Hey Kaleigh!

Category: Uncategorized

  • I Thought I’d Feel Different By Now

    I’ve lost years hiding behind myself.

    I anticipate how things will end before they even begin. I measure my worth by comparing my achievements to my friends. I’ve moved through unfamiliar spaces with confidence, while still doubting each step.

    And now…I’m here at 23, rambling on about how I made it this far.

    I don’t think I have enough friends, but making new ones feels risky. I’m still too insecure to put myself out there.

    I’m still intimidated by the older “mean girl” teachers at my adult job.

    I’m afraid I don’t really know myself.

    There are so many things I still don’t like about myself. I often feel like I need to explain myself, but deep down I wish I could just be unapologetic.

    I take things day-by-day because my brain is a vast spiral. I wish I was more intentional. I hope one day I stop believing every insecurity that crosses my mind.

    I’m frightened that I am wasting my life away. That I am living without purpose.

    And yet, I appreciate my life. Much of this joy comes from realizing that the ugliest moments have turned into the strongest lessons.

    Will I ever be kinder to myself?

    Is this as good as it gets? Am I missing out?

    Is my anxiety ever going to stop convincing me that mistakes deserve a full fight-or-flight response?

    Will this ever feel simple?

    Unfortunately, not one of these questions has an easy answer. The TikTok makeup tutorials aren’t going to make me prettier or skinnier. They are going to make me more insecure.This is a lesson I’m still learning.

    When I speak about my fears, I sometimes find myself hiding behind some kind of apology. I always find myself changing. Always convinced that something is wrong.

    But it’s still coming together.

    So I guess I leave you with this:

    Not everything is going to work out.

    You are still capable, even when you make mistakes.

    You will sometimes find yourself in some disarray. It’s fine. Life goes on.

    My life feels so chaotic, but something still leads me to think I’m headed in the right direction, so I’m trying to be a little kinder to myself. You should too.

    I am still figuring it out. But I am trying to reconcile who I am with who I am becoming. 

    She’s set on being kinder.

  • You Were Never Broken

    Image from Pinterest

    In total honesty, I don’t know if I’ve ever been completely content with myself. Each phase felt unworthy until it became a past to look back on. Now, I grieve for my past selves while desiring to become someone new.

    One day, everything will align at last. I will wake up and stop cringing at my childhood photos. Stop observing my flaws in the mirror. Stop obsessing over the milestones I haven’t reached yet and start appreciating the ones I have.

    I will be proud, not just of the things I’ve endured, but of who I have lived into.

    Today, though? I doomscroll through Instagram like I am searching for insecurities I haven’t unlocked yet. I admire others because they are so different from me. I am convinced that someday I’ll sparkle brighter, laugh louder, and love myself more gently.

    But it’s hard to get there when you feel emotionally broken.

    Still, maybe I’m not broken at all.

    Maybe I’m just doubting too loudly. Sitting still for too long and realizing that every foolish version of me still deserves to feel loved.

    Someday is too far away to start improving. Now should do just fine.

  • Your Body: Has She Ever Done You Wrong?

    Image from Pinterest

    My body isn’t chiseled. I’m having an awful day full of body dysmorphia and asking myself abominable questions that I know won’t give me mercy.

    I have these despicable moments where I am anticipating failure. I degrade myself. I minimize myself for the sake of being liked by others. I stock all my self-love in this dusty attic and I reluctantly unlatch the worn out lock sometimes. Only when I feel like I have earned it.

    Sometimes I speak to my body with irritation. Other times, with  awe of all that she’s done for me.

    I’ve looked at photos and felt detached from her.

    Still, I always cut back to the interrogation room: What’s wrong with you, Kaleigh?

    My relationship with my body is inconsistent. I shape her like an object, covering who I am with who I wish I could be.

    My body.

    The last thing I allow myself to love.

    I present myself as the “girl-next-door” with bangs and glasses and balance. But the truth is I hate being seen. I totally giggle awkwardly when complemented. I quietly berate myself while loudly adoring others. I make mistakes.

