Hey Kaleigh!

Tag: life

  • Who Are You?

    Image from iStock

    This isn’t polished, it’s a mood. I’m having a weird day full of writer’s block and asking myself too many questions.

    Sometimes, I have these days where I feel like I am just meeting myself for the first time. I lose sight of who I am. I neglect my emotions and clumsily set myself up for something awkward. These moments come out of nowhere and I suddenly feel like a stranger in my own body.

    Sometimes it is an angsty speech. 

    Sometimes it is the awe of a beautiful moment.

    Sometimes it is peace that causes me to get lost.

    Regardless, I still find myself wondering: Who are you, Kaleigh?

    I’ve never claimed to be traditional. But I believe each day shapes me. Sculpting me into who I am and who I am meant to become.

    My Inner Monologue

    When my personality blooms, I feel amplified – like this heightened charisma will allow me to be seen. Like I am improving and attracting myself to the life I daydream about. But then comes the struggle: I said something charming. But am I charming?

    I want to be that alluring girl with “bedroom eyes” who always knows what to say. But instead I’ve had boys on dating apps tell me I have crazy eyes. I laugh too hard at my own jokes. I talk too much instead of using my mouth for other things. I fumble.

    Is it worth it to put so much effort into trying to walk this impossible line: 

    Being a girlboss, but not too bossy.

    The first time I saw the Barbie movie, I sat in the theater stunned. Because for years, I have carried this backpack full of burdens. Invisible, but heavy. Hearing my inner monologue reminds me that I hold on to all of my anxieties.

    The voice is always there: self-correcting and self-defeating.

    She reminds me that no matter how I grow, I’m still afraid. 

    But maybe the unraveling is the becoming.

    Maybe it’s how I meet the woman I’ve always wanted to be.

  • The Girl Who Cried in the Justice Fitting Room

    Some of us are healthier than others. Some of us are totally self-assured. I remember all of my awful haircuts. I remember drinking a frightful amount of cosmos at a Mariah Carey concert trying to impress my millennial cousin. I often fail to remember that the whole world does not revolve around me.

    Life goes on. You may be amazed by the things that haunt you as time moves forward. But to me, time isn’t what moves – it’s you.

    When I was younger, my world revolved around One Direction. Life felt really simple. These were the days in which I played with Barbies and asked for “crackle” nail polish. My future felt like it would be a breeze; I couldn’t wait to get older. Elementary school eventually flurried by. Rather than being excited to be older and wiser, I began to feel insecure.

    Then came Middle School and I grew even more self-conscious. This era brought new friendships and a new agenda: comparing myself to my friends. I experimented with the bathroom scale. I cursed myself in a Justice fitting room for having cellulite (even if I didn’t know the word for it yet).

    At this time, I coyly began to understand who I was, and I didn’t like her at all.

    By high school, I had aced the art of pretending. I always smiled in photos, laughed in the right places, and learned to quiet the voice in my head that always whispered: You’re not enough. I became fluent in the language of likability by dressing the part, saying the right things, and never taking up space.

    But beneath the mousy shyness and Snapchat filters, I was still that twelve year old in the fitting room trying to shrink herself into a different version of herself that might be easier to love.

    Now I’m trying something different. I am learning to unlearn. To recognize that maybe growing up isn’t about outgrowing your insecurities. Maybe it’s about learning to live alongside them with more compassion. Maybe it’s not about having it all together, but having a little more grace when you fall apart.

    And maybe it’s okay that I still wince at the old haircuts and compare myself to others and still forget that the world doesn’t revolve around me. Because I’m not trying to be perfect anymore. I’m just trying to be me.

  • To Anyone Who Has Ever Felt Unsure

    Image from Getty Images

    There is something complicated about having it all together. Not because it adds new stressors, but because poise can be a facade. It is you, your self-doubt, and your goals against the world.

    We live in a fast-moving civilization that constantly progresses us to chase bigger outcomes. We are handed dopamine hits disguised as transformation. But what if you still aren’t quite sure what you want? What if the revitalized act of buying a new retinol became less about “recovery” and more about the excitement of trying something new. 

    This is a love letter to those facing uncertainty. To the planned auto-payment on your car. The natural deodorant with excellent reviews but melted like milk on your armpits at the gym (sorry!). To the lilac-scented candle that fumigates your kitchen after you disgustingly botched a 4-step alfredo recipe and now your kitchen smells like burnt cheese.

