I’m Still That Girl

Being a woman is heavier than I thought it would be.

There are expectations I didn’t see coming. Responsibilities that settle quietly onto my shoulders. An awareness of the world that feels sharper, less forgiving. Somewhere along the way, things became more serious. More measured. Less soft.

I thought growing up meant becoming someone new.

It didn’t. It meant learning how to carry who I’ve always been.

Because underneath everything—under the pressure, the expectations, the effort to hold myself together—the girl I used to be is still here.

She shows up in small ways.

In the quiet rituals—in checking each other’s makeup under harsh bathroom lights, leaning in close to fix what the others can’t quite see, in taking turns at the mirror, talking over each other as we get ready. In laughter that comes too easily, in conversations that stretch late into the night, where nothing feels too small or too much to say.

She is there in the softness I refuse to lose.

In the way I feel things deeply, even when it would be easier not to. In the way I reach for connection, for closeness, for understanding. In the unspoken language between women—the glance across the room, the immediate knowing when something is wrong, the instinct to move closer without needing to be asked.

There was a time when being that girl felt effortless.

Before I learned to second-guess myself. Before I started measuring how I was perceived. Before I understood how often the world asks women to be smaller, quieter, easier to hold.

Being a woman has taught me awareness.

Being a girl taught me how to feel.

I don’t have to choose between the two.

Growing up did not require me to become harder. It required me to become more intentional about what I keep.

And I am keeping her.

The girl who laughs too hard. The girl who lingers in moments that feel good. The girl who leans in, who listens, who loves without hesitation. The girl who still believes there is something sacred in being understood.

There is strength in that softness. Even if the world does not always recognize it.

I am a woman.

And I am still a girl.

In My Dreams, I Am Enough

What if the hardest word you’ve ever heard isn’t “no” — but “almost”?

Almost good enough. Almost qualified.

Almost chosen. Close, but never quite.

You know that feeling—when you decide to try, only to be told no? You give and give, wanting more for yourself, yet it feels like nothing you do is enough. Not thin enough. Not pretty enough. Not smart enough.

Those are the thoughts that visit me on my worst days.

Setbacks don’t ignite me. They don’t fuel some cinematic determination to prove everyone wrong. They quiet me. Shrink me. I am easily discouraged.

Is it a lack of self-confidence? A lack of drive? A lack of caring?

No. I care—deeply. I want to become more than I am. But sometimes, if I’m honest, I want the easy way out. I want more so badly that I wish I could dream it into existence instead of building it piece by piece.

So I find myself yearning for sleep—not for rest, but for escape. For the chance to disappear into an alternate world where consequences loosen their grip and responsibility cannot find me. A world where I am in charge.

I resonate deeply with Taylor Swift’s “I Hate It Here,” where she writes about preferring to live in a world of books. I understand that longing. I, too, ache to step into places that are not this one. Sometimes I can—at least while I’m asleep. It isn’t always fantastical. It’s simply elsewhere.

And elsewhere is freeing.

In my dreams, I am enough. Not because everything goes right—sometimes nightmares creep in, heavy with monsters and fear—but because the world is mine. No one is there to measure me. No one is there to misread me. Only the characters I’ve created. Only a life that bends at my will.

Here, I am almost enough.

It’s an almost yes to every opportunity. A polite rejection softened by encouragement. “Inadequate, but you’ll get there.”

In my dreams, I rule. I decide what happens next. I determine who I become.

So why don’t I believe I can do the same when I wake up?

Why do I surrender control in a life that is supposed to be mine?

Maybe I’ve mistaken circumstance for authority. Maybe I’ve forgotten that while I cannot choose what happens, I can choose how I respond. The power has been mine all along.

I am enough—not only in imagined worlds, but here.

Now I need to start living like it.

Maybe feeling “not good enough” isn’t proof that I’m failing. Maybe it’s proof that I care. And maybe growth begins the moment I stop escaping and start choosing myself—awake.

The Girl I Grew Up With

Breakups are hard.

Your heart learns to beat beside another heart—you make plans, sketch dreams of a little white house with a picket fence, maybe a dog or two. You feel safe. You feel seen. And when that bond breaks, it hurts in places you didn’t know existed.