    These emotions always return when they are too hard to ignore. But I wouldn’t speak this way to a friend; why can’t I treat my body like someone worthy of love?

    I acknowledge this body, but forget to treat her like somebody.

    This constant criticism follows me: judgmental and defeating.

    It holds me back each time I try to grow. This scrutiny I’ve accustomed myself to scares me.

    But it’s impossible to flourish without feeling uncomfortable.

    Maybe I should take this as my sign to be kinder to my body. Calmer when there are parts of her I can’t control. She’s never done me wrong.

    She has carried me through years I wasn’t sure I’d survive.

    She has held her composure when I tried to make myself smaller.

    She learned my patterns before I did.

    She tenses when I am afraid.

    She softens when I finally let go.

    She has endured every cruel thought I’ve directed at her and still helps me get out of bed. She breathes, moves, and keeps me alive.

    So no, she has never failed me. I’ve just mistaken control for care.

    Maybe love doesn’t look like admiration yet. Maybe it starts as neutrality. As acceptance. My body is not a problem to solve. She is a testimony.

    And maybe the most affirming thing I can do is to quit asking what’s wrong with her and begin thanking her for surviving me.

  • Let “No” Stand Alone

    Image from Pexels

    This is my reflection on boundaries and discomfort.

    There is something daunting about saying “no.” I am not referring to the anxiety that is already building or the bruxism I have had since my teens. I mean the blooming feeling that’s almost impossible to sit with. The budding fear.

    Saying “no” brings me more than just anxiety. It brings curiosity. It brings the urge to over-explain, even if I am not being questioned. To hand out a neatly prepared excuse so no one will think I’m mean or selfish or difficult. It brings the generous reflex to make myself small so someone else can remain comfortable.

    Saying “no” feels like slamming a door.

    I’ve spent years accepting that my boundaries will always require justification. That saying “no” needed to be cushioned with apologies. Somewhere along the way, I learned that being agreeable felt safer than being honest. That my esteem came from how accessible I was.

    But saying “no” is not rude. It is not defiant. It is not a rebellion against kindness.

    Saying “no” is information.

    “No” is dignity.

    “No” is choosing not to defy myself for the sake of being liked by others.

    The unsettling feeling doesn’t mean I did something wrong; it means I am doing something right. It means I am resisting old patterns that taught me love was conditional and approval was something I needed to chase.

    I am learning that “no” does not need a reason. I am learning that setting boundaries is scary, but not scarier than the resentment of always saying “yes.” I am learning that every time I ache for a quiet “no,” I feel the relief of a more honest “yes.”

    And maybe the most alleviating thing I can do is let “no” stand alone.

  • Pop Culture Messed With My Sense of Self

    Image from iStock

    I am sincerely learning how to really show up for myself. It’s not by cramping yourself into areas you don’t fit into, but by generously giving yourself love when you cage yourself in.

    I have a suitcase full of fears today. More than I ever had as a child. This bag of fears sneaks up on me.

    Still, I initiated extensive self-help. This work hasn’t made me confident.

    Social media has made me insecure.

    I am guarded, but I am not careful with details. I try to stand without being finicky, tell drawn-out stories, and teach 8th graders explanations to questions I am still interpreting. Still, I am terribly afraid of driving and making the first move. The tough part of living in this age is constantly making access to your true self bulletproof, whether it is the strategic “no filter” filter or proofreading and second guessing the caption too many times.

    Pop culture taught me that identity is something to be performed. That if you create the right routines, the right lighting, the right character, you will find the finished version of you. It convinced me to measure my life in “eras” rather than focusing on the big picture. To reinvent myself when I feel tired instead of resting. I learned that I am only confident if I am loud, sexy, and feminine. And I am constantly falling behind.

    So I tried to become the girls on my screen who always seem so sure of who they are. The girls with the morning routines that feel holy, interests that look well on camera, clean-girl opinions. And somewhere along the way, I mixed up being perceived with being known.

