Dear Younger Me | The High School Chapter

Well…. hi hi hiiii sweet friends. Welcome back to Dear Younger Me, the series where we’ve been taking a walk down memory lane, writing little love letters to the different versions of ourselves. 

If you’ve been with me for the first two episodes, you know we’ve already tackled elementary and middle school chapters, which were... chaotic and emotional in their own cringey yet adorable kind of way. 

As for today, we are about to crack open the high school chapter. And y’all... high school? 

She was a whole shapeshifting, hormone-soaked, identity crisis rollercoaster. 

Like... we're talking full-on Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde... with a dash of JNCO jeans and a bottle of body glitter from Claire’s.

I like to call this my “pretend-it’s-fine” era—spiritually snoozing, emotionally dodging, mentally on vacation… minus the beach, the snacks, or any actual peace. I was basically running on 2% battery, buffering through life and hoping no one would notice. Numbing, soothing, doing whatever I could to escape that constant “Where do I even belong?” feeling. 

Because your girl?

Was living two totally different lives.

Two. Very. Different. Lives. 

Bible study on Wednesday, party scene on Friday. Worship music in the morning, anxiety spiral by night. And deep down, I was exhausted—just trying to hold it all together while slowly losing sight of who I even was.

On one hand... we had the cool girl jock version of me. She had a solid sports rotation—volleyball in the fall, basketball in the winter, track in the spring. I was always in a uniform. And like, that wasn’t just an outfit... that was my identity. Athletes had social currency at my school. So even if I wasn’t technically popular, I was close enough to breathe the same air. And that was enough to keep me trying.

Which meant... parties at the Steel Fab—yes, the warehouse. Picture: concrete floors, bad lighting, sketchy energy, and the ever-present scent of cheap beer and menthol cigarettes. 

That was the party scene. 

That was the badge of being “in.” 

And trust me, the version of me who wanted so badly to be cool, to be invited, to matter in a crowd—that version was showing up in her baby tee and lip gloss, just hoping no one noticed how awkward I felt holding a red solo cup I didn’t want to drink from.

But then... there was the other me. 

The Jesus-loving, youth-group-going, Young Life-attending me. 

And, I was just as committed to that side of myself. 

I wanted to make good choices. 

I wanted to be the girl who could talk about faith and feel known by God and belong to a group of friends who were doing life with purpose.

Except... most of those friends were older. Like, two years older. Which in high school years is basically another generation. 

So during the school day? 

My Christian crew and I were living on totally different planets. 

We'd reconnect on Sunday mornings or Sunday nights, maybe at youth group or YL club on Wednesdays… but Monday through Friday... I was pretty much flying solo. On. My. Own! 

And that? That was hard. So stinking hard. 

High school life, the day to day, was very daunting. The amount of emotional energy than any given day required, was literally so consuming. Every morning when my mom dropped me off at school, I'd get this pit in my stomach. You know that high school hallway chaos where everyone’s hanging out in clusters by their lockers? But, me? I never had a group. Like, ever.

I would walk those halls like I was invisible. I could feel the silent, “You can’t sit with us” energy from a mile away. So what did I do? I played the “I’m-so-busy-finishing-homework” card. I’d dive into an old worksheet just so I didn’t look as alone as I felt. And no one really noticed. No one really invited me in.

And if I’m being honest... even if they had, I probably would’ve panicked. Because drama. And judgment. And also... what if I wasn’t enough?

Freshman year was lonely, y’all.

Also, can we talk about having an older brother who was already cool when you are deeply uncool? Yeah... that was fun. He was a junior, had his crew, his confidence... and made it pretty clear that I was a liability to that reputation. Let’s just say the sibling energy wasn’t giving me a support system. It was giving... psychological warfare.

So here I was—split down the middle. 

One side trying to be cool enough to get invited to Steel Fab parties and the other trying to memorize my Young Life memory verse. If you looked at my soul under a microscope, it would’ve looked like a tug-of-war with a glitter-covered volleyball on one end and a Bible study workbook on the other.