But friend breakups? They wound differently.

Especially when it’s the friend who’s been there for more than half your life. Your other half. Your platonic soulmate. The one who knew every version of you before you had the language to explain yourself.

Mine did.

We grew up side by side—endless sleepovers—living room dance parties, laughter that left our ribs sore. Barbie storylines that stretched into entire universes. With her, life feel that lighter. Effortless. Certain.

I never imagined a version of my future that didn’t include her in it.

But somewhere along the way, I began to notice the imbalance. The love wasn’t equal. Maybe she cared—but not in the same way. I was all in, heart and loyalty. She wanted the whole world’s attention. I only wanted hers.

I would have been her ride or die.

Instead, I became a chapter she outgrew.

There was no explosion. No final argument to point to. Just distance. A new circle. A new rhythm. A life unfolding without my name stitched into it.

The girl I once pictured as my maid of honor didn’t even ask me to stand beside her.

And that’s when I understood something painful and humbling: I was replaceable.

She built her picket fence. I stayed behind, holding memories that no longer belonged to both of us.

Someday, her children might flip through old photo albums and point at my face.

“Who’s that?”

Just some girl she grew up with.

They’ll turn the page. She’ll keep building her life. And I will keep building mine.

But somewhere inside of me, two little girls are still on the swings, laughing at nothing, certain it will always be the two of us against the world.

Maybe that’s what makes friend breakups so quiet and devastating.

You don’t just lose the person.

You lose the version of yourself who believed some people were forever.

A Turning Point

Grief has been showing up like fog lately—quiet, creeping, settling into the spaces between thoughts. I feel it when I scroll through social media, when I pass strangers in the grocery store, when the silence of the world feels louder than it should. There’s sorrow for lives lost, heartbreak over the violence we can’t seem to escape, and worry for the ways we’ve forgotten how to speak to one another.

It feels like we’re standing in a shadowed chapter of our history. But maybe shadows only remind us how much we need the light. When we stop talking, we stop growing. And even when we don’t agree, we can still reach for compassion. We have to.

I sense a shift—both around me and inside me. I’ve been turning back to God, remembering that comfort and direction don’t have to be earned; they’ve always been there. I think others feel it too. Where numbness used to spread, I notice sparks: a desire to care again, to fight for kindness, to remember that love was never meant to be rationed.

Maybe this is our moment. The chance to wake up to each other again. The chance to choose tenderness in a world that keeps asking us to harden.

So Long, Summer.

There’s something magical about that moment when summer starts to loosen its grip. The air shifts. The sunlight softens. Suddenly, you’re torn between savoring the last outdoor barbecues and craving the cool breeze running through your bones. I sometimes forget how much I love Autumn. Each year it moves too fast—zipping through the calendar at a speed I don’t notice until I blink and suddenly silver bells are ringing. Autumn is my heart. It’s cozy. It’s bliss. Even so, when the summer heat is beating down on my face and beads of pool water slide off my skin, I can’t help but wonder if part of me will miss summer when it’s gone.

August heat—how do I describe thee? My cotton t-shirt sticks to my back, sweat slides along my hairline, and I’m bouncing between sweating and shivering. Always teetering on the edge of mild discomfort. This year, I finally found a cure for chub rub. Small victories, right? I'll take it, because I cannot handle another summer of raw inner thighs, slick with that unique Virginia humidity that clings to everything.

In just a few weeks, we’ll get the sweet beginnings of Autumn. Crisp leaves will start to fall onto the browned blades of grass, and my lined boots will crunch along the sidewalk as I walk with my mother. The world will quiet to a soft hush, and we’ll remember to look up at the sky instead of ducking into the nearest building for air conditioning. The sun will grow shy, the nights will stretch longer, and the air will carry that woodsy, smoky scent that only belongs to fall. Even the bugs that have pestered us all summer will retreat to their homes. A fallen log. A hole in the ground. A home is a home.

Autumn is when people seem to remember kindness again. The holidays are around the corner—oh yeah, I have something to be thankful for. The air may be brisker, but hearts are warmer. The world is beautiful again.

As I bask in some of the last sunny days of the year, I admit—summer has its moments. But Autumn reminds me who I am. So no, I won’t miss summer.