Dear Younger Me | The College Chapter

Alright, besties. Deep breath. Because today, we launch a whole new chapter of our Dear Younger Me series. Are you here for it? I sure am. 

New chapter.

New season.

New version of you… maybe?

Welcome back to Dear Younger Me — the space where I write love notes, warning signs, and straight-up confessions from my 40-something self… to the girl I used to be.

We’ve made it through the baby-faced beginnings, remember?

Elementary school: All gold stars and good behavior. I was the rule-following, teacher-pleasing, “Can I sit in the front?” kinda girl.

Then came middle school — the era of invisibility. I didn’t want to stand out, didn’t want to speak up. Just let me blend into the background and survive.

High school? Oh girl. High school was the chameleon years. Shape-shifting, code-switching, numbing with a side of boyfriend sauce. I didn’t know who I was, but I definitely knew who I needed to be, depending on the room.

And now… here we are.

Cue the drumroll and the dorm decor hauls because—babes, it is officially college season! 

Where freedom tastes like late-night pizza and identity feels just out of reach.

Where everyone’s asking, “What are you majoring in?” when what you really want is to figure out who you are and if you're allowed to take up space as her.

And trust me, it didn’t take long for that question to smack me right in the face.

Because I came into college with a dream I didn’t even realize was still alive — until it showed up again in the most unexpected way.

I was probably around your age when I first saw her. A Crimson Girl.

Now before you go picturing some superhero in red tights, let me explain. The Crimson Girls were the college dancers at the University of Kansas, the university I attended. 

The kind of girls who twirled under Friday night lights with smiles that could stop traffic and hair so perfect you’d think it was photoshopped in real life.

I remember it like a movie.

The stadium was buzzing. The air had that crisp fall feeling where everything smells like popcorn and excitement. The band was blasting, the crowd was electric, and then — boom — they appeared.

I was frozen.

Their lipstick? Crimson.

Their energy? Sparkling.

Their confidence? Unshakable.

And little me, sitting in the stands in my too-big hoodie and scraped-up tennis shoes? I knew. I just knew.

That was the dream.

To dance like that.

To smile like that.

To be a Crimson Girl.

But as dreams sometimes do, mine got dusty. Time passed. I danced less. Life got loud. That dream got quiet.

Until one random summer after high school graduation…

My brother called.

One of his friends danced for the Crimson Girls and they were hosting a summer camp for potential new dancers. He said I should come. Just try it. No pressure.

And I don’t know what came over me, but I said yes. 

My mom drove me out that weekend, and let’s be real — she knew what was up. This wasn’t just a “check it out for fun” kind of thing. She saw that flicker in my eyes — the sparkle that hadn’t shown up since, well... dance class days and rhinestoned recital buns.

We didn’t say it, but we both felt it: I hadn’t danced in forever, but something about this weekend had me glowing.

And the truth?

I wanted it.

Badly.

The dream.

The team.

The twirl-under-the-lights moment.

This wasn’t just a camp. This was a shot — and we both knew it.

Anyway she dropped me off with my brother, and soon I found myself at a place that felt straight out of a teen movie: Gamma Phi Beta.

You guys, this sorority house was straight-up storybook pretty.

White on the outside with fancy little details around every window and door. The kind of place that looked like it had a name on a necklace and a whole personality of its own.

Inside? 

It was room after room after room, all lined up like a Pinterest board brought to life.

One big bathroom where everyone got ready together — like a never-ending sleepover.

Girls were laughing, curling hair, sharing lip gloss... and I was like, is this real life or a Disney Channel original movie??

I didn’t understand it all fully, but I knew one thing:I wanted in.

That night, my brother and his friend took me “out” — and listen, I’m not gonna sugarcoat it: it was not my proudest moment. Let’s just say... there were drinks, bad choices, and a next morning that felt rough.

Like, “I think I might hurl in this gym bag” kind of rough.

And wouldn’t you know it? That was also the morning of dance camp.

Awesome.  Again, no proud girl moment here. NOT AT ALL.

So I pulled myself together, dragged myself into the car, and headed to the gym. And the second I stepped inside?

Boom.

Instant insecurity.

The gym was HUGE. Loud. Intimidating.