And neither side fully claimed me. 

It felt like I was always almost in—but not quite. So I kept shape-shifting. Chameleoning. Trying on personalities like outfits.

I mean, can we just be real? High school was one big identity fashion show you guys, and I was doing wardrobe changes between every class period. Like seriously, if there were a gold medal for morphing into different versions of myself, I would've taken first place every single year.

Freshman year? Tried on three, maybe four friend groups.

Sophomore year? Same thing—new cast, same storyline.

Junior year calmed down slightly because, well... boyfriend.

And senior year? Oh, that was just one big, chaotic identity soup. No idea what was in it, but it was definitely overcooked.

So yes, you get the picture: I was all over the place.

Honestly, I couldn’t even tell you how many friend groups I floated through even if you bribed me with Starbucks.

I tried the emo skaters, the artsy-fartsy theater kids, the straight-A overachievers, the party-too-much crew (thanks to their older siblings), and even the quiet kids who always had mysterious Tumblr vibes. I dabbled with the choir kids, the skaters, and yes, even the brave homeschoolers who decided high school was their big debut.

It was like a never-ending episode of “Who Will She Be This Week?”

And here’s the thing: not a single group really accepted all of me. They liked the filtered versions. The edited, cropped, be-what-we-want-you-to-be parts. And that’s a tough way to live, friends. It’s like trying to squeeze into jeans that don’t fit—sure, you can button them, but you can’t breathe.

Exhausting? YES. Sad? Also yes.

But in the middle of all that friend-hopping chaos, there’s this one story that is still, to this day, absolutely unhinged. Like, I think about it and still go, “Wait—did that actually happen?”

So… let’s rewind to freshman year Homecoming.

It’s October of the year 2000. I know, like practically ancient.

Anyway, I’m 14, awkward in all the wrong places, rocking braces, waiting for half my teeth to grow in, and recovering from the kind of haircut that makes you avoid mirrors. Muscles from every sport imaginable. Overplucked brows. Foundation three shades too orange. Yeah—real main character energy.

I wasn’t exactly what you’d call “cool.” I wasn’t on the radar. I was still working my way into being “that girl” on the volleyball court, but socially? I was pretty much background noise.

So imagine my total shock when rumors started flying that the hottest senior guy—like, literal teen movie material—was going to ask me to Homecoming.

I was like, “Wait… me? With the braces and bad hair? There are girls here who look like they were born doing beauty pageants and I’m over here using Bath & Body Works lip gloss as a personality trait.”

But sure enough, a week later—HE ASKED. And not just any guy. He was on the Homecoming Court. Starting running back on the football team. Basically a walking Abercrombie ad with a Letterman jacket. And I swear, everyone around me was just as shook. Like so shook. Like probably still shaking. 

And the most shocking part? My parents said yes. Like, ACTUALLY yes. With rules, obviously. But still, they let me go! To this day I’m like, “Mom, were you okay??”

I obviously said yes—like, an emphatic, "OMG, yes!"—but y’all… inside? I was shaking in my boots. Like, knees weak, palms sweaty, full-blown inner panic mode. Because let’s be honest—the freshman-to-senior ratio here? Was massive. Like, epically unbalanced.

And deep down, I knew what that probably meant. He was definitely expecting things—physically, intimately—that I was nowhere near ready for. The truth? I hadn’t even kissed a guy yet. Not once. So yeah, this whole situation? SO outside my comfort zone it might as well have had its own passport.

Anyway…then came Homecoming Week—one big blur of school spirit chaos. We had the bonfire, the grade competitions, intramurals, themed dress-up days, and, of course, the Friday pep rally. My date? Oh, he was up there living his main character moment. Crowned Homecoming Court royalty, all eyes on him, soaking up the spotlight like it was his full-time job.

And me? I sat in the bleachers beaming like a proud (but confused) little date, still low-key asking myself, “Wait, why me again?” Pretty sure I wasn’t the only one thinking it, either.

Saturday night rolled around, and it was go-time.

