At 32, My Girlhood is Still Alive and Well

At 13, I was good at knowing what the world wanted and giving it that. To be fair, 2006 was an ideal year for being 13 and being good at knowing what the world wanted and giving it that. Britney hadn’t shaved her head yet; things were in order. The girls were starved and we didn’t want for anything. If anything, we wanted what wanted us. We were hazy and fluffy and hollow; porous, penetrable, and full of things to give and eager to give them. We showered the world with smiles and meaningless calligraphy and giggles and sweet, sweet body spray. Nelly Furtado had just released Loose. The World Cup was on.

2025 is not a very good year for wanting what the world wants and giving it that. It’s a fragmented, nonlinear, never-ending slideshow of progressively more desensitizing, destabilizing horrors that attach to our amygdalas the second we wake up. Heavy. Heady. Headless. I still know what the world wants. But I can’t get myself to give it that.

At 13, I knew what the world wanted and it wanted me to be “girl,” which meant not having to do hard things, like having to carry heavy objects, or having to know about international politics, or having to open doors, or having desires or having to feel too much or having hobbies. I was really good at that. I was glad to let things happen to me. Braces. Bras. Blackouts. Waking up with the morning dew, shivering. Taking the blame. Girls weren’t to be caught dead trying to do anything, and it was easy. We hovered on the dried-up fountain at the skate park, waited and watched, tugging at our denim miniskirts, twirling their frayed edges, hoping to be chosen and pulling up our tube tops to cover the little patches of fat by our pits (in order to be chosen).

At 13, I knew what the world wanted then and it wanted to like me. I was grateful. I stuck to the script. I lapped up the rules and made more of them, for myself and for others. I was nice and average, and sometimes mean to other girls so I could be less average. I became really good at things that came easy. I excelled at having crushes. Daydreaming. The Sims. Scrapbooks. I did not write, or sing, or dance, or joke, or care, or try, at least not when seen, and definitely not to be seen. I was air. It felt good feeling transparent, hovering just there at arm’s length.

Lately, I’ve caught myself drifting again. This time, I’m not alone. I look around the neon-pink nostalgia and realize the girls are all here. Side parts and lace camis and flash photography and the Balenciaga city bag are everywhere. Life feels like a Barbie dress-up game. We asked and got what we wanted, needed: Addison in Louboutins and low-rise Lucky Jeans, a Freakier Friday, Romy as our long-promised nepo queen. Long live Romy Antoinette. Cringe is over. Chanel might be back. Girlhood is healing.

I follow blindly into this lightness, the sweet escape into a shoe that fit. I oblige. I indulge. I wear the ballerina flats. I spiral off into an “I Want Candy” montage of daydreaming and doodling and hair clips and stickers, dusting off my Daisy by Marc Jacobs and rewatching Sex and the City and moodboarding and watching what I eat and trying not to feel too much. But this time, it’s different. This time, I’m 32 and in a crowd of women that are actually girls and there’s a light drizzle. This time, we’re swaying along to “The Grass Is Green,” chanting, shivering. I wish we’d all been friends at 13. In some ways, it feels like we were. I can’t help but well up. This time, I’m showering myself in everything I can give.

Getting to repeat 13 at 32 feels like a scented invite written with a pompom pen and a fresh French manicure. It’s a toasty warm welcome back at the mall. It’s a portal to unparalleled joy that came long before the world taught you what it wanted from you; an ideologically unspoiled Caramel Frappuccino with whipped cream. It’s not the petrifying cul-de-sac we thought we’d be stuck in forever; it’s another weightless loop on an endless inward and upward spiral, a ribbon perpetually tying and untying a new birthday gift. The lightness is different because it comes from within, following my own whims with abandon, untied from being liked or chosen; liking, choosing, returning to myself. I want, and everything I want wants me back. The universe feels endless. The grass is green.

It’s 2025 and I’m 32 and I’ve become really good at knowing what 13 wanted and giving it that. To be fair, it’s an ideal year for that.