And the Crimson Girls?

They were there — all of them.

And let me tell you, they were perfect. Absolute perfection. 

Like, flawless.

Their bodies? Toned and tiny. 

Their stomachs? Flat. 

Their skin? Glowy. 

Their makeup? On point.

They flashed these huge, dazzling smiles — the kind that lit up the whole room — and all I wanted to do was shrink behind my frizzy ponytail and oversized t-shirt.

I didn’t just feel small… I felt invisible.

Well — emotionally small.

Physically? I felt the opposite.

Next to them, I felt huge.

And this wasn’t just a “Whoa, I’m a little rusty at dancing” kind of feeling.

It was deeper than that.

It was a gut-punch of a realization. More like… “I don’t belong here.”

I watched them move like they were born to dance — strong, confident, beautiful.

And the whole time, I was thinking,

I’m not thin enough.

I’m definitely not pretty enough.

I’m just not enough, period.

That night, I didn’t go home thinking about choreography or new friends.

I went home with a plan. A full-blown plan to lose weight before college started. I had 2 months and the plan started yesterday. 

I left that weekend knowing, without a shadow of a doubt, that I was simply not skinny enough to be a Crimson Girl.

It wasn’t just the sparkle or the perfect makeup that haunted me.

It wasn’t even the flawless kicks or the perfect ponytails.

It was their bodies.

Their size.

Their thinness.

And suddenly, in that moment — it was like a veil was lifted.

Up until then, my small-town life had been a bit of a security blanket. 

I never really thought about my weight. I didn’t have to. 

Where I came from, food was part of life — big meals, second helpings, meat and potatoes kind of love. It wasn’t weird to eat well, it was kinda normal, I guess. 

Sure, I compared myself to other girls in high school — I think we all did in one way or another —or eventually will — but it was mostly about clothes, popularity, who was dating who… not really weight.

Yeah, you'd hear whispers when someone dropped pounds too fast, but skinny wasn’t the gold standard where I grew up. 

Not like it was here. In that gym, standing next to those impossibly tiny, size-000 Crimson Girls — I finally saw myself differently.

It was like I looked down at my own body and thought, “Oh. I’m the big girl.”

And just like that, I made a silent promise to myself:

I will never be the “heavy” girl again. Ever.

It didn’t matter that I wasn’t actually overweight.

It didn’t matter that I was healthy.

What mattered — in that distorted, dangerous moment — was that I didn’t look like them.

And that was the moment.

That exact moment.

Where something dark took root in me.

Where the lie that “thinner is better” became my truth.

Where my eating disorder was born.

Unwilling to give up on the dream entirely, I told myself I’d go home, get serious, and lose the weight.

Still living under my parents’ roof, I knew I couldn’t go full-force yet — but that didn’t stop me from pre-planning every calorie I’d restrict, every pound I’d lose the second I got to college.

That moment was burned into my memory.

Vivid.

Sharp.

It was the moment the Enemy — that voice of fear and shame — capitalized on my deepest insecurity and whispered…

“You are not good enough.”

“You do not belong here.” 

And I believed him.

From that day forward, those lies became the background noise of my life — quiet sometimes, deafening other times — but always there.

And that day? That moment in a gym full of glitter and comparison? It’s what cemented an eating disorder in my life that I would battle for years to come.

Now, before I go any further, I need to pause and say something super important.

Sweet friend — I need you to hear this loud and clear.

As with previous episodes…by sharing this story — this deeply personal, inward battle with my body and my worth — I am not, in any way, suggesting that you follow this same path. 

I am not glamorizing it. I’m not hinting at it. And I am definitely not including you in on these dark chapters of my story to point you in that direction.

I’m sharing this with you because I know — I know — that so many girls, maybe even you, have stood in front of a mirror and wondered if your body disqualified you from being loved, included, or enough.

And if that’s you? I want you to know — I grieve with you.

Because eating disorders aren’t trendy. They’re not cute.

They’re not something you casually mention in a TikTok.

They are painful. They are sneaky. And they are so hard to recover from.

I get emotional when I see anyone — especially girls your age — struggling with something that steals their joy, their confidence, and their peace. I don’t want that for you. Not ever.