Our group of dates showed up at my house, and the awkward photo train began. You know the ones—everyone lined up in the living room, parents fumbling with digital cameras, the painful corsage pinning moment where no one knows what to do with their hands, and those weird stomach-to-back poses that haunt your dreams forever.

CRINGE CITY.

Then we all moved outside for round two of photos because—heaven forbid—we didn’t get at least one picture with natural lighting.

The rest of the night? It played out about how you'd expect. I danced… like, barely. I hovered near the edge of the dance floor pretending to be busy with something—anything. I was 100% winging it. Playing it safe. Saying all the right things while internally screaming.

Honestly? I acted just as awkward as I felt. And he was totally picking up on it. Every fumbled sentence. Every stiff smile. Every sideways glance. I was basically radiating, “Help me, I’m a baby deer on high heels.”

And slowly, but surely, I could tell that every little “dreamy night” scenario he had imagined was fizzling out in real time. Like... poof. Gone. 

With only a couple hours left before curfew, the dance started winding down, and our group made the unanimous decision to bounce early and head to—wait for it—his house. And let me just say… his house was just as boujee as he was. Like, the kind of house that smells like Pottery Barn and success.

Anyway, all eight couples piled into a few cars and headed straight to the Homecoming Afterparty, and his mom?

She was the ultimate sidekick—the MVP behind the MVP. 

While he was out there stealing the show as the star athlete and homecoming king, she was busy making sure the basement was packed with all the essentials—pizza rolls, chips, and yes, the totally-not-legal-but-definitely-there booze lineup. 

And can I just say, she wasn’t just the mom; she was the official party starter, you guys…fully owning her role in his spotlight moment. 

So can we just have a quick moment of silence for this mom in the best supporting role? I mean seriously, mom of the year award just rising to the occasion in all the ways. Illegal or not.

Ok, ok. I digress. 

The truth is, at large, the night had total chill vibes. We popped on Cruel Intentions (which, if you know... you KNOW), trying to act all cool and mature like this was some sophisticated afterparty setup.

But spoiler alert: it was only sophisticated if you were a senior. For us freshmen? It felt more like pretending to be in a scene from a movie we definitely weren’t ready for.

And while the upperclassmen were casually sipping their Coors Lights like it was no big deal, the freshman girls (hi, it’s me 🙋‍♀️) were clutching their Diet Cokes and orange Fantas like nervous little party mascots.

The contrast was crystal clear. He was a senior—cool, confident, already living that grown life.

And me? I was a freshman who didn’t drink, hadn’t kissed a single guy, and had zero intention of sneaking off to a bedroom anytime soon. Like… absolutely zero.

In the beginning, it was fine. We all just sat around awkwardly recapping the night, but eventually, everything transpired… the “real” couples started to disappear.

One by one, they snuck off into various corners of the house, leaving fewer and fewer people in the basement.

Cue the awkwardness.

The smaller the group got, the more obvious our differences became. He had a beer in his hand and a very clear set of expectations. While I had a Fanta and a solid commitment to not becoming the next girl to vanish behind a closed door.

The maturity gap? Absolutely glaring. We weren’t just in different grades—we were in totally different worlds.

Let’s just say, it didn’t take long for my date to realize the night wasn’t going at all the way he’d hoped. His imaginary movie probably involved steamy makeouts and some serious PDA.

Meanwhile, I was giving off major “I’m-uncomfortable-and-would-rather-eat-pizza-rolls” vibes.

Eventually, he offered to take me home. Early. You guys. Like SO early.

Yep. In the most anticlimactic plot twist of the night, he dropped me off a full hour before curfew. The drive was silent. His disappointment? Loud. Like… deafening.

And after that night?

Radio. Silence.

I’m not even being dramatic when I say he ghosted me into another dimension. He went full-on "Hot Pocket in the microwave for too long" mode—piping hot one minute, vanished the next. Avoided me in the hallways. Pretended I didn’t exist.

Was it brutal? Totally.

But was it also kind of a blessing in disguise? 1000%.

