Once Upon a Time…

… A girl was successful, but only a little.

She had worked hard – too hard. But had not gained acclaim. Some wouldn’t call that success at all.

Her resolve was fading, her morale sinking lower than ever before. The pursuit of happiness touted about in historical manuscripts from long ago seemed little more than an unrealistic fantasy thrown in her face by well-meaning adults without a sense of her internal brokenness. An invisible silent bleeding of the soul that could not be diagnosed.

The unknown abyss of the future stretched before her. Averting her eyes from its toxic atmosphere, she looked down at her own feet planted firmly in the present, and wondered how to shake them from the adhesive grip of the past.

She wanted to move on, but didn’t know how. Needing to be set free from her own lofty expectations, her own goals floated around her – jeering and snarling with sharp and expectant teeth. As her own dreams loomed closer, they became nightmares, filling her with dread of what was to come, and trapping convictions of inadequacy in her mind.

Pressured to grow up too fast, never quite allowed to be truly young, she grimaced at the wasted time and regretted those who slowly dragged her into this relentless quicksand of her own inadvertent design.

Clinging in desperation to the familiar but wanting something new, the girl grew up in consciousness but remained young in body. The chasm between the passage of time and her internal age grew in width and depth with the passing of time. She wondered how long it had been since she’d allowed herself to appear the way she truly was, without judging herself or allowing her elders to make her feel anything less than ideal.

“You have the resume of a 40-year-old, you should be so proud.”

“Most people haven’t published a book, let alone four.”

Why can’t you be happy with all that you’ve done?”

As the words of those who meant well swam around in her long-since-battle-scarred psyche, she wondered why she couldn’t just “be happy” the way they said she should. 

Maybe it was because she was broken down for so long, and she became abnormally ambitious in order to appear big.

Maybe it was the pain, or the loneliness, or the worry that her own eclectic tastes in music and punk fashion would alienate the very same people she wished to befriend.

Little did she know, that it was those very interests and tastes that would draw the true companions closer to her side. And that anyone who didn’t understand her or didn’t even try to, wasn’t worth her time. That the beautiful lead guitarist in the band just wasn’t meant for her, and that was okay. No matter how many times she pleaded, begged, and tried to change, it didn’t matter. More specifically, he didn’t matter. 


With this realization, she became stoic and strong. She grew at a healthier pace from the inside out. Unflaggingly secure in who she was and the way she wanted to perceive all the uncertainty of the future, she began to slowly lift her feet out of the insecurities trapping her in the past. With not doubt, there would someday be a boy who would catch her eye and keep it. He might break her heart, but he’d also be the one to mend it.  The pain would subside, the tension would abate. It was only a matter of time.

So what did she do? She dyed. her. hair. PINK.


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Author: Angelina Singer

Magna Cum Laude graduate who studied English, Music, and of course, Creative writing. For me, writing is an escape as well as a coping mechanism.

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