eighth grade.

When I think of eighth grade, I’m immediately brought back to staring out my bedroom window.

I’m on the phone with Isaac, the latest boy that my friend group had adopted. The last day of eighth grade had just ended, and I was home for a few hours before meeting my friends later for a sleepover.

Isaac and I had been texting for a few weeks (or days that felt like weeks…I honestly can’t remember) and in that very short amount of time, I had developed a massive crush on him.

“I think I might like…like you,” I blurted out.

I honestly don’t remember what he said after that, but it was probably some variation of “cool, thanks for telling me” or something equally as devastating.

There’s so many things about that day that I can’t quite recall; I don’t remember much of the conversation, I don’t remember how I felt, I don’t remember talking to my friends about it later - but what I do remember is the feeling I had later that night, being with all of my friends. I remember running around outside, probably screaming and doing gymnastics in somebody’s lawn. I remember so viscerally the feeling of unlimited potential: that summer was finally here, and we had so much time to do whatever we wanted to do and be whoever we wanted to be.

It was this crazy, weird, strange pocket of time where we were trying so hard to be cool and accepted and seen and at the same time totally, recklessly, unashamedly ourselves. We screamed, loud. We told stories really fast, with actions, and probably while telling 3 other stories. We were constantly telling people to “look at us! look at us!” and then we would turn red when they did. People rolled their eyes at us, and we didn’t really care. Except for when we did.

I feel like at some point, we find ourselves missing that version of us. The us that wasn’t yet tainted by a need to please your boss or always curate what you say and you couldn’t help but just be you. The eighth grade me would tell people how she felt, turn red when they looked, and then forget about it and run around outside for hours. She cared what people thought, but it wasn’t paralyzing, because she hadn’t yet taught herself to always edit her personality for other people.

I feel like I catch glimpses of her at times. It’s usually pretty fast, like if I blink I’ll miss her entirely. But I see her in moments when I’m standing my ground and speaking without thinking, feeling totally at home and totally out of place.