The truth is, this magical night he had pictured—yeah, that didn’t happen. 

I wasn’t what he wanted me to be. 

And if we’re being honest, it wasn’t even about me having some perfectly buttoned-up boundary moment. It’s not like I was standing on a moral high horse.

I was just a freshman who hadn’t even kissed a boy yet. I literally didn’t know what I was doing. And the idea of trying to suddenly morph into some flirty, confident, experienced version of myself? Yeah… she didn’t exist. Not even a little bit.

Looking back now, I know God was totally watching out for me. Because let’s be real—senior guys and freshman girls? Rarely ever a good combo. And this situation was Exhibit A.

So even though I felt mortified, rejected, and so out of my depth that night, part of me was also really proud. Because I stayed true to what I knew I was ready for—which, spoiler alert, was not making out in a random guest bedroom after watching Cruel Intentions.

So yeah. That night didn’t end with sparks flying or “it girl” vibes.

But it did end with a quiet kind of strength I didn’t even know I had.

Okayyy, deep breath—how are we holding up, friends? If you're still here—gold star for you.

That story was kind of a rollercoaster, huh? But trust me, the teen chaos doesn’t stop there.

We’re moving right into sophomore year where things really start heating up—think team drama, peer pressure, and one Friday night that still lives rent-free in my brain.

Now, before I dive into a story that perfectly showcases my desperation in this hot mess season, I want to pause; take a moment to clear things up. 

Okay, real talk — I’m not telling these stories to give you a green light to get wild or glam things up. Nope, no crazy ideas here, promise! If anything, I’m spilling all this tea to save you from the drama and heartache that comes with it. So think of this as your neon flashing warning sign, babe: skip the party chaos, because trust me—smoking, drinking, and all that partying? It’s a one-way ticket to Nope City. Not worth it, ever. Like, never ever, 

Alright, PSA done—let’s get into it...

Okay, so picture this: Now I’m officially a sophomore but honestly, still totally insecure, still figuring out who I am, and still doing the absolute most to try and be seen. 

Nothing had changed, I was still so desperate to belong. 

So when the best outside hitter on our varsity volleyball team invited me and my teammate to hang out one Friday night? It felt like the clouds had parted and the angels were singing. I mean, this was it. This was the moment everything might finally change. 

We spent nearly three hours getting ready—as if it were prom. Every lash curled, every hair slicked within an inch of its life, outfit options flying across the room like a tornado had hit Limited Too. Because this wasn’t just a hangout. This was our shot.

And of course, there was no doorbell—just a honk. Two, actually. But even that felt cool. Like, varsity girl level cool. 

We hugged my parents like it was no big deal, meanwhile our hearts were beating like it was the season finale of our own personal teen drama. 

Then came the real kicker: we climbed into the trunk—yes, the actual trunk—of an electric blue Toyota RAV4. Packed in like clearance sandals on Black Friday. But we didn’t care. Because we were in.

That rush—the thrill of being seen, of being picked, even if just for one night? It hit like a jolt of emotional adrenaline. Honestly, I still can’t say why we got the invite. Maybe they saw something promising in us. Maybe they just wanted to shake things up. Or maybe—and here’s the tough part—they knew we were young and naive enough to say yes, to play the part, and get caught up in the excitement.

Alright, so within minutes, there we were—lined up in the parking lot of THE STEEL FAB. Yep, THE Fab. You know, that legendary party spot with straight-up mythic high school vibes.

Suddenly, we weren’t just the ones hearing the stories — we were the story. And if you don’t mind, I’m gonna take a quick moment of silence to honor this major achievement: officially making the cut, getting the golden ticket to THE. STEEL. FAB. Alright, moment over—back to the madness!

We trailed behind the varsity girls, doing our best to look like we belonged. But the truth? We were scared out of our minds. I remember my chest tightening, my brain spinning with every insecure thought: Do I look cool? Do they regret inviting us? Am I going to mess this up?

