A Love Letter to the Girl I Used to Be (And a Memo to Grow the Hell Up)

Youth is a Phase, Not a Personality

Somewhere along the way, “aging gracefully” got hijacked by diet culture, Botox ads, and the idea that your self-worth is inversely proportional to the number of candles on your birthday cake. But here’s the truth: youth is not a personality trait. It’s not an identity. It’s a phase—a sweet, messy, dramatic-ass chapter that’s meant to end.

And thank the gods it does.

Because if you’re still defining yourself by the version of you who thought “finding yourself” meant changing your hair color or dating someone in a band, it might be time for a cosmic reality check. You’ve evolved. (Hopefully.) But if your decisions, desires, and even your wardrobe are still being dictated by who you were—not who you are—you’re basically living in a rerun. And honey, reruns get old.

This isn’t about becoming a beige adult with no sparkle. It’s about owning the full damn spectrum of who you’ve become. The strength. The depth. The don’t-fuck-with-me intuition that only comes from lived experience. Trying to stay in your youth forever is like trying to live in your childhood bedroom—nostalgic, but ultimately claustrophobic and kind of sad.

Let the posters come down. Let the walls breathe. Let you breathe.

The Cult of Cute & the Illusion of Relevance

Let’s talk about the desperate, logo-drenched performance that is staying relevant. Or, more specifically, what happens when “relevance” gets confused with “still looking 27 forever.”

We live in a culture that worships cute. Not beauty, not power, not wisdom. Cute. The kind of cute that’s easy to market, easy to dismiss, and easy to control. And who does that serve? (Spoiler: not you.)

The obsession with looking young, sounding young, acting young—it’s not some personal quirk. It’s conditioning. From filtered selfies to TikTok dance tutorials, we’re taught that the pinnacle of feminine value is being desirable in a very specific, very age-limited way. As if your magic has an expiration date. As if being seen is only valid if it comes with a side of wide-eyed naivety and perky enthusiasm.

Enter: the Puella Aeterna.

The eternal girl. The Maiden. She’s whimsical. Impulsive. Addicted to potential but allergic to responsibility. And most tragically? She believes that if she just stays light and pretty and carefree enough, someone will come save her from the weight of real life.
Spoiler again: no one’s coming. And even if they do, it’s not the kind of salvation you want.

The Puella archetype isn’t evil—she’s just stuck. She’s the ghost of dreams that were never matured, only preserved in sugar and plastic wrap. And if you’re not careful, she’ll keep you from becoming the Queen you were born to be, all in the name of being “likable.”

But you weren’t born to be likable.
You were born to be undeniable.

Dream Upgrades — From Childish Fantasies to Grown-Ass Visions

You know those dreams you had at 13? The ones scribbled in glitter gel pen and soaked in Lisa Frank-level optimism? Yeah. Those. They were sweet. They were sincere. And most of them were never meant to be permanent.

But somewhere along the way, we started treating our childhood dreams like destiny. Like if we didn’t become the pop star, the runaway bride, the wildly adored creative genius before 30—we failed. As if outgrowing the fantasy means betraying the dreamer.

Newsflash: you didn’t fail. You evolved.

Let’s make a distinction here: childish dreams are about escape and fantasy. Grown-ass visions are about embodiment and truth. The kid version of you wanted a castle. The adult version of you wants sovereignty. Big difference.

If the dream was to be “famous,” maybe what your soul actually craved was to be witnessed.
If the dream was to marry rich and be adored, maybe the truth under that was to feel safe, chosen, and valuable.
And if the dream was to change the world before your Saturn return, maybe what’s needed now is to change your damn self first.

The magic isn’t in clinging to the original form. It’s in listening for the heartbeat underneath it. What need was that dream trying to meet? And what would it look like to meet it now—without pretending you’re still 22 and just “figuring it out”?

This is your permission slip to update the vision. Rewrite the script. Ditch the outdated Pinterest board and design something you actually want to wake up inside of.

The dream didn’t die. It just outgrew its costume.

Becoming the Woman Your Younger Self Couldn’t Even Imagine

There comes a moment—usually somewhere between your last existential crisis and your second cup of coffee—when you realize:
you’ve outgrown the dream.

Not because it was silly. Not because you were wrong to want it.
But because you’re finally ready for something real.

This is where we stop dragging our childhood fantasies around like emotional security blankets and start building something that actually fits. Because let’s be honest: how many of those dreams were just survival mechanisms in glitter wrap? Half-formed wishes built on the hope that someone else would swoop in and make everything okay?

Your younger self dreamed of being rescued. But you? You’re the one holding the keys now.

And surprise—you’re not broken. You’re just… becoming. Not the girl with potential, but the woman with presence. Not the supporting role in someone else’s storyline, but the damn main character who rewrote the script halfway through and made it better.

The woman you’re becoming doesn’t pine. She plants. She builds. She roots into the ground she once tried to float above.

She’s not asking for permission. She’s handing out boundary notices and vision statements. She laughs too loud, wears what the fuck she wants, and grieves her past without glamorizing it.

You were never meant to stay the girl. You were meant to grow the hell up—and become someone your younger self never even had the words for.