, and then start asking questions before I had a chance to interview her.
At sixteen, I was ballsy. I was openly chasing women, fighting constantly with my father, running cross-country and track, playing basketball, and convinced I could take care of myself.
Eventually, after one fight too many with Dad, I did what any completely rational sixteen-year-old would do.
I moved out.
Not to college. Not to my grandmother’s house.
I moved in with a twenty-six-year-old woman, a girlfriend.
She was a flight instructor, which I thought was about the sexiest, coolest thing imaginable. She was older. She flew airplanes. She looked incredibly impressive on paper.
Unfortunately, I would eventually discover that she didn’t fly enough airplanes to actually pay the bills.
Guess who did?
The sixteen-year-old.
Looking back, I sometimes want to grab that girl by the shoulders and ask, What in God’s name were you thinking, and where were your parents? Totally absent!
But I also admire the hell out of her.
So, forty-two years later, let’s talk.
Deborah, 58: Do you have any idea how young sixteen is?
Deborah, 16: I’m not a kid.
58: Of course you’re not.
16: I’m serious.
58: I know you are. That’s what makes this so funny.
16: I have a job. I pay bills. I go to school. I run track. I’m doing fine.
58: You’re working twenty to thirty hours a week because the twenty-six-year-old woman you’re living with isn’t paying enough of the bills.
16: She’s a flight instructor.
58: Yes. I’m aware. You’re very impressed by this.
16: She flies airplanes.
58: Occasionally.
16: You’re kind of a smart-ass.
58: You have no idea.
58: Why did you leave home?
16: Dad and I couldn’t stop fighting. I wasn’t going to live my life the way he wanted me to. I knew who I was.
58: You were pretty fearless about being a lesbian.
16: Why wouldn’t I be?
58: It was a different time. And you were sixteen.
16: So?
58: Exactly. That was always your answer. So?
You didn’t ask permission to be yourself. There is something about that I still admire.
58: Tell me about running.
16: I’m damn good.
58: You are damn good.
16: I’m going to college on a track scholarship.
That one stops me.
Because I know something she doesn’t.
58: I wish someone had helped you more.
16: What do you mean?
58: You should have gone to college on an athletic scholarship.
16: I know.
58: No, you don’t. You think it’s going to happen automatically because you’re fast enough.
16: I’m one of the best runners around.
58: That’s the problem. Being talented isn’t always enough. Nobody teaches you how recruiting works. Nobody really advocates for you. And you don’t have a coach helping you navigate the process.
16: So what happens?
58: You don’t get that scholarship.
16: Bullshit.
58: Yep.
16: That’s bullshit.
58: Forty-two years later, it still pisses us off.
16: Do I keep playing basketball?
58: No.
16: Why?
58: Because after you move out, something has to give. School, basketball, running, relationships, and twenty or thirty hours of work every week are too much.
You choose running.
16: I love basketball.
58: I know.
That is one of the things I wish somebody had understood back then. Everyone saw this tough, independent kid who could handle herself.
But you were still sixteen.
And sometimes being forced to become independent too early means sacrificing things a sixteen-year-old shouldn’t have to sacrifice.
58: Can we discuss the women?
16: Which one?
58: Exactly.
16: What?
58: You’re in high school and somehow dating college athletes.
16: They like me.
58: Apparently.
16: I like the chase.
58: Oh, I remember.
16: Do we still like women when we’re fifty-eight?
58: Very much so.
16: Thank God.
58: But eventually we figure out that chasing someone and loving someone are two completely different things.
16: That sounds boring.
58: It isn’t.
16: Do I get married?
58: Yes.
16: To a woman?
58: Yes.
16: Is she hot?
58: Yes, very hot. Now, behave yourself.
16: That’s a yes.
58: You also want to join the Navy.
16: I know.
58: You’re going to have two chances.
16: What happens?
58: You chicken out.
16: I do not chicken out.
58: Twice.
16: Why?
58: Women. They get in the way.
16: Ah.
58: That’s all you’ve got?
16: Sounds reasonable.
58: I’ve spent decades thinking we should have gone.
16: Maybe. Or maybe you’re sitting there at fifty-eight because I made exactly the choices I was supposed to make.
That shuts me up.
