Hell is a teenage girl.

In the almost three months since my last blog, lots has changed. My love of lists, however, remains constant. Here’s the numerical recap of the past little while:

• Zero: The number of “fun apps” I have left on my phone. I deleted Instagram because I noticed I was using it to distract myself from difficult emotions instead of dealing with them or resting. Every app I turned to in search of dopamine in the coming days was subsequently deleted. Goodbye YouTube, Pinterest, Facebook and Depop. Whatnot, you’re next. Surprisingly, mobile games no longer tempt me. 

• Four: the number of times I’ve been on an airplane. Twice home and twice back. My trip back for Thanksgiving was spontaneous, but restful. My winter break was filled with crafting and cooking.

• 15: The number of days until I turn 20. The intersection of my birthday, Valentine’s Day and Ash Wednesday makes for an interesting evening. 

• 17: The number of restaurant reviews I’ve written on Yelp. I got it into my head that 2024 would be the year I became a micro-celebrity on Yelp. Any platform meant for reviews tends to get very negative, and I wanted to spread some love. So I leave reviews of places I dig, never going below four stars. I’ve even gotten really into taking photos of my food. Not to brag, but Yelp invited me to join their Elite Squad. Unfortunately you have to be of legal drinking age to join, so I have another year to to bulk up my portfolio before going pro.

• 18: The number of credits I’m taking this semester. I have no class on Fridays and only one each on Monday and Wednesday, so despite taking the maximum amount of credits, I feel like I’m getting away with murder. 

My last days as a teenager make me think about being a teenager, which makes me think about being a teenage girl, which makes me feel both melancholic and deeply grateful. In the last seven years, it feels like I’ve experienced every emotion ever, plus a few scientists haven’t identified yet. I’ve been in love more than once, been the dumper and the dumpee, been diagnosed with and treated for depression, gotten rejected from three colleges and accepted into five, pierced eight holes in my body and gone on antibiotics for one of them, and discovered a new faith denomination. I’ve watched my sister start high school, my mom start working again and my dad become the sole owner of his business. And this is all without even mentioning the pandemic that dominated my life from my sophomore to senior year of high school. 

(left) Sophia circa 2007 at a level of cool I have yet to match in the seventeen years since.

All in all, it’s been a wonderful and difficult decade and I’m sorry to see it go. As I reflect, I become aware of my reflection. Part of being a woman is constantly thinking about being a woman. The longest and deepest conversations I have with my female friends are about being female. 

Have you ever heard the phrase, “hell is a teenage girl”? It’s the opening line of the 2009 gory comedy/social commentary, "Jennifer’s Body," which admittedly I have never seen. (NPR wrote an amazing article using "Jennifer’s Body" and Olivia Rodrigo to talk about female rage). Have you heard the line “how I love being a woman,” from "Anne with an E" ? Girl math? Girl dinner? The Mental Load? The 2019 "Little Women" monologue? The "Gone Girl" cool girl monologue? The Margaret Atwood ”You are your own voyeur” quote? 

I remember sitting in a movie theater at thirteen and hearing Saoirse Ronan as Jo March say “I’m so lonely.” I remember sobbing so hard that I got snot all over the sleeves of my jean jacket and having to go to the bathroom to calm down. Because at thirteen I couldn’t tell if I was smart and ambitious and unique or obnoxious and boyish and too much. And I just wanted a boy to tell me that he liked looking at me and wanted to put his arm around me. But I thought admitting that made me weak. 

Now to quote a man:

"I am constantly trying to communicate something incommunicable, to explain something inexplicable, to tell about something I only feel in my bones and which can only be experienced in those bones."

Franz Kafka

Kafka hit it right on the nose. When I feel guilty about wanting to be sexy, or find myself on edge every time I walk home alone, or see my mother every time I look in the mirror, there’s nothing more comfortable than hearing another woman say, “I feel that too.” 

My approach to understanding myself and my gender is through intellectualizing, which is very Type A, and sometimes even unhealthy. I like statistics and I like literature. I think about how the average married woman does seven more hours of housework a week than single women. I think about how one in four women are sexually assaulted. I think about how teacher course evaluations are sharply biased against female professors. I think about how the southern Baptist church banned churches with female pastors from the denomination. I think about how the average female journalism graduate at my college makes 69.5% of what the average male journalism graduate makes. 

That is not meant to be a downer, though it is discouraging. Part of the reason I hang onto these facts is because I subconsciously think my experiences aren’t enough proof of discrimination against women. To suffer isn’t enough, you have to prove it. If you, like me, often feel a malaise related to your femininity, here’s some questions I would ask yourself:

• How is the media I watch depicting women? Are they confined to a specific archetype? I love a good rom com, but women tend to either be successful, sexless workaholics who don’t know how hot they are, or ditzy younger sisters, girl-next-door types who exist to be ogled. If you find yourself trying to squeeze into a box, take a deep breath, and expand. 

• Do I feel the need to define myself by what I consume? Have I ever called myself a clean girl, a messy girl, a vsco girl, a tomato girl, a blueberry girl, or a rat girl? Have I tried to have a hot girl summer? What do these aesthetics consist of? Primarily, things you wear, own, eat, watch and read. And sometimes, film yourself owning, eating, watching and reading. Mina Le made an amazing YouTube video on female manipulator, girlblogger and femcel culture, and how it essentially reduces women to an aesthetic. I highly recommend it.

• Are my hobbies primarily consumption? Yes, Pinterest counts. Letterboxd counts. TikTok definitely counts. What am I looking for? Does the version of myself I’m chasing (and pinning) exist? Or is it being marketed to me? I am not a consumption hater. But I am a creation lover. Making things (food, drawings, photos, bouquets, scarves, who cares) is so life-giving. Don’t use a template or an inspo image. Just trust yourself. 

• Am I collecting bad days and enemies like trophies? Am I starting to get used to the “hell” that’s supposed to be my teenage years? Misery can start to feel like quicksand if you’re not careful. It’s ok to let yourself have good days on days that the patriarchy wins. 

The best advice I can give is to invest in your female friendships. Love them as deeply as you possibly can. Swipe up on their stories with the intensity you normally reserve for a crush who doesn’t deserve your energy. Share your fears and your joys at your kitchen table until you’re too tired to stay awake. 

“In a society that profits from your self-doubt, liking yourself is a rebellious act.” Caroline Caldwell