Five minutes in, and we were being ushered to the beer cooler. And there it was: my first beer. A Natty Light. I know, high rolling. But actually… Disgusting. But when you’re 15 and desperate to fit in, it’s not about taste. Not even a little. It’s all about the optics. I sipped it slowly like it was a badge of honor. And then—ugh—came the cigarette. I hated it. But I took it. Because it felt like the entry fee. Ya know what I mean? 

And here’s the thing: I remember leaving that night on a total high. Not because of the alcohol or the cigarette, but because of the illusion of being accepted. I thought, This is it. This is what it takes to belong.

But then came the morning after. And with it, came the crash.

Guys…I didn’t feel more loved. I didn’t feel more known. I didn’t suddenly become cooler or more confident. In fact, I felt worse. I felt used. Uncertain. Unsteady. And you know what? That night didn’t lead to anything. No inner circle invites. No lasting friendships. No social upgrade. It was like the whole thing had been one big test—and I never got my grade.

That night, and others like it, left me chasing an identity that was constantly shifting. Athlete. Cool girl. Youth group leader. Bible study queen. Every season brought with it a new version of me. And I was exhausted trying to keep up.

Maybe some of you are feeling me on this one. Here’s the tea: no matter how much hustle I put in, the payoff? Pretty much zero. I said yes to the hottest guy in school—spoiler alert, no magic happened. I rolled with the cool girls to the Steel Fab—still no magic. I even got the boyfriend and played all the parts—yep, you guessed it, no magic.

Honestly? This whole shapeshifting game? Total flop. No return on investment. But did I stop? Nope. I kept selling out pieces of my soul, hoping something would stick. And where it left me? Girl, I was up a creek without a paddle.

Alright, let’s land this plane and fast forward to the last couple years of high school. Remember that boyfriend I mentioned? Yep, my VERY first one. Well… buckle up, because it’s officially boyfriend season—packed with awkward glances, sweet surprises, and those oh-so-cringey moments that make for great stories later!!

Cue junior year—officially behind the driver’s wheel, 10 and 2 babe, 10 and 2; I was pushing every limit on curfew and embracing my independence like never before. It felt like a breath of fresh air, a chance to finally spread my wings. But with all that newfound freedom came a couple of unexpected twists that I definitely hadn’t planned for.

First up: your girl landed her very first real boyfriend—the whole awkward, sweet, totally-new-to-this-love kind of deal. And right alongside that, my one true ride-or-die friend—the person who really got me, accepted all my quirks, and had my back no matter what—graduated and walked out the door.

The SITCH was…she was two years older, and when she left, it honestly felt like someone yanked the floor right out from under me. 

Suddenly, I was standing solo, trying to figure out this whole high school thing without my biggest cheerleader. All the while trying to navigate this new “boyfriend thing.” Talk about a major shakeup, am I right?

The truth is, High school had already been one long, chaotic identity parade, but then—bam!—your best friend graduates, a surprise boyfriend enters stage left, and suddenly your whole world is spinning like a rom-com montage.

You feeling me?

Anyway, can we just stop and soak this all in for a minute—cue the confetti and gasps—because this, was my first boyfriend ever. Yep, you heard it, first ever. And you guys…he was all the dream. 

Beautiful eyes, floppy hair, and this emo-but-still-sweet vibe that totally wrecked me. He played guitar in a band—like a real band with a name and shows and fans and angst. And the name of their band? Drumroll please… 

Desperately Seeking Simon. I mean—come ON. Tell me that doesn’t sound like something out of a teenage indie rom-com that never made it to theaters but became a cult classic on DVD.

Um Yaaaaaas! 

As I spilled earlier, I had never kissed anyone before him. Never had a boyfriend. But with him? It was instant. We fell hard, and we fell fast. Within months, we were glued together. 

Looking back now, I think we both just needed something—someone—to anchor us. And for better or worse, that’s exactly what we became to each other: anchors. In a world that felt like it was spinning way too fast.

And naturally, I started dressing the part. 

Black spikey belts. 

Dickies pants. 

Chokers with spikes or webbing. 

Band tees from Jimmy Eat World, Ryan Adams, and Dashboard Confessional. 