I’m telling you this part of my story not to lead you into a place of restriction or obsession… but to give you insight. 

To pull back the curtain and show you how easy it is to believe lies when you're feeling vulnerable, and how cruel those lies can be.

So if you take anything away from this episode, I hope it’s this:

It is not about your size.

Size doesn’t qualify you.

Size doesn’t disqualify you.

You are already enough — in the body you have, right now, today.

Your worth is not measured in numbers, or clothes, or calories.

It’s measured in how fiercely you’re loved — by God, by the people who truly know you… and hopefully, one day, by you too.

Now, let’s dive back in!

My car was packed, my playlist was set, and I was pulling out of my driveway with one mission in mind: new chapter, new me.

I had just said goodbye to Hays, Kansas — the small town where I grew up. And y’all… I was so ready to go. It wasn’t all bad, but let’s just say, those last 18 years had been loaded with drama, jealousy, insecurity… and a lot of trying to prove myself.

But now? That was all behind me. I was heading to the University of Kansas with my eyes locked on the future — and the rearview mirror very intentionally turned down.

Only a handful of people I knew from Hays were going to KU, which meant one thing: a  completely fresh start. No rumors, no reputations, no whispers behind my back. Just clean slates and wide open possibilities. 

And I was here for it! 

So, naturally… what better way to kick off this fresh new college era than to throw myself headfirst into sorority recruitment?

Now if you’re like, Wait, what even is sorority recruitment? — let me break it down for you. 

Ok, Sorority Recruitment.

Imagine a weeklong, supercharged version of speed dating… but instead of dating a person, you're trying to find your future sisterhood — a group of girls you’ll do life with in college.

Each day, you get dressed up and walk (okay, sweat) your way from one gorgeous sorority house to the next.

Every house is themed. There are interviews (aka conversations), snacks, dances, decorations, matching outfits... it’s like a Disney princess movie meets “The Bachelor” meets the longest job interview of your life.

It all leads up to something called Bid Day — when you find out which house chose you… and you get to say “yes” to your new sisterhood.

Sounds kinda magical, right?

Yeah, well… let’s just say my experience was a little less glitter and a little more internal chaos.

Anyway, It’s day one of sorority recruitment. I’m wearing the outfit my aunt and I spent hours planning — like, we literally laid it out with accessories, shoes, backup shoes, and a backup-backup necklace just in case. 

My nails were freshly painted (well, mostly), my hair was curled, and I was doing my absolute best to act like I belonged in this whole scene.

The air? Freezing. Like A/C cranked-to-an-icy-blast freezing. And the smell? Flowers. Fresh floral aroma. Like, not the normal kind — we’re talkin’ designer floral. It was giving the "you’re not in Kansas anymore,” vibes even though, technically… I was.

I walk into this big beautiful room, and they sit us down one by one at these round tables with fancy little bouquets at the center. It’s literally like a wedding met a job interview and decided to throw a tea party. 

They slide us a questionnaire — just a sweet little paper that basically decides how your entire next hour is gonna go. Cute, right?

So I’m sitting there, trying to calm my nerves, when this girl walks in and sits down right beside me.

And her name is Annie.

Cue the internal crisis.

Girls, I am not exaggerating when I say this: Annie was actual human perfection. Like, if you looked up “effortlessly flawless” in the dictionary, her senior picture would be there. 

She had long, sandy blonde hair with these salon-perfect highlights, her makeup looked professionally done — not a smudge or smudge-adjacent situation in sight. 

Her legs? Honestly longer than my entire body. Her teeth were gleaming. Like, toothpaste commercial level.

And don’t even get me started on her outfit. She nailed it. Trendy but timeless. Cute but classy. 

I don’t even remember what she said — I was too busy wondering if veneers were a thing you could get at 18.

And in that moment… all of my confidence? Gone. Like poof — out the window, never to be seen again. Sound familiar? Like the Crimson Girl story - yea, only round 2. For Real. 

Up until that point, I actually thought I had done a pretty good job preparing for this whole thing. 

I mean, I tried. Like really tried. 

I planned. I even used a heat protectant spray on my hair — which, for 18-year-old me, was major. 

