Who I Became After I Left

I’m currently in a place in my twenties where I finally have the ability—and the emotional capacity—to go back and visit my childhood small town on the East Coast.

It’s something I didn’t think I would ever feel ready for. I didn’t have the greatest experience growing up there, and that’s a whole can of worms I’m still unpacking. Anything from racism, assault, prejudice, and a very consistent lack of community and support system, to just overall growing up in a place that didn’t have a lot of culture, diversity, or exposure to different walks of life. It was a very small town—East Coast countryside small town energy, if you know what I mean—and I felt that limitation deeply even before I had the language for it.

I didn’t grow up around people who looked like me. I didn’t grow up around girls who shared my hair texture, my skin tone, my cultural background, or even the way I was raised. I didn’t grow up seeing versions of myself reflected back in a way that felt safe or normal. And for a long time, I genuinely thought something was wrong with me because of that.

There were phases where I was the “token ethnic girl” in groups of blonde, stereotypical small-town girls. Sometimes I was included just enough to be around, but not enough to actually be held in it. And even those moments of inclusion could shift quickly. The second things got uncomfortable, or the second I showed any weakness, it was no longer safe space behavior—it turned into something else entirely.

Looking back, a lot of what I experienced was this early form of performative social behavior that didn’t even have a name back then. Before TikTok or Instagram ever labeled anything, it already existed. Girls being performative for attention, for social positioning, for the male gaze. Friendships where vulnerability was currency until it wasn’t. Moments where people would pretend to be your friend just to access your personal life, and then later use it against you. Situations where people would flip on you the second it benefited them socially.

And I don’t say that lightly, but it was my reality.

I ended up getting bullied so severely, with very little intervention or support from school officials or adults at the time, that I eventually dropped out of high school and got my GED. After that, I tried to stay nearby in some capacity—working, existing, trying to figure out what my life even looked like outside of that environment—but I didn’t really have the emotional or social support system to fully process what I had been through. And even at that age, I don’t think I had the language to fully articulate the scope of it anyway.

So I left.

I moved to Arizona when I was younger and ended up staying there for almost eight years. That became my reset point. My distance. My breathing room. And now I live a very different life—full-time on the road as a digital nomad, moving between California, Arizona, Hawaii, and wherever creative work takes me. My life now is travel, modeling, analog videography, camera work, music spaces, set environments, fashion, and working with people in industries that feel very far removed from where I came from.

It’s fast, it’s fluid, and it’s intentional. But it’s also sacred to me.

And the contrast between that life and where I grew up is something I feel more clearly now than ever.

I didn’t grow up with community, but I’ve built one now that exists across the country. People I love, people who check in, people who see me in different cities and different seasons of my life. And in a strange way, I feel more supported now—scattered across places—than I ever did when everything was physically close but emotionally disconnected.

At the same time, I’ve learned how to be my own anchor. That’s something that came from all of it. The isolation, the rebuilding, the starting over. High agency isn’t just a concept for me—it’s something I had to develop because there were long stretches of time where I couldn’t rely on anyone else to understand what I was trying to build or become.

Now, at 26, I’m finally going back to that small town.

Not alone this time, but with my fiancé—who is the strongest support system I’ve ever had. And that changes the entire emotional weight of the experience. Because I’m not going back as the same version of myself who left. I’m going back as someone who has built a completely different life, one that stretches far beyond what that place ever represented for me.

And this time, I want to experience it differently.

Not through the lens of people, history, or memory—but through the place itself. The mountains, the trees, the quiet. The nature, which is still something I deeply connect to. The rivers could definitely be better, but overall I’m a nature girl at heart, and I can appreciate the landscape now in a way I couldn’t when I was just trying to survive the environment.

There’s also something humbling about going back when your life has expanded so far beyond where you started. I work with artists and musicians now that, growing up, I would’ve only ever seen from a distance. People in worlds I didn’t even know how to access then. I don’t talk about it often—not because I’m hiding it, but because I’ve learned that sometimes explaining your life to people who haven’t seen it can shrink it in translation.

So I keep it simple.

But the truth is, I live a very full life. Concerts, travel, fashion shows, shoots, creative work, people in media and music industries, constant movement. And I’m aware that from the outside, that can sound like something else entirely. But to me, it’s just my life now.

And going back home puts all of that into perspective.

There’s something very grounding about realizing that I once came from a life that felt small, and now I live one that feels expansive—but neither invalidates the other. It’s just evolution.

I still feel moments of judgment coming up when I think about going back, especially because I know how I was judged there for being different. But I also know that those same differences are what carried me into a completely different life trajectory. In a way, I became exactly what I needed to become in order to leave.

And I think that’s the part I’m sitting with the most.

Not closure. Not revenge. Not even reconciliation.

Just perspective.

Because I found stability and peace within myself long before my external life ever reflected it.

And now I get to go back—not to fit in, not to prove anything—but just to witness it for what it is, while knowing exactly who I am now.

And I’m okay with that.

More than okay, actually.

I’m grateful for the distance.