You could smell the angst from down the hallway. 

But honestly? I was into it.

Because for the first time, I wasn’t shape-shifting for everyone—I was just shifting for one person. And that felt easier. Safer. Simpler. He gave me a script to follow, and I followed it. It was my escape hatch from the jock pressure, the party scene, the invisible-in-the-hallways feeling.

So while the world still saw the “me” who was juggling sports—volleyball, basketball, track—plus the church girl who was hopping on a bus for winter camp... the real me? The emotional me? She was sneaking beers by the creek one weekend after a volleyball game and taking tickets at her boyfriend’s band show the next.

The truth is…I was just trying to keep up the charade—trying to make sense of who I was in all these little micro-worlds. I kept shapeshifting to fit whatever world I was in, hoping something would finally feel like home.

And for a while, I thought that "something" might be him. So I dove all in—heart, identity, time, choices.

At the time, none of it felt dramatic or reckless. It just felt like the next right thing. When everything else—my friendships, my faith, my sense of self—felt shaky, he felt steady. Familiar. Safe.

But as sweet as it looked from the outside, the reality? It was messier than I imagined. Being “the girlfriend” didn’t fix the confusion—it added to it. I thought I’d found something solid, but looking back, I just added another layer of chaos to an already confused version of me.

Because even with a boyfriend, life didn’t magically sort itself out. I was still lost. Still searching. Still trying to figure out who I was, while playing a part in someone else’s story.

Here’s the thing: I thought he brought stability. But what I really found was a new way to disappear—just with someone cheering me on this time. He liked the version of me that bent and twisted to make things work. And I went along with it, because it felt good to be wanted. But looking back? I see now…I was building someone else’s life, not my own.

So if I could crash-land next to my high school self, all eyeliner and overthinking, I’d say this:

Dear High School Me,

I see you. I really see you...

I see the girl who’s juggling a dozen versions of herself, trying on identities like outfits that never quite fit. The girl who’s aching to belong but feels invisible in crowded hallways. The girl who’s desperate to be seen but so afraid of being too much or not enough. I see the tears you hide, the anxiety that feels like a storm inside your chest, and the endless questions spinning in your head: Where do I belong? Who am I really?

I know it’s hard. I know it feels like every day is a test you’re not sure you can pass — with so many eyes watching, judging, and sometimes not even noticing you at all. You’re holding onto so many conflicting pieces of yourself: the athlete, the church girl, the party girl, the girl who just wants to be normal and accepted. And you’re exhausted, aren’t you? Running on empty, trying to be all the things and yet feeling like none of them fit.

But here’s what your 40-year-old self wants you to know, straight from the heart:

None of it mattered as much as you thought it did. Not the parties, not the popularity, not the boy who asked you to Homecoming or the one you thought was “the one.”

Those moments felt huge because you were small in the world, but in the big picture? They’re just dots in a much larger story.

You were never meant to fit into someone else’s mold — even the one you created for yourself.

The real you, the one you couldn’t see through all the noise and confusion, was already enough.

You were enough, even when you felt lost and lonely.

You didn’t need to prove yourself to anyone — not the jocks, not the youth group, not the girl at the lunch table, and definitely not that boy with the Letterman jacket.

And those nights when you felt invisible?

When you wore your awkwardness like a badge and prayed no one would see your cracks?

Those moments were shaping you.

They were forging a resilience and a kindness that no popularity or party could ever buy. That quiet strength you held onto, even without knowing it, was your lifeline.

You’re going to make mistakes — some big, some small — and that’s okay. You’re going to say yes to things that don’t serve you, and you’re going to say no to things that matter. But through it all, you’re learning who you really are.

Spoiler alert: it’s someone brave, complicated, wonderfully imperfect, and deeply loved.

So please, be gentle with yourself. Give yourself permission to feel all the feelings — the confusion, the sadness, the hope, the joy.

You don’t have to have it all figured out right now.

Nobody does.