    When we over-romanticize too much and fixate on the end result, your life begins to feel less in your control – it becomes living in autopilot. It begins losing your present self in worrying that your future isn’t good enough. It’s falling further and further down the rabbit hole. But it’s not about being complete: it’s about being real.

    For me, my bedtime routine is one of the few times in my day in which I feel in control. We are taught to be perfect – that being human is a defect. But it is perfectly okay to be blemished and a little vain. It is not greedy to selfishly love yourself. You are healing yourself in a way that no influencer ever could.

    So if you’ve ever felt unsure about your career path, your five-year plan, your skin texture, your love life, or what milk you should use please remember that you are not alone. Uncertainty doesn’t mean that you are lost. It means you are paying attention.

    Sometimes, you don’t need a breakthrough. You just need a moment. Lighting a candle. Washing your face. Cleaning alfredo sauce off of your stove while listening to “Unwritten.”

    You don’t owe the world clarity in order to be taken seriously. You don’t need to be perfectly polished to feel powerful.

    Even if all you did today was survive (and scrub alfredo sauce off the stove) that is enough. You are enough.

  • I Don’t Know About You, But I Don’t Know How To Feel At 22

    There is something frightening about getting older. I’m not talking about the crow’s feet that are already starting to form or the smile lines I have had since I was a teen (although my 0.3ml of lip filler would tell you that I am a little scared). I mean the feeling that I have to sit with. My memories. My girlhood is beginning to fade into womanhood – yet I don’t know which box I fit into.

    This is not just anxiety, it is existential dread tangled with joy. I am happy to start the next stage of my life. But I am so afraid. I turn 23 next week and cannot wait to see what the year brings; however, 22 was full of uncertainty. Of feeling like I am behind, despite being so young still.

    When I scroll through all the content that my Instagram bombards me with, I am in terrible astonishment of what my peers are up to. Everyone is experiencing such wonderful moments. While they are getting engaged and flourishing, I am still mousy and snapping photos of dazzling lattes that I ordered at brunch with my dad.

    Sometimes I am curious if they feel it too – the prying and pressure to make this all mean something. If they ever panic at 11pm because their fridge is empty and they still haven’t figured out taxes (despite being a math teacher). If they, too, hold their breath and question their milestones just because someone else got there first. I can’t help but wonder whether I am falling behind or taking a different route.

    This year was the year I learned to exist in the gray. 22 forced me to sit in many moments of not knowing. I let myself cry during my prep periods as a first year teacher and then laughed so hard that I choked on iced coffee. I didn’t develop into a better version of myself, but I did develop a more honest approach to life. More tender. More interested in what it means to grow without needing it to look good on camera.

    I still tried to glamorize everything, of course. I still decorated the little corners of my life: dirty chais and Pinterest moodboards and blurry photos of the sunset I took at Target with my mom. But underneath the filters, I let the real stuff in. The mess I’ve always tried to keep covered up. The fear concealed with a smile. The ache planted in my chest of just wanting to belong somewhere. And the small, sweet victories: starting a pilates class. Saying no with less guilt. Starting over and giving myself credit when due.

    So no, I don’t know how to feel at 22. But maybe I’m also not supposed to.

    Maybe that is what makes this age so hauntingly beautiful: it is the one where you begin to establish yourself, even when you are still unsure of where to begin.

  • Protecting Your Peace

    Image from iStock

    Protecting your peace means learning to show up for yourself – not by staying small, but by being scared and doing it anyway.

    I still have a lot of the same fears that I did as a child. They sneak up on me.

    But – I also started developing the self-assurance of the loudest, assertive kids who I desperately wanted to be.

    Protecting your peace is not about staying quiet.

    Most of us are afraid of public speaking. I stand at the front of a classroom, yap nonstop, and teach 8th graders without faltering each day – but, I am dreadfully nervous at places like the DMV or when it comes to making a phone call. Part of protecting your peace is acknowledging the things you are afraid of.

    I’m frightened of publishing my writing. Part of that anxiety is the fact that I know people won’t care about my personal essays. I love writing so I am not really scared of it. Instead, I am afraid of contrast – of knowing that some parts of me are unlike others.

    I’m afraid of having hobbies – I’m also concerned that I am not interesting enough. Again, my concern is merely what people think. I’m concerned that I am either too much or not enough. I’m afraid of feeling dull.

    But these simple fears aren’t going to bring me any peace.