    What’s ironic is that the more self-aware I became, the more fragile I began to feel. Once you begin to pay attention, you notice every little crack. Each hesitation. The place where you’re still waiting for somebody’s permission. Pop culture never readies you for the slow, unglamorous part.

    I think that is what scares me about myself. I am afraid of making declarations. It’s like I am saying, this is what matters to me now, without knowing if it will still matter to me in a year. I’m afraid of being wrong. Of being too sincere in a world that gives fake niceties. Of loving something so much only to embarrassingly lose it later.

    And yet, there are pieces of me that I still hold on to. 

    I still write. I still teach. I still speak loudly about what I’m still learning.

    Perhaps pop culture didn’t ruin my sense of self. Maybe it just hid it. Maybe all of the uncertainty and anxiety is part of the undoing. Like a necessary pause before I choose myself again.

    For now, that feels like enough.

  • Becoming the Person I Already Am

    Image from Pexels

    When I was a child, I chose pink as my favorite color and never looked back.

    And now, twenty years later, no one questions it. They just accept it. I accept it too, without thinking. But sometimes I wonder how often we move through life on autopilot. 

    Sometimes the kindest thing you can do for yourself is to pause. To soften. To sit with yourself long enough to ask the questions you’ve been avoiding.

    Ask yourself why you feel the need to overexplain.

    Ask yourself what brings you joy.

    Tenderly, let yourself hear the answers.

    And do not worry if you change a little each day. I worry about myself more often than I admit. Sometimes I think I’m too timid, too mousy, too afraid of being misread.

    Then comes the guilt. The feeling that sweating over your small crisis is immature.

    But some messes just show that a room is lived in, not neglected.

    You don’t have to be mysterious. You don’t have to speak in riddles. You are allowed to share what feels right and keep what feels tender. You are free to have your own boundaries.

    When I was in college, I tried so hard to balance who I was and who I wanted to be. Not in some dramatic identity crisis. It was questioning what I could and couldn’t share. When I felt ashamed, I constantly challenged the validity of my emotions.

    Eventually, I learned that self-interrogation doesn’t lead to clarity. It just builds noise. And once you stop performing the character you’ve been playing for years, there’s this strange, open silence. It’s like stepping into an empty room and hearing your own breathing for the first time.

    I think that’s the weirdest part of growing up: understanding there is no singular real you ready to be uncovered. No grand prize after years of quietly curating the perfect you. There is just the you who exists in the now, the you who is still being formed.

    The real you shows up in the thoughtful choices you make when no one is watching. In the things you gravitate toward without thinking. In the hobbies you keep coming back to, even when you convince yourself it is silly. In the way you exhale around the people who make you feel seen.

    You are not a performance. You are not an aesthetic. You are more than the pink-loving child or the adult who keeps answering out of habit. 

    And here is the truth: you do not need to find “her.” You already are her. She is the person you have been quietly growing into.

  • I Still Have One Direction Infection

    Personal Photo – Love on Tour 2022

    The adults snickered, certain it was just a phase. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.

    One of my first posts explains how One Direction defined my childhood. Losing Liam Payne last year unlocked something inside of me. Something that had muted itself.

    I still don’t know how such an intense, energetic child went so quiet inside. How time became so flimsy when the delicate child who adored those boys was shattered at 22 by a text from a childhood friend and a cruel TMZ headline that confirmed the worst.

    This is for those who are shakily struggling. Not facing some roaring problem, but something hidden inside. 

    You can still show up for yourself.

    Your smile isn’t gone forever.

    You still have so much work to do. The road is going to feel tumultuous. Something inside will still nod you in the right direction.

    Life hushes itself as you get older. Not obviously, but softly inside where your wild spark used to live.

    When you’re young, infatuation is unapologetically loud. Crooked posters taped on your bedroom walls, lyrics cringily typed as your Instagram caption, the strangely desperate wish that your mom would make a deal with 1D. It was a time of dramatics and earnestness and being so candid.

    Then 23 hit. With bills. A career. Responsibilities. There’s this idea of what I thought being a “grown-up” would look like. This isn’t that.