But sitting next to her? I felt like a wannabe. 

I suddenly noticed everything wrong with me. My chipped nails. My slightly-too-blonde hair. My outdated outfit. My thighs. My stomach. My smile.

And it wasn’t just insecurity — again, it was this crushing realization that no matter how much I tried, I would never look like her.

I wasn’t perfect.

And standing there, shrinking under fluorescent lights and floral perfume, all those old lies started getting louder.

It was like my brain whispered, “See? You’re still not enough.”

Remember that little agreement I made with myself over the summer — the one about shrinking to fit?

Yeah, well… consider this moment the final signature on the dotted line. Food was no longer fuel. It was a prize. A maybe-you-earned-it, maybe-you-didn’t kinda prize. The disordered thinking? It went from background noise to full-blown playlist.

And I didn’t even realize I’d hit play.And you guys, I can’t even articulate how sad this all is to even say out loud. Like, I deeply recognize how screwed up this thinking was. And it breaks my heart to hear myself say it.

And somehow, that one moment — just me and Annie, side by side — sealed the deal. As if the lie I’d been tiptoeing around whispered, “Yep. This place wasn’t made for girls like you.” And I believed it. Like the universe was doubling down on a message I was already starting to believe: that just being me wasn’t going to cut it here. Not in this world. Not in this body.

Not only did I buy into the lie that the size of my body determined the size of my worth, but I also believed that my physical appearance was literally, like, the only thing that mattered. 

And I don’t tell you this so you’ll feel sorry for me. Truly. 

I tell you this because I know you’ve had an Annie moment.

We all have.

That moment when comparison walks in and your confidence walks out.

When you suddenly feel too much and not enough all at once.

It is the worst.

That’s when the enemy loves to whisper, “See? You don’t belong here.”

And if you’re not careful, that whisper can turn into a belief…and that belief, a mindset. 

So whew! Talk about an entrance, right? This was my big college kickoff — my so-called launch moment… aaanddd, it was strike one and strike two. I mean, can a girl catch a break?

Luckily — shoutout to the Big Guy upstairs — I did get into a sorority. And not just any sorority... Chi Omega, babes.

One of the top-tier houses on campus. Like, think: brainy, beautiful, super kind girls with a rep that basically screams “we run this school.” Total it-girl energy.

So yeah, God really came through… but even that didn’t go how I imagined. (Tea for another time. Stay tuned.)

But wow, friends — how are we doing? That was a lot already, huh? Hot start. Heavy vibes. And if you couldn’t tell, college? Not the chill, movie-montage moment I hoped for. 

Like, high school felt tough at the time, but honestly? That was JV. College was the major leagues — fast, flashy, and way more intense.

What really threw me? The Johnson County girls. And if you’re like, “Wait, who?” Lemme paint the pic: imagine Barbie… but on a mega-upgrade. Platinum blonde, platinum Range Rover, a closet full of ALL designer, and parents with millionaire status. These girls had it all — and made it look effortless. Total socialite vibes.

And guess what? That was the whole vibe of my sorority. Rich, stylish, brilliant, and high-key intimidating. And me? Yeah, I was just trying to survive — and keep up. But trust, it came at a price. (Literally… cue the spending spree spiral.) So yeah… that meant credit card debt. Like, a lot of it. 

Now before I jump into the whole mess of debt-on-debt-on-interest-rates that I totally didn’t understand at the time, there’s something else I need to talk about first.

It’s something that happened my freshman year, right around Christmas break when I went home for the holidays. And I’ll be real with you — this part?

It’s heavy. Like, really heavy.

Now, because of my audience, I want to be really thoughtful about how I share this next part. So, If you're feeling even a little unsure or not quite ready, this might be a good moment to hit pause and ask your mom — or someone you trust — to join you for a bit. 

Just for this next part, things take a more serious turn. And mom — if you’re listening or close by and wondering what’s coming — this story includes a situation where something was slipped into my drink, and I was put in a really vulnerable and unsafe position. I will definitely share it mindfully and with ease. 

But, I can’t just breeze past this — because this is really where it all started. The shopping, the credit card debt... it all traces back to this one moment. It changed everything.