The world will rush to label you, box you in, and tell you who to be — but you get to decide. And one day, you’ll look back and realize that the chaos and the heartbreak were just the messy colors of a beautiful painting that you were creating.

You’re going to be okay. More than okay. You’re going to be stronger than you ever imagined. And most importantly, you are so deeply, unshakably worthy of love — from others and from yourself.

So hang in there, high school me. You’ve got this. And when you finally come through the other side, I promise you’ll smile at all the wildness and realize: it was worth every messy moment.

OK…now—can we just exhale for a second? Like, big deep breath in… let it go.

Because here’s the deal: God didn’t design you to chase likes, fit into every friend group, or edit yourself down until you barely recognize who you are.

He made you on purpose, with purpose, for a purpose. You’re not just trying to find your worth—He already gave it to you. 

You are an heir, royalty, co-signed with Christ Himself (Romans 8:17). And all this shape-shifting? It’s just noise.

Because the real you—the one God knit together from the foundation of the world? She’s not some backup plan or alternate version. She is the blueprint.

So maybe it’s time we stop trying to be the architects of our own reinvention, and start resting in the beauty of who He already designed us to be.

Alright… now I am going to point you out. So all my shapeshifters out there, this is for you!

That whole shapeshifting game? The “be-this-here, act-like-that-there” life? It might look like survival, but it’s actually slow-motion soul erosion. And at the heart of it all is one ancient, sneaky question—“Who told you that?” 

In Genesis 3, when Adam and Eve hid in shame, God asked, “Who told you that you were naked?” In other words: “Who told you something was wrong with how I made you?”

And friend, that’s the same whisper we still fall for today. 

Who told you that you had to wear a mask to be loved? 

Who told you you needed to mute your personality, or shrink your joy, or compromise your convictions just to belong? 

Because it wasn’t God. 

That voice—the one feeding you insecurity and self-doubt? 

It’s not the voice of your Father. 

It’s the echo of a lie, dressed up in trendy outfits and social pressure, trying to convince you that your original design isn’t enough.

Because here’s the truth: shame always tries to rewrite the original design. Shame says, cover up. Hide. Blend in. Perform. But God says, Come out. Let Me see you. I made you. We cover, He calls. We morph, He mends. We hustle to fit in, and He invites us to rest in being already known and already loved.

In 2 Corinthians 10:12, Paul warns us not to fall into the trap of comparison, saying that those who “measure themselves by themselves and compare themselves with themselves are not wise.” Isn’t that exactly what shapeshifting does? It makes us forget who we are, trying instead to measure up to who she is, or what they expect. But wisdom—real, grounded, holy wisdom—comes when we stop chasing everyone else’s approval and start walking confidently in who God has already said we are.

And don’t forget what Isaiah 64:8 reminds us: “We are the clay, and You are our potter; we are all the work of Your hand.” You don’t need to become a different shape to be beautiful. The hands that formed the stars are the same hands that formed you. So who are we to step in and try to re-mold what God already called “very good”? (Genesis 1:31).

So if you’re tired of editing yourself—of tone-shifting, trend-chasing, personality-flipping—here’s your gentle wake-up call: You don’t have to. You never had to. 

The original version of you, the one God designed before you ever showed up in a high school hallway or posted a single photo, is not only enough... she’s divine craftsmanship. 

She’s the actual plan. Not the Plan B. Not the backup copy. You are not a mistake to be managed. You are a masterpiece to be embraced.

And hey, Jesus didn’t die for the filtered version of you. He died for the real one. The one with doubts and dreams and days where everything feels too loud. The one that God already knows, already sees, and still says, “That’s my girl.”

So walk forward—not as someone who has to hustle for belonging—but as a daughter who already belongs.

If I could whisper to my younger self (and to every girl who’s ever felt lost or invisible), I’d say: You can morph a hundred times to be what they want, lose yourself in the arms of a boyfriend or behind the mask of someone you think they’ll like better—but in the end, you’ll still feel the ache of being unknown. Because no version of you, no matter how polished or pretty, can fill the void only Jesus was meant to satisfy.