    But maybe I’m glad that loud devotion was never something I grew out of. Instead, it was practice. My “One Direction Infection” taught me to love others wholeheartedly, even if it hurts sometimes.

    When I remember the girl who never skipped a song, who watched videos of teen boys on stairs, who cared about five strangers like they were family, I realize she wasn’t silly at all. Her heart was open.

    And despite all that has come and gone, she is still in there. Still cheering.

    The world needs the love of a teenage girl. So here’s what I’m learning: 

    Bring back the posters.

    Rewatch the interviews. 

    Call your old friends. 

    Let yourself love loudly again. 

    Because if a band can hold a piece of your heart forever, so can someone real. And honestly, the world needs more genuine love.

  • Learning to Find Hope

    Image from Pinterest

    There are days where having hope feels like this fantasy dream that I half remember after waking up.

    I attack my thoughts of exhaustion with caffeine and pretend I’m no longer tired. Physically or emotionally.

    But somewhere in all the chaos, I am learning to find hope.

    Here is what I’m learning (gently, but surely):

    It is not enough to simply exist.

    You need to find a way to be okay with that existence.

    Not by repeating the mantras your yoga teacher preaches, though they can be lovely too, but in the way you carve time out of your busy week to meditate. In a simple, almost bland kind of self-love. The way you care for your friends without question. The way you would talk to someone, kindly.

    Ask yourself what your hopes are, and really wait for the answer.

    Ask, but don’t interrogate.

    You don’t have to be optimistic all the time. But you can be kind to yourself. And your greatest hopes start to feel within reach.

    So now, I am trying. Hoping that this practice of optimism will someday replace those moments of hopelessness altogether.

  • I’m On My Way, Just Stuck in Traffic

    Personal Photo Sept. 2025

    I always assumed I’d be there by now. Always assumed.

    I haven’t achieved everything I thought I would. But I am happy. I know what I want, I’ve joyfully researched the steps to get there, but things haven’t fallen into place yet. I cheerfully walk into rooms I don’t belong in, hoping one day I’ll find my place.

    But lately, I’m starting to doubt I ever will.

    Maybe the problem isn’t that I haven’t “arrived.” Maybe it is that I keep expecting it to feel like crossing a finish line. Like there will be some big neon sign that says Congrats, you made it! You’re enough. Instead, what I’m learning is that the hard work is the accomplishment. The trying, and showing up again even when it feels pointless, is what shapes me.

    And still, the world doesn’t always reward this kind of work. Being a teacher brings me immense joy that can’t be measured in paychecks or fancy titles. But on the harder days, when I’m exhausted and underpaid, it begins to feel like I’ve failed some invisible standard of success. Loving what I do doesn’t make the way that society undervalues it or treats teachers okay, sometimes the ache is heavier than I want to admit.

    The accomplishments are like rest stops along the way. Crucial, but overlooked if all I see is the final destination.

    A glow up isn’t always shiny. Sometimes it looks like keeping quiet promises to myself that no one else sees. Sometimes it is paying the pilates cancellation fee because I needed the rest. Sometimes it’s writing this, even after weeks of silence, and hitting publish anyway.

    So maybe I’m not lost; instead, I’m stuck in some traffic.

  • Finding My Voice

    Image from Pexels

    On self-censorship, restriction, and finally claiming the words that belong to me.

    Sometimes I amaze myself with my effortless wit, while other times I have to prove my power. The untouched canvas of my brain is actually a vacuum full of all the words I want to say, but am frightened to.

    It sounds soft, maybe even weak. But that’s the truth of it, my silence is often mistaken for poise when it’s really reluctance disguised as control. I wonder how many moments I’ve let pass because I put away my voice instead of spilling it.

    I don’t want to keep treating my thoughts like contraband, buried until someone else uncovers them. My voice shouldn’t feel like a performance or a test I can fail. It should be an extension of me, as natural as my laugh or the way I move when I am excited.

    So maybe this is me unlearning perfection, one sentence at a time. My voice doesn’t need to be shiny to be powerful.

    It just needs to be mine.