Last night I had the realization that I am no longer a teenage girl. Something I identified so heavily with was just — gone. The fears, the anxieties, the things I valued, what made me happy: I used to pin them all on the same excuse. I’m a teenage girl.This is how I’m supposed to be. Then how am I sitting here, 20 years old, the same person with the same successes and struggles?

I am not a teenage girl. I’m a real person.

I’ve faced things that made me feel very small, and I’ve come out of the other side knowing that I am both more fragile and more resilient than I ever gave myself credit for. I’ve learned that the hard stuff doesn’t come with a trophy — just tiny moments of triumph that add up to something bigger than you expected. Ice cream with friends. A foggy morning. Laughing at the dinner table.

I love workout classes, clothes, and tanning. I scrape my rims basically every time I parallel park. I love my family, nostalgia, and the feeling of being exactly where I’m supposed to be. I’m learning to see the world not shrunk down to the details, but stretching out to the horizon — the whole vineyard, not just the grapes.