Middle school me thought she was doing something. And to be fair, she was. She was in the trenches. Bangs freshly flat-ironed, Hollister hoodie zipped to the collarbone, putting E.L.F. lip gloss over her nerves and trying to survive.

She wasn’t lame. She was just delusional.

She believed 22 was ancient. I truly thought by this age I’d be thriving in some dream career, married to a hot, emotionally intelligent man who makes smoothies, and wearing blazers for fun. In my defense, I was constantly watching House Bunny, Pretty Little Liars, and Clueless. My dorky little self thought that my future was full of sunshine, an amazing boyfriend, and perfect days.

Instead, I’m accidentally soft launching situationships on my Instagram story, lying to myself about my caffeine dependency, and crying over post grad men who use the 🧢 emoji unironically. Or even better, randomly call me “Mommy” for no reason.

Let’s be real: middle school me would be horrified by the woman I’ve become. She’d see me hungover at brunch, scrolling through a text that says “yo u up?” at 11:43 a.m., and whisper, “Jasmine. We need to seek professional help. We’re not… okay.”

And you know what? No babe. We’re not. But that’s okay. That’s called life.

At the end of the day, middle school me was just trying. Trying to survive in a world where being a “cool girl” meant saying “lol” instead of crying, where getting a 95% still made you feel like a failure, and where “don’t be dramatic” was code for “suppress every emotion or die.” This is a girl who thought “boundaries” were just something you had with your WiFi. She would be mortified to know we now say things like “I’m not emotionally available for this conversation” and mean it. She used to Google “how to be less annoying.” Now I’m googling “legal things to do to a man’s car if he said he ‘wasn’t ready for something serious’ and then got a girlfriend 4 days later.”

She was overachieving. Overthinking. Overplucking her eyebrows. She wanted straight A’s, clear skin, and for that one boy to text her back “nm u?” She did not envision a future of waking up with last night’s makeup, touching it up, and walking into work not realizing there was still glitter all over her.

She was terrified of conflict. I now treat confrontation like a sport. I dare someone to try me before I’ve had caffeine.

She thought confidence came from being quiet, small, and agreeable. I know now that real power is not being afraid to eat alone at my favorite restaurant or texting a man “I’m not mad, just disappointed” and letting the silence do the work instead of begging for him to change. The girl I used to be would’ve clutched her iPod Touch and prayed I’d turn out better than this.

We didn’t become better though. We became bold. Messy. Unfiltered. Happy.

Middle school me truly thought early adulthood meant stability. I now know it means Googling “how many lactaid tablets do I need to take before eating a pint of ice cream” at 2 a.m. while telling myself “tomorrow will be different.”

She thought success was being perfect. I now think success is saying “no” without apologizing and getting through a day without texting a guy who fucked me over just because “I’m bored”. She thought being liked was the goal. I now live by “if he wanted to, he would, and if he didn’t, thank god because I would’ve ruined him emotionally.”

But I wouldn’t change a thing. Because she needed to be that girl – overly nice, lowkey spiraling, trying to be perfect – so I could become the woman I am now.

So yeah, she’d be shocked to see me now, emotionally unstable, chronically late, mysteriously glowing. But honestly? She needed to see that you don’t have to be perfect to be powerful. You don’t have to have it together to have a good life. And you definitely don’t have to be a people-pleasing overachiever to be hot.

She’d be proud. So no, middle school me would not approve. But she’d scroll through my Instagram at midnight and think, “…okay but she looks like she’s having fun.” And she’d be right. She needed this. She may not get it now, but she will… once the panic attack ends.

Keep Spilling Babes, xx.