Gianna Campillo ’25
My girlhood is fleeting, but my bedroom shields me from its conclusion.
Resting on my desk is a pearly white jewelry box. Its lid bears my childhood nickname “Gigi,” with each letter representing a descriptive adjective: G-graceful, I-inspiring, G-generous, I-intelligent. A heartfelt gift from my grandfather, it serves as a reminder of the qualities I wholeheartedly believed I embodied when I was younger.
To the left of this cherished gift lies a mess of purple yarn, composing the material for my latest crochet project–a hobby I’ve picked up again, rekindling my elementary school love for creating scarves and blankets. It’s not the only creative endeavor that’s lasted me throughout the years, as evidenced by the vividly colored beads and elastic string scattered on my floor.
Supporting this entanglement of handmade jewelry is my Hello Kitty carpet, who greets me every morning as I dazedly clamber out of bed. This beloved rug lies underneath my wobbly but perfect-to-me clothing rack, which exhibits all of my prettiest pink slip dresses and my grandmother’s Betty Boop crewneck and enables my ever growing tote bag collection. Above my clothing rack is a cluttered array of wall art, ranging from a Barbie poster to a pastel colored photo booth strip to a polaroid of me hugging my dog. My bed is perhaps my favorite part of the room, adorned with Squishmallows, which have replaced the Pillow Pets and Webkinz that once lived on the pink comforter of my twin-sized pull-out bed.
My bedroom is the embodiment of my girlhood.
A part of me is steadfastly reserved for nurturing and loving all the silly, juvenile delights that would have brought joy to my younger self. Sometimes I feel irresponsible spending an entire $20 on a singular Sonny Angel doll, splurging on a concert ticket to see a band I’ve loved since middle school, or treating myself to an unnecessary (but very necessary) thrifting trip. However, remembering my miniature self proudly sporting a pink soccer jersey or dancing to the Disney Princess boombox in my room makes every penny spent worth it.
I reminisce on my girlhood with fondness, but at the same time, I endeavor to block out the inextricable heartaches that accompanied it. Why am I holding on so tightly to a period of time that I’ve harbored so much resentment towards?
Hell is a teenage girl.
Girlhood is learning how to drive, becoming awkwardly self-aware that the way you look and dress matters to other people for some reason, and hyper-fixating on the same 5 songs every other week (most people just wouldn’t get it). It’s hoping that people like you at school, staying up all night either doing homework or dissecting a friend’s interaction with their hallway crush via FaceTime, and crying at every minor inconvenience. It’s feeling uncomfortable in your own skin, wanting to change everything that you are, and attempting to force some sort of profound internal and external transformation upon yourself.
When Cecilia Lisbon lamented to her middle-aged male doctor, “You’ve never been a 13-year-old girl,” she was right; girlhood is uniquely challenging.
Girlhood, or at least my own experience, was accompanied by a pervasive feeling that I lacked agency. Growing up within the bounds of a low-income family, I felt trapped by circumstance. With my parents sharing a single car, primarily used by my dad for work, I was left without any means to leave the house on my own. I often spent days locked in my small, shared bedroom, as I was, unfortunately, homeschooled in middle school. With no access to a car or reliable public transportation, no control over our living situation, no capacity to alleviate my family’s financial burdens, and no choice in where I could seek solace, my own room began to feel like a confinement. My high school years were further tainted by burgeoning insecurities of my appearance, self-doubts about my personality, and an unhealthy obsession with seeking external validation. I was unable to openly discuss my queerness with anyone outside of two close friends, and struggled to feel like I could express myself outside of my four walls. Teenage years can feel especially paralyzing; when you’re young, so much is out of your control.
Turning 18 was maybe the best thing that ever happened to me: I immediately fled across the country to start school and found close friends who I could confide in and share stomach-ache laughs with and practice eyeliner on and be girls together with. Becoming an adult allowed me to finally reshape my circumstances and exert the agency I used to question possessing. Now, I can define girlhood however I want to, and shape its boundaries so they are not transfixed. I can be a girl to the fullest now– the girl I never got to be.
My girlhood is transmutable, it’s whatever I want it to be–at least this is what I’ve decided since reaching adulthood. I think that’s why I love my current bedroom so much–once a place of confinement to my younger self has now been transformed into a source of refuge. The time lost to an anxiety-ridden teenage existence has been the catalyst for filling my room with juvenile treasures.
In late August, I turned 20, and the exit of my teenagehood might have left me in crisis (I immediately dyed my hair pink lol). This birthday left me with the desire to embrace the messiness that comes with entering my early 20s, a complex period of time where I can still be cushioned by the security of college life, navigating the young adult experience while I still feel like a kid–or a “tall child.” I know that this feeling won’t last for long, so I’m going to enjoy it while I can.
It’s strange how paradoxical growing up is. As a child, I constantly envisioned my older self as being much cooler and having more freedom, yearning to fast-forward to this stage of life. Since entering adulthood, I’ve found myself routinely trying to relive and cherish the simple joys of childhood. Initially believing that my girlhood is fleeting, I’ve now come to this conclusion: girlhood is a phenomenon which can transcend linear time.
These days, you’ll see me around campus, perhaps looking a little ridiculous, as I clutch my pink tote bag while being clad in various shades of the color. Everywhere I go, I take a little piece of my girlhood with me, usually in the form of colorful clothing, hand-me-down jewelry, or even the music I listen to on walks. And if you ever hear me referring to myself as a teenage girl….mind your business, thanks.
With love,
A 20-year-old teenage girl
