by Courtney Alexis Packard

Created on: June 27, 2009   Last Updated: June 29, 2009

I always considered myself a tough girl. As a child, I didn't mess with a pink or frilly anything, and could match any boy's curve ball or amount of dirt caked on my skin. I wasn't a fragile little princess, and I never wanted to be.

I had a strict upbringing from loving parents who believed that having a boyfriend wasn't necessary until we were old enough to have a driver's license. My parents were alarmed by the growing number of little girls who thought it was crucial to be going out with someone at thirteen years of age. "What does 'going out' even mean?" my mother would ask, shaking her head. "You can't drive anywhere. Where would you go?"

Needless to say, I didn't have my first boyfriend until I was sixteen years old. His name was Matt and we worked together at a local pizza restaurant. He was two years older than me, but my ever-trusting mother believed he would conduct himself as a respectful young man. And she was right. Some of my fondest memories of high school are the lazy Friday nights we would spend cuddling on his couch, back when the act of just kissing was exhilarating enough.

But, inevitably, young relationships end almost as quickly as they start. A few months in, when Matt started acting distant, my heart told me something was wrong. Being two teenagers, we were very poorly equipped with the necessary tools to handle our emotions with the opposite sex. He didn't want to hurt me, so in his mind, it made perfect sense to just ignore me. When I finally managed to track Matt down online, he finally felt brave enough to tell me we were done.

I always considered myself a tough girl until I got my heart broken for the first time. I waited so long to have the freedom to view a boy as more than a friend. I had enviously listened to my friends gush over their boyfriends and share their cute stories of holding hands in the movie theatre or their first kiss. I was on the outside looking in. But now that I knew the warmth of another person's hand wrapped around mine, and how painful it was to have that feeling ripped away, I just wanted to be on the outside again.

I was never any good at losing.

At sixteen years of age I was a firm believer in the power of prayer. It took me several weeks to get over the pain of my first heart break. Looking back on it now, I can see that my suffering wasn't so much about Matt personally, but from the realization that this was going to happen to me several times over the course of my life. What

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