As I navigate my final moments as a high school senior, virtually the only media I’ve consumed in the last six months consists of indie coming-of-age films, multi-season sitcoms centered around the complexities of high school, and copious amounts of the song “Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac. My group chat, filled with my equally sentimental friends, has been a constant echo-chamber of anxiety-inducing texts that June 11th (graduation day) is fast approaching. These days, not a hangout goes by without someone tearfully exclaiming, “I can’t believe we’re seniors.”
There’s something profoundly sad, but nonetheless cathartic, about repeatedly self-inflicting nostalgia and bittersweet grief before an inevitable change takes place. Last week, to really twist the knife, I (Sophia) curled up in the purple duvet I’ve had since seventh grade to watch 13 Going On 30, a beautiful, effortlessly whimsical rom-com/coming-of-age film that embraces the universal longing to leap ahead into adulthood while simultaneously dreading leaving childhood behind.
As I rewatched the film for possibly the twentieth time, it brought to mind all the times I’ve cringed watching Jenna Rink dance solo to “Thriller” by Michael Jackson, how many watches throughout the years it took me to appreciate her messy eye shadow and tight bouncy curls, and quiet my inner judgmental Lucy. As I wondered what cringey juvenile personality would follow me in my transition into adulthood had I been in her position, thirteen to twenty-nine before I could blink, my heart sank as it dawned on me that I already am and will be a completely different person in this next chapter of my life, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Though I’m nowhere near my thirties, thirteen has never felt so far.
Like countless others living through their pre-teens during the pandemic, much of my thirteen was marked by the unrestricted chaos of running rampant online, stealing my older sister’s drugstore makeup, posting a shameful amount on Pinterest and TikTok, and finding vibrance and entertainment in an otherwise dull era of polarization. I wore bright shimmery pink blush by L.A Girl from the Dollar Tree within walking distance to my apartment, pastel plaid skirts from Amazon cycled through my weekly outfit rotation, and my mixed metal earring collection spanned so wide I could’ve gone weeks without a repeat pair. Every song I listened to was loud and indie (Dayglow, I still love you) and after I binged New Girl for the first time, I knew I wanted to channel my inner Jessica Day for the rest of my life. I screech-sang a mix of Hamilton and The Heathers throughout my household until my siblings begged me to shut up, I kept a consistent journal of affirmations, and pointed out angel numbers in every setting. I was unbearably loud, unapologetically political, and infinitely curious about life and asserting my identity; If 17-year-old me traveled back to 2022 and met myself, I’m afraid she would find me incredibly dull.
“I think we all want to feel something that we’ve forgotten or turned our backs on. Because maybe we didn’t realize how much we were leaving behind.” – Jenna Rink
Lately, through all the transition and impending change of my senior year, I’ve reflected a lot on who I’ve become as I make my way through the end of my adolescence, and made a conscious effort to pay homage to tween Sophia. I dived back into my favorite romance animes, made sure to apply more blush than socially acceptable, circled back to paper journaling (though most entries are just daily recaps and to-do lists). I’ve got tigers eye in my tote bag and carnelian on my neck, I’ve broken out my muddy watercolors and stiff brushes; for so long, reminiscing about my childhood had devolved into useless critique of my younger self. How I talked too much, walked with too much confidence, how I was chronically online, and shamelessly cringe. But I’ve realized that in distancing myself from who I once was, I’ve slowly begun to chip away at key aspects of my identity. I don’t think it’s fair to abandon hobbies, interests, and values from your childhood that shaped you as a person in exchange for a mainstream sense of maturity; rather, allow them to evolve and weave through the fabric of our lives as we grow.
As 29-year-old Jenna Rink throws slumber parties in her upscale New York apartment with the tween-age girls she formerly ignored, it’s time we invite our inner awkward, acne-prone, delightfully eccentric middle school personas to re-enter our lives. Indulge in the once mortifying hobbies and interests that flood us with nostalgia and a dash of embarrassment, reawakening the unapologetically authentic tween we thought adulthood demanded we suppress, and allow them to intertwine with the heavy themes of growing up.
“To being thirty (or eighteen). I’ve decided it’s going to be totally awesome.” – Jenna Rink