So, it was Christmas break, freshman year. I was home, feeling kind of in-between — no big New Year’s plans, just a lot of thoughts swirling. 

So I reached out to one of the few people I still kept in touch with from back home — a guy friend that I’d known for years. Like, six solid years of shared classes, choir rehearsals, late-night homework hangs — the whole thing. We were close, and honestly? I trusted him completely.

So when he invited me to a New Year’s party, it felt chill. I said yes, he picked me up, we drove across town, and once we got there, he offered to grab me a drink. I asked for a margarita — classic. But here’s where things started to unravel.

After one drink, everything got blurry. Like, scary blurry. And just to be clear — I had had drinks before, and I knew my limits. This was not normal. Something felt really wrong.

What I didn’t know that night, but eventually found out, was that he had slipped something into my drink. Like a pill. On purpose. That makes you go loopy and sort of lose your mind or your ability to process. 

I don’t remember much after that — just bits and pieces. But I woke up later, disoriented, in a bedroom, with only him there. And while I wasn’t fully aware of everything going on, I knew enough to know it wasn’t okay. At all.

I’m not going to go into every detail —because you don’t need  every detail to understand that what happened was a huge betrayal. One that left a mark on me for a very long time.

After that night, something in me shifted. Like… permanently. I didn’t feel like me anymore. The police got involved, there were some tough conversations, but in the end? No real closure. No clean ending. Just a giant, messy wound I didn’t know what to do with. 

Mentally? I was not okay. Like, at all. But bless my parents — they had no idea what to do either. This was totally new territory for them, and I wasn’t exactly making it easy. I didn’t want to talk about it. With anyone. I just shut down.

So, I packed up and went back to college… and pretty much spent the next three years spiraling. Quietly. Behind the scenes. Fully subscribing to some next level, self-sabotage.

And if you’re like, “Wait… what does that even mean?” — here’s the best way I can explain it:

Self-sabotage is when you start doing things (sometimes without even noticing) that actually make your life harder, even though deep down you want things to get better. It's like you're setting traps for yourself — tripping yourself up, even when you’re trying to move forward.

After everything I went through, I didn’t know how to deal with the pain. I felt lost, hurt, and kind of empty — and instead of giving myself grace or asking for help, I started making choices that only made things worse. I pushed away people who cared. I acted in ways that didn’t match who I really was. I stopped believing I mattered… because for a while, I honestly didn’t feel like I did. In fact, for a while, I thought I was to blame — that if I’d just done something differently, it wouldn’t have happened.

But that was a lie. A heavy, ugly lie I carried for way too long. The truth is, I didn’t do anything to deserve it. It took me a long time to separate fact from shame and finally see it for what it was: not my fault.

But that’s the thing about self-sabotage — it shows up in sneaky ways. It’s the pain on the inside showing up in how we treat ourselves on the outside. In our friendships. Our habits. Our futures. And half the time, you don’t even realize you’re doing it.

For me? I covered it all up by looking like I had it ALL together. And I got really good at it. 

I bought the clothes, the bags, the shoes, the makeup — like, thousands of dollars' worth. If I looked amazing, maybe I was amazing… right?

Spoiler: not quite. But at the time, it felt like the only way to survive. Literally, survival mode.

So, to numb the pain I was feeling — all the hurt, the confusion, the heaviness — I did what made me feel better in the moment: I shopped. And I don’t mean just a little. I maxed out credit card after credit card after credit card.

And if I’m being totally real with you? At first… it worked. For a little while, buying new clothes and cute stuff gave me this rush. It made me feel pretty, powerful, even happy — for like, a second. Until the bills started rolling in… and I had zero way to pay them.

It took me — and honestly, probably my parents too — a while to realize that this whole shopping spiral wasn’t actually about looking good. It was about hiding. Covering up how broken I felt on the inside. If I looked fine, maybe people would believe I was fine. Even though, deep down, I really wasn’t.

And here’s the part that’s not so cute to admit: the shopping didn’t stop after college. It came with me — quiet, constant, and sneaky. Like a shadow whispering things like, “This is what makes you valuable.”“This is how you stay likable.”“This is what keeps you worthy.”

