When I was a young teenager, I became afflicted with a certain phase of life that plenty of other young girls go through as well. This phase can pretty much be categorized by a saying that now makes me cringe: “I’m more mature for my age.” When I think about how often I used to say to this to others, 20-year-old me wants to travel back in time to visit 14-year-old me, grab her by the shoulders, and say, “You have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

But the truth is, 14-year-old me wasn’t entirely off base, nor are most young girls who think and feel this way. Many teenagers have seen or experienced certain traumas that their own peers have not, leaving them with a whole new worldview that other kids their age don’t have yet. Add to this the fact that you’re a female and naturally mature faster than your male peers, and you’ve basically aged a decade overnight. As a teenager, I not only experienced all of the above, but I also looked much older as well.

I was 5’8” by the time I reached the fifth grade. In 2010, I attended a funeral where dozens of well-meaning relatives flocked to me and made statements like, “You’re so beautiful, your father’s going to have to lock you in a tower!” At the same funeral, another relative asked a distant cousin that I hadn’t met before how old I looked. He guessed twenty. I was twelve. Needless to say, I have always felt very entitled to use the words, “I’m more mature for my age.” Not only because I believed it was true, but because others told me it was true too.

The problem with young girls feeling more mature for their age isn’t the feeling itself, but what usually follows. As a teenager, because I felt more mature, I also felt entitled to do the things I thought people who were more mature did – and I’m not talking about filling out a W-2 form or going to bed at 9 p.m. on a Saturday night. One of these things was dating.

When I was sixteen going on seventeen, I started dating a guy in his early to mid-twenties, and, embarrassingly enough, I thought he was the greatest invention next to the iPhone. For obvious reasons, I won’t state his name, so I’ll just call him purple-shirt-guy.

Purple-shirt-guy was so appealing to me because he had had life experiences, the fun kind, that I longed to have. He had been to dozens of concerts for bands that I had never heard of and had had plenty of wild, drunken nights with interesting people that I wanted to meet. Purple-shirt-guy knew that he was older than me, and loved to remind me of it. He’d undermine me by saying things like, “Listen to this band you’ve never heard of – it’s probably because you’re so young.” Or, “You need some tattoos. Guess you’ll have to wait until you’re eighteen.” Honestly, I love tattoos- he really should’ve signed my permission slip.

Purple-shirt-guy was really into his material possessions. He had an entire wall of vinyl records he loved to boast about. I couldn’t figure out how he was able to buy so many records, seeing as how rare and expensive some of them are today – until it dawned on me that he was so old, he had probably exchanged magic beans for them in biblical times.

After a month or two, purple-shirt-guy disappeared without a trace, and I was devastated. I spent months afterward contemplating what I had done wrong and where I had gone wrong. Today, it’s shocking to me now that I didn’t realize sooner that purple-shirt-guy and all those like him are predators.

Flash forward to early January 2018. I am on my way to the mall with a good girlfriend of mine, venting about our romantic fiascos like we like to do. She started off one of her stories with something along the lines of, “…There was this guy… you probably know him… he broke my heart.” Surprise, surprise – it was purple-shirt guy. My friend too had been the victim of the kind of predator no one seems to pay any mind to. Needless to say, words like “cradle robber” and “asshole” were thrown around by both of us in the conversation that followed. I was grateful and relieved to realize that I wasn’t alone.

I would now like to close with a few mini open letters that I feel are very important.

Dear teenage girls:

If a friend or a parent tells you to stop seeing an older guy, do it. Older guys only target teenage girls when they can’t find any women their own age to date them. You’ll be one of those older women one day too, and you’ll be able to see right through their manipulative, condescending bullshit. When you come of age, there will be a line of dirtbags in your DMs asking if you’re legal yet – these guys are just as bad. Put them in your archives and press the block button. Trust me, any sound-minded, truly good man would never even think of starting a romantic relationship with a minor. I know that guys your age wear too much Axe and play too much Call of Duty, but some of them can be really sweet. Give those guys a chance instead. But even before that, have fun and focus all of your energy on your education – it’ll pay off. Find some more, “I’m more mature for my age” girls, form a She-wolf pack like on the Netflix original Fuller House, and protect each other. And ladies, I promise that when you aren’t looking, my fellow sisters and I will do everything in our power to protect you too – that’s a sacred promise.

Dear purple-shirt guy and all those like him:

You are trash. Take a good look in the mirror and ask yourself why you feel the need to prey on the innocent and the vulnerable. Contrary to more radical feminists, I believe that most bad men are capable of becoming good men – so DO IT. And, God forbid, should I see any of you losers out with a young girl, I WILL find the nearest stick and beat you with it. If there isn’t a stick, I’m calling the cops.

My last letter will be my shortest, and also most important.

Dear Mom and Dad:

You were right, and I am sorry.