    The best way to “protect your peace” isn’t to stay silent or afraid. It is to bashfully conquer those fears at your own sheepish pace while continuing to strive for validation – but, this time on the inside.

    Sometimes I am frightened to walk down the street… because I feel like I don’t look good enough. To walk. As I dread, I don’t have time to awe at the other pedestrians.

    I never learned to ride a bike for the same reason. Then one day, I got embarrassed. And sometime after – about ten years later – I finally did it. It doesn’t matter.

    When I tell others that I like to read, I doubt myself. No one expects me to read Shakespeare for pleasure, but getting lost in a Booktok murder mystery doesn’t feel charming anymore.

    Protecting my peace means letting myself become engrossed in the book, anyway. Because I like it.

    Protecting your peace means reading what you love, walking how you please, and living to impress no one but yourself.

  • Let Them Wonder About You

    Image from Jobeth McElhanon on Pinterest

    There is a quiet kind of power in not having to explain yourself.

    Not everything that happens in your life demands a social media post to justify it. You aren’t indebted to anyone. Sometimes, the most magnetic thing you can do is to leave room for some silence. Hold yourself back, and let them wonder.

    Let them wonder why you controlled the urge to text back immediately.

    Let them wonder why your selfies hit different now.

    Let them wonder why your laugh feels lighter, like you stopped carrying some heavy burden.

    Let them wonder why you’re glowing.

    Reclaim the driver’s seat in your own journey.

    My mom explains everything. She will describe why she bought a certain brand of paper towels like she is trying to sway an apprehensive jury. She will apologize for trying new recipes, even if everyone adores it. I love her more than words can convey, but watching her justify every small choice like someone is going to question her hurts me. I’ve inherited this trait, too.

    It makes me realize how women are taught that being misunderstood is dangerous. That silence equals guilt. That mystery is selfish.

    We are trained to narrate everything. To perform. To clear up anything that makes us seem complicated. But some things are just for you. Some chapters are meant to be lived, not illustrated through a live-stream.

    Mystery isn’t coyness. It’s about clarity. It’s about what deserves to be shared, and what doesn’t. It is knowing that your evolution is sacred, and doesn’t require an audience.

    In college, I was bullied out of a sorority that I loved by someone I thought was a friend. Not in that obvious way with locker shoves and “you can’t sit with us.” It started quietly with eye rolls when I spoke, with group meetings that I wasn’t part of, and jokes about my eating disorder. When I made the decision to leave, I started narrating myself constantly. Not in a “woe is me” sense, but I thought if I explained myself enough, I could change the way they saw me. But I couldn’t.

    It took me a while to realize: over-explaining is like reopening a wound. You can’t keep hurting yourself hoping someone finally sees how deep the wound goes.

    Sometimes you outgrow the need to prove you’re okay. You just are. And that implicit, but wholehearted confidence? It invites people to lean in. Dig deeper. Re-read your captions. Explore signs of what has changed.

    Let them.

    Because while they are working at trying to decode your silence, you are busy becoming someone you didn’t expect. 

    Let them wonder.

    You’re not meant to be understood by everyone.

  • To Those Who Have Lost Their Spark

    I hate when someone starts to dim.

    Not because they aren’t good anymore, they are. Sometimes they are sharper than ever. But something has shifted. Their sentences feel hesitant. Their rhythm is off. You can tell they are holding their breath as they are speaking. As if their life has peaked before it has truly begun.

    I once wrote about becoming the wrong version of myself. Losing your spark is what happens when you live that way for too long. You go quiet inside because the version you are performing doesn’t feel like home.

    This is for those who feel like they have gone quiet. Not out loud, but somewhere inside:

    You still show up.

    You still smile.

    You still do the work. You still say the right things. You still nod at the right time.

    But something is quieter now. Not on the outside, but inside where your spark used to live.

    Maybe it’s burnout. Maybe you’re experiencing heartbreak. Maybe it’s the slow destruction of always trying to be everything for everyone.

    Or maybe you’re just tired of explaining yourself.

    I get it. It is a canon event — one of those inevitable turning points. Full of expectations and preconceived notions. The “build your brand” formula. This blueprint can crush even the strongest voices if you let it. You don’t even know what you’re doing until you reread your own work and think: Who am I? Where did I go?

    Either way, your once-bold voice has started whispering. Waiting on the edge, and wondering if it is even welcome anymore.

    It happens gradually, and I just need to say:

    You are not broken.

    You are not dramatic.