And for a long time… I believed it.What started as retail therapy turned into a full-blown addiction. I’m talking two decades of trying to shop my way into feeling okay — until the line between style and self-worth completely blurred.

People started calling me the “fashion girl.” Always put together. Always on trend. And while, yeah, that sounds kinda fun, behind the polished outfits and curated aesthetic… I was lost. I didn’t know who I was without the clothes.

It took years of counseling, prayer, and some deep soul work to finally realize: the wardrobe wasn’t my identity.Don’t get me wrong — I still love fashion (style is fun, okay?) — but now I know my worth runs way deeper than what I wear.

Unpacking that pattern, though? Whew. It was hard.Because it worked — for a while. It gave me relief.

It gave me control.

It gave me something to hide behind when I felt triggered, insecure, overwhelmed, or when memories of that night crept back into my mind.

Like any shaky coping mechanism, it eventually fell apart—and letting go meant facing

everything I’d been avoiding.

That’s why I’m sharing this: to make one thing crystal clear:

There may be things that happen to you in life that are not your fault.

Not even a little bit.

No choice you made invited it. No outfit, no moment, no text, no missed signal.

Sometimes, bad things just… happen.

And that doesn’t mean God is cruel. 

It means we live in a broken world — a world with sin, pain, injustice, and human free will. A world that desperately needs healing. And in that kind of world, unfortunately, sometimes really bad things happen to really good people.

You are allowed to grieve that.

To mourn it.

To process it.

To go to counseling.

To fall apart a little.

What you're not supposed to do? Handle it all by yourself.

God never meant for you to carry this kind of weight alone.

That’s why He gave us community — safe people. Find them.

Share your story, piece by piece, when you’re ready. Because healing doesn’t happen in hiding.

And listen to me closely — you are not always responsible for what happens to you.

You are not to blame.

You are not broken.

And you are not alone.

God didn’t leave you. Even if it felt like He did.

Believe me, I’ve wrestled with that. I’ve had my why God? moments. I've sat in the confusion, the tears, the anger. I’ve asked Him, “How could you let this happen to me?” 

And I’ve struggled — still do, some days — with the lie that says, “You can’t trust God with your safety anymore.”

But here’s what I’ve learned and am still learning:

That lie does not get the final say.

Because God's character isn’t based on my pain.

His goodness doesn’t disappear when life gets messy.

He was there.

He is there.

Even now.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” — Psalm 34:18

“Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.” — Psalm 23:4

“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” — Psalm 147:3

These verses don’t erase the pain. But they remind me of this:God’s presence is not proven in our comfort. It’s proven in the fact that we’re never alone, even in our hardest moments.

So please, take this to heart today:

Yes — life is hard.

Yes — bad things can happen to good people.

No — that doesn’t always mean we’re responsible.

And no — God never leaves you. Ever.

Okay, deep breath.

Now that we’ve walked through that, I want to take a moment to write to the girl I used to be — the one who was right in the middle of all this. The one who felt lost, scared, and unsure how to move forward.

So here we go…

Dear College Me…

Hey sweet girl.

You’re probably sitting on your twin XL dorm bed right now — hair still smelling like the curling iron you used five hours ago, closet floor littered with five discarded outfits, and your stomach doing that nervous flip thing it always does when you’re about to walk into something new.

I see you.

I see the girl who’s trying so hard to get it right.

To belong.

To be chosen.

To be seen.

You’ve been told your whole life that this is supposed to be the best season. That college is where you find your people, your passion, and your purpose. And yet… right now? All you’re really finding is comparison, confusion, and a deep, aching loneliness you don’t quite have words for yet.

I wish I could sit beside you — maybe on that scratchy dorm carpet — and take your face in my hands and tell you what I know now:

You are not too much. And you are not not enough.

Not because of how you look.

Not because of your weight.

Not because you didn’t grow up with money or because your jeans aren’t designer or because your smile isn’t as bright as Annie’s. You are already enough — full stop.

I know what it felt like to sit in that gym.

To shrink inside yourself when the Crimson Girls walked by.

To feel like your body was a problem to be fixed rather than a gift to be loved.

And I know that quiet promise you made that day: “I will never be the big girl again.”

That promise? It hurt more than it helped.

