As I unpacked my car to move back into my childhood bedroom, it felt strange. I wasn’t sure if it was the 64-degree day in the middle of November, or the fact that I was comfortably home again for the first time in a long while. I clumsily walked downstairs with my suitcase and continued down the dark hallway to the bathroom. I put my suitcase down, and as I stepped from the long carpet onto the tile, I turned on the light and caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror.
The bathroom was cluttered with trash: a toothbrush, a jumble of bobby pins, and makeup. The sink needed cleaning, and it smelled slightly stale, like dust on an old book. As I turned the corner to my bedroom, the smell lingered, mingling with the dirty laundry scattered across the floor. I made space on the visible carpet to set down my suitcase and opened it up. I figured I’d leave the mess for later—after all, the decaying bouquet of flowers on my dresser, the photo frame still holding a picture of me and him, and the laundry weren’t going anywhere anytime soon. I’d tackle it on a slower day, when I’d be so bored I’d have no choice but to clean up the dust and clutter of my old life.
At the time, I didn’t know that day would be Thanksgiving morning. We were hosting guests later, and I felt the urge to clean my bathroom in case someone wandered downstairs. While cleaning, I found some old jewelry I used to wear in high school. I untangled my favorite necklace, a dainty gold chain with a small daisy charm. I used to love gold, but now I preferred silver, with the exception of a few rings. I found my scrunchie collection from 2020, some old Vera Bradley bags, and my pink Nalgene bottle—a high school staple. It was covered in stickers: TV quotes, moon phases, jokes about being gluten-free, some Harry Styles lyrics, and a big daisy sticker on the front.
As I looked at the Nalgene, I made eye contact with the girl in the mirror and smiled slightly at the thought of the “pink water bottle girl.” I wore my heart on my sleeve—or, more accurately, on my water bottle. It was no secret who I was or what I liked. The pink Nalgene girl liked daisies and That 70’s Show. She liked Harry Styles and was into astrology. She wanted the world to know who she was, and she was proud of it.
As I moved into my room, the clothes were the first thing to go—some in the wash, the rest tucked away in my closet and dresser. The top of the dresser was cluttered, like a busy kitchen island after a long week. Papers in one corner, a humidifier in another. Dust was everywhere, and next to a dried-out bouquet was a picture frame with a photo of me and him. In the picture, we stood close together, surrounded by wildflowers on a hike in Crested Butte in the summer of 2023. I looked happy, but I no longer recognized the girl in the photo.
I pulled the frame off the dresser and, almost ceremonially, tore the photo in half to separate us. Another fragment slipped out, revealing a second photo behind it. I was surprised, but oddly unaffected. I tore the second photo in the same spot and tossed both in the trash. I kept the frame, though, and replaced the photo with a baby picture of my sister and me.
As I placed the frame back on the dresser, I noticed a senior superlative had fallen behind it, wedged between the furniture and the wall. I reached for it, but couldn’t quite pull it out. I started sorting through my high school memories in the opposite corner of my room. There were notes from my graduation and the senior musical, along with a stack of photos I’d prepared for my grad party. At least 100 photos, maybe two—pictures I’d taken myself and photos of me with friends over the years.
I unscrewed the mason jar containing my graduation notes and sifted through them. There were notes from friends, old classmates, and one from my favorite teacher. I used to visit his classroom every day after school, confiding in him about whatever was on my mind—mostly stupid boy problems, but sometimes more serious family struggles. As I read his note, I felt a wave of emotion. He wrote about our friendship and how we had unknowingly helped each other heal. I’d been recovering from an abusive relationship with my father, and he was struggling with his role as a teacher. Unknowingly, I had provided him the reassurance that he was making a difference, while I learned that love, especially parental love, was something I didn’t need to earn—it was something I deserved.
Tears welled in my eyes as I finished reading the letter. I thought about who I was back then—flamboyant, full of life, and unafraid to express myself. I wrote articles for the school newspaper, took photos at every opportunity, and lived for the beauty of connecting with people. I was a hopeless romantic who danced and sang whenever I felt like it. I wrote poems and songs and showed them to my friends, no matter how embarrassing. I loved big game nights, going to choir, and doing donuts in the parking lot with my friends after a snowstorm. I enjoyed hugging people when they cried and always made time for my friends. I wanted to be surrounded by people who loved me, and I did everything to make them feel loved in return.
As I pulled the superlatives out from behind my dresser, I read them and realized that even the people who barely knew me, knew me. “Most likely to run off with the circus,” “Most likely to care about things nobody cares about,” “Would write her own obituary.” They were so humbly accurate—I was crying (and laughing) again. After I put down the superlatives, I started reading my newspaper articles and looking through the photos. I was very stylish back then, all the way down to the shoes. I had almost forgotten about how much I loved thrifting and shopping in general. My opinion column in the newspaper was catchy and unforgivingly sarcastic, which was so me. The memories came flooding back to me as I could picture myself dancing, singing, and laughing with my old friends. Suddenly, I started to feel like I did in high school, and I became a little more whole as I finished cleaning my room.
It was so like me to want to fall in love; I wanted someone to love me and know me so badly. I yearned for someone to appreciate who I was, and fall in love with every aspect of who I was. Looking back, I wasn’t surprised at how deeply in love I fell, because I was like that with everyone. My friends became my chosen family, and I loved them so deeply and so well.
But for two and a half years, I slowly lost myself trying to make someone else feel loved. I dropped everything—my hobbies, my values, my friends—to make him happy. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the anxiety, the constant worry about his thoughts and feelings, mirrored the patterns from my childhood. I was always trying to fix things, always second-guessing myself.“Maybe he’s right and I should give him more of a chance.” “Maybe I am becoming too impatient or dramatic.” He wanted to spend more time with me, and I dropped things that would get in the way of that. No more choir, no more dance, no more musicals, no more jobs. He questioned my values, and I went to church with him. No more loud opinions, no more chatting freely. He wasn’t a fan of my friends. No more sorority, no more crew, no more clubs. He didn’t like what I was wearing, or the way I was spending my money. No more fashion, no more spending, no more beloved trips to the mall.
Soon, the girl who always took photos didn’t have any on her phone. The girl who liked dancing never went anymore. The girl who liked to sing no longer performed on a stage or in the car. The girl who had stickers on her water bottle no longer had stickers. The girl who was into fashion and thrifting no longer wore cute outfits. The girl who was once chatty and boisterous turned shy and quiet. The girl who liked to do her hair and makeup barely had a routine. The girl who had so many friends no longer had any. That girl had disappeared.
Making this discovery while in my childhood bedroom was pivotal, but not surprising. However, I was grateful that the girl was coming back, and I got to meet her again every single day.
Sometimes she will say something funny and sarcastic again, without second guessing, and the whole table will laugh at her jokes. Sometimes she will ramble on about her music and her songwriting without caring about what people think. Sometimes, she’ll slip into a cute outfit like she used to, feeling confident in her style. On occasion she will enjoy spending time with her friends, and not cut it short, and not worry endlessly about racing back home. Sometimes I find her pulling out her phone to take photos and videos of things she finds beauty in again. Sometimes, she’ll dance and sing around the kitchen, or even at work, losing herself in the joy of it. There are moments when she’ll be blow-drying her hair or doing her makeup, taking time for herself the way she used to. Sometimes, she’ll be shopping at the mall or browsing thrift stores, savoring the experience the way she always had. And sometimes, I’ll catch a glimpse of her in the bathroom mirror of my childhood home on Thanksgiving morning, after losing sight of her for three long years.