    You are not fading.

    You do not have nothing to say.

    You are in a hazy, in-between space. An area where rest looks like withdrawal, and healing looks like a lull. That does not mean you’ve timed out. It makes you human.

    So if this is you somewhere in between animated and exhausted: I hope you find your way back. Not to content. Not to “personal gain.” But to your voice. The one that hums when everyone else sings. The one that sounds like home.

    So give yourself a break, not more pressure. Not deadlines. Stop adding things to your agenda because you feel like you should.

    Because your sparkle isn’t gone, just buried underneath too much strategy. And when you are ready, even if your voice feels shakes, let it speak again. We still want to hear you.

  • Be Someone You Care About

    Image from StockCake

    There are days I treat myself like a second thought. I push through my exhaustion like it’s proof of my strength. I dismiss my needs with a light joke. I scroll until my eyes sting, then doubt myself through my FOMO. I fear my own body, prefer anxiety over joy, dread responding to texts, and call it “self-control” or “being chill” when really I am trying to escape myself.

    Somewhere along the way, I learned how to show up for other people. To check in, remember birthdays, send “let me know if you need anything” texts and mean it. I genuinely care – just not always for myself.

    But here’s what I’m learning (slowly and awkwardly):

    It’s not enough to just be someone.

    You have to be someone you care about.

    Not in a trivial, “treat yourself” kind of way (although that can be valuable too). But in a real, reliable, honest way. The way you would care for a friend who is quietly unraveling. The way you would talk to someone you actually like.

    Ask yourself how you’re really doing, and actually wait for the answer.

    Ask, but don’t interrogate.

    You don’t have to be your best self all the time. But you should be your softest witness. And your most cherished place to land.

    So today, I am practicing.

    Caring for me like I would someone I love.

    And trying to become someone I don’t regularly abandon.

  • I’m Not Her Yet, But I’m Trying

    Image from Pexels

    There’s a version of me that I hoped I’d be by now. 

    She’s achieved so much. She’s successful. She doesn’t just know what she wants – she asks for it clearly, confidently, and without apologizing. She walks into rooms like she belongs there because she knows that she does. She explains her emotions without ending each sentence in a question mark. She doesn’t Google “how to stop crying” at 12am.

    But I’m not quite her yet.

    Instead, I’m somewhere in between. A little nervous, a little burnt out. I’ve outgrown acting like I am okay with things when I’m really not. But I still haven’t become a pro when it comes to fully trusting myself and honoring my boundaries. I am learning to be softer without being smaller, learning to want things out loud. But some days, I don’t even know what I want. Only what I don’t want.

    So I am asking:

    How did you learn to have some more faith in yourself?

    How did you accept the real version of you over something you were performing? What helped you loosen up?

    I don’t need some ten-step plan. Honestly, I’d prefer an easy fix. Just some simple thoughts. The kind you share over lunch with your friends, chatting like time doesn’t matter.

    Because maybe none of us have it all figured out.

    And maybe that’s okay, too.

  • Be Yourself: Everyone Else is Taken

    Image from Pexels

    I used to think “being myself” meant being the most likeable version of me.

    The girl who recognized the right references. Who said the right things at the right time. Who could adapt her vibe depending on who was in the room. She wasn’t fake necessarily, just tailored and practiced. Curated. Processed, like an Instagram post that only needed one little fix.

    But somewhere along the way, the performance became exhausting.

    Trying to be chill when I am spiraling. Acting unfazed when I care way too much. Grinning and acting fine when I am actually crumbling inside. And I began to wonder: If I am not even allowing me to be me…who is all this for?

    It is easy to say “be yourself.” It is tough to actually do it. Because what if people don’t like the real you? What if the real you is too much? Or not enough? Or too eccentric, or nutty, or loud, or boring, or soft in places you were told to be hard?

    But here is the thing I am gently learning: being someone else does not protect you from rejection. It just assures you’ll feel alone even when you’re accepted.

    The right people will never ask you to shrink. They won’t flinch when you get real. They won’t back away from your softness. They will take you in. They’ll reflect it back.

    Being yourself isn’t about being impeccable. It is about showing up, blemished and all. It is about reclaiming whole parts of you that you used to hide because someone once made you feel like they were bizarre.

    And maybe it’s not even about becoming anyone new.

    Maybe it is about fully remembering who you were before society told you who to be.

    Because everyone else is already taken. And honestly? You are already incredible as you are.