And while I know you made it to survive, I want you to know — it’s okay to break that promise now.

It’s okay to choose healing instead of hiding.

You don’t have to earn belonging through shrinking.

You don’t have to prove your value through a number on a scale or a tag on a dress.

You do not have to hustle for your worth.

And sweet girl, I know that night over Christmas break shattered something in you.

I know you still wake up wondering what you did wrong.

But hear me loud and clear:

You did nothing wrong.

What happened to you was not your fault.

Not the drink.

Not the outfit.

Not the smile.

Not your kindness.

Not your past.

Nothing you did made that happen.

And it should have never happened to you.

I’m so, so sorry it did.

But I want you to hear this next part with every fiber of your being: That night does not define you.

It does not steal your future.

It does not ruin your goodness or your purpose or your beauty or your voice. What someone else tried to break in you — God is already working to rebuild.

And He hasn’t gone anywhere.

Even in the dark.

Even in the silence.

Even when you thought He left.

He didn’t.

Psalm 34:18 says, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

I know you don’t feel Him right now.

I know your trust feels fragile — like glass waiting to shatter.

But trust is something He is gentle enough to hold and patient enough to rebuild.

You don’t have to fake faith. You just have to show up with your questions and your cracks and your pain and say, “God… here I am.”

He can handle that.

And He loves you — even now. Especially now.

I know that shopping helped you feel in control when everything else felt like chaos.

I know looking the part gave you a moment of relief, a moment of power, a moment of feeling okay.

But girl — hear me: the clothes are not your identity. Style is fun. Fashion is art. But it is not the definition of your worth.

You are more than the outfits.

More than the highlight reel.

More than the perfect photos.

You are a whole, healing, holy work in progress — and God is not done writing your story.

So take the pressure off.

Let yourself feel.

Let yourself ask for help.

Let yourself be loved — even in the mess.

Especially in the mess.

You don’t have to hold it all together to be held by God.

And one more thing, college me — the you sitting in all this heartbreak, confusion, and comparison:

One day, you’re going to look back on this version of yourself with so much compassion. Not shame. Not embarrassment. Not judgment. Just love.

You were doing the best you could with what you knew. And now? Now you know better. Now you are growing. Healing. Becoming.

So be kind to her.

She survived things she never should’ve had to.

She held more than she was ever meant to carry.

And she kept going.

That girl?

She’s not weak.

She’s not broken.

She’s a fighter.

And she’s not done yet.

Love,

Me (but stronger now) 

Alright, beautifuls, listen up, we’re gonna bring this all home with a little Bible power, ok? 

This story you’re carrying? The hard stuff, the messy stuff, the “I don’t even know if I’m enough” stuff? It’s not your whole story. God’s rewriting your script, and trust me, it’s way better than you can imagine.

Remember what Jesus said in John 10:10?“I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.”Not just surviving, babe — thriving. He’s inviting you into a new kind of life, one that’s bursting with hope, joy, and freedom.

And here’s where it gets even sweeter: in 2 Corinthians 5:17, we get this glow-up verse —“If anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: The old has gone, the new is here!”Say that out loud. The old you? The one tied down by shame and pain? Gone. Poof. Vaporized. And the new you? She’s stepping up, fierce, fearless, and ready to shine.

God isn’t just dusting off the past; He’s doing a full-on makeover. Think streams in the desert, wildflowers blooming where nothing grew before (Isaiah 43:19). That’s your life, babe — a beautiful new thing bursting out, even if you can’t see it yet.

So here’s your permission slip: you don’t have to stay stuck in the old story. You don’t have to hustle for your worth or shrink yourself to fit someone else’s idea of perfect. You are deeply loved — wildly and fiercely loved — just as you are. No filters, no edits.

Lean into that love. Let it fill your cracks and your questions. Bring all your messy, beautiful self to God — because He’s got you, even when you don’t feel like you’ve got you.

So go ahead, be brave. Be bold. Be beautifully, perfectly you — the new creation walking confidently into the life God’s already dreaming up for you.

And remember, honey, you’re not just surviving — you’re thriving, glowing, and glowing up in ways you never thought possible.

You got this. And God’s got you.