I hadn’t expected wisdom from her.
16: Okay, old lady. My turn. What happens to us?
I look at her.
How could I possibly answer that?
How do I tell this fearless sixteen-year-old girl that some of the people she loves most will break her heart?
How do I tell her about marriages and careers, tremendous successes and spectacular failures?
How do I tell her that one day our mother will murder our father? Others will die and be in serious accidents.
How do I explain grief she doesn’t yet have the vocabulary to understand?
How do I tell her there will come a moment when the woman who once believed she could outrun absolutely anything discovers there are some things you cannot outrun?
So I don’t.
58: A lot happens.
16: That’s a shitty answer.
58: I know.
16: Do we make it?
58: Yes.
16: Are we happy?
58: Yes. But happiness isn’t what you think it is.
16: Here we go.
58: Listen to me. You think winning makes you happy. Getting the girl makes you happy. Running faster makes you happy. Proving Dad wrong makes you happy. Someday you’ll discover that none of those things can give you what you’re actually looking for.
16: Which is?
58: Peace with yourself.
16: If you could come back and change one thing about me, what would it be?
My first instinct is to give me a list.
Take the scholarship process seriously.
Don’t give up basketball.
Join the damn Navy.
Stop supporting grown women who should be supporting themselves.
Quit confusing the chase with love.
Ask more adults for help.
But looking at her, I realize I don’t want to change you or me.
58: Nothing.
16: Seriously?
58: Seriously.
I’d protect you more if I could. I’d put better people around you. I’d tell you that being strong doesn’t mean you have to do everything alone. Be nicer the Laura.
But I wouldn’t take away your nerve.
Because you’re going to need every ounce of it.
16: For what?
58: For the fire.
16: What fire?
I smile at her.
58: Just keep running.
16: Do I win?
58: Eventually, you figure out that’s not why you’re running.
She rolls her eyes.
God, I remember that look.
Then she turns and walks away—the cocky, stubborn, girl-chasing, distance-running sixteen-year-old who thinks she has already figured out the world.
She has no idea what is coming.
For years, I looked backward and saw the mistakes she made.
At fifty-eight, I see something different.
I see a kid who left home too young, worked too many hours, loved too recklessly, ran like hell, and somehow kept putting one foot in front of the other.
Maybe she didn’t need me to save her.
Maybe I needed to come back and finally thank her.
Because long before I understood resilience, forgiveness, grace, or even myself, that sixteen-year-old girl had already learned the first rule of survival:
Keep moving forward.
—
Deborah Samuel was born in Rogers, Arkansas, and spent two decades as an award-winning educator for at-risk youth before being named National Physical Education Teacher of the Year. A licensed pilot and aircraft mechanic, she also flipped nearly thirty homes before transitioning into luxury real estate. Today, she is a senior specialist realtor and a cofounder of SB SOS, an organization that helps older adults in transition. She lives aboard a classic yacht with her spouse and their black catin Santa Barbara, California.
Grace Through Fire: A Memoir of Murder, Tragedy, and Resilience
For fans of Cheryl Strayed and Glennon Doyle, a raw and redemptive memoir of surviving generational trauma, caregiving, and spiritual awakening that chronicles one woman’s journey from southern survival to West Coast freedom.
When her elderly mother shoots her abusive husband—Deborah’s father—in their Arkansas home, Deborah is thrust into a storm of media frenzy, grief, and caregiving. As she fights for justice, supports her paralyzed wife, and battles personal demons, Deborah begins to unravel a deeper legacy of generational trauma—and realizes the need to rescue herself.
Told with gripping honesty, Grace Through Fire follows Deborah’s odyssey through murder trials, chronic illness, financial collapse, and spiritual reckoning. From the chaos of the rural South to the stillness of yoga studios and the healing waters of Lake Powell and Crater Lake, Deborah rediscovers her strength, sobriety, and purpose.
This is a narrative of transformation and fierce resilience—a memoir for anyone who has ever questioned their worth, carried the pain of their family, or longed for a fresh start. At the heart of it all is a bold love story, a leap of faith, and one woman’s courageous choice to create a life of freedom, service, and light on the California coast.
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Category: Contemporary Women Writers, Interviews, On Writing
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