Letter to the Shy Kid Who Grew Up – From Pencil-Passing to Presidential Turns (A 34-Year-Old’s Midnight Read)
A patriotic illustration inspired by “Letter to the Shy Kid Who Grew Up,” tracing Nick Petersen’s journey from a quiet Mound Westonka High School classroom to world travel and a historic moment inside Capital One Arena on Inauguration Day 2025. The artwork symbolizes personal growth, civic passion, and the transformation of a shy Minnesota teenager into a man whose voice was preserved in the National Archives — a rare honor for an everyday American civilian — reflecting a life shaped by courage, travel, and love of country.
Fifteen-year-old me—
Mrs. Carlson’s English.
Front-corner seat.
The girl beside you has a smile that goes on for miles—easy, warm, like she already knows your secret.
She borrows your pencil; your heart pounds so loud you swear the whole room hears it.
You hand it over like it’s fragile.
“Thanks,” she says.
You nod.
Bell rings.
Sentence dies.
Mr. Kaeter’s science.
Lights dim.
VCR whirs.
Steve Irwin dives—“Crikey!”—
croc tail whipping, mud flying, grin like sunrise.
He kisses the croc’s snout.
“She’s beautiful,” he says.
And something in my chest goes pop.
I don’t know how to say it yet,
but I know:
if I ever reach Australia,
I go to his zoo first.
Fifteen years later—
I do.
Australia Zoo:
koala asleep on my chest, python coiled around my shoulders,
rhino chin-scratch, giraffe tongue flicking my palm.
Camel under Alice Springs stars—rain twice in ten years, locals laughing “third drop makes you ours.”
I got two.
Close enough.
Sydney Harbour Bridge at dusk—
climbed it, wind tearing, Southern Cross burning white against violet sky.
City lights below like a heartbeat.
Europe:
Ashford Castle—falcon on glove, Atlantic salt stinging my eyes.
Train from London to Hamburg to Vienna—
cobblestone, old churches, ancestors’ names carved in stone.
They crossed oceans on nothing but hope.
If they could,
I could.
America:
Grand Canyon—sunset carving orange across time.
Glacier—ice cracking like applause.
Rockies—wind so clean it hurts.
Civil War fields—grass that remembers blood.
Every mile peels the shy.
Then Inauguration Day.
Friend calls: “Row four—now.”
I slip in, beanie pulled low, sweatshirt zipped, no ticket.
Capital One Arena.
Hail to the Chief.
Stars align.
Five words.
President turns.
First Lady turns.
Millions watch.
Two letters arrive—
sealed beside the Constitution,
in the National Archives,
where no private citizen typically ever lands.
Statistically impossible.
So kid—
don’t wait fifteen years.
The bell rings anyway.
And if you’re up at one a.m.,
tea cold,
wind tapping the glass—
know the shy kid who swallowed sentences
grew into the man who shouted
and history answered.
If I can love out loud—
get the President and First Lady to turn,
millions to listen,
my words archived forever—
then when the right woman crosses my path,
I’ll be ready.
No rush.
Just… here.
