This is my love letter to DC, because this place truly did build me. I found the posting on Facebook back in March, a little white brick house with some roommates: Tanner, Dylan, and Abby. Which, despite their androgynous names, all three were girls. It was temporary. I’d only be able to sublease for three months, they said over Instagram DM. But I agreed, still unsure of where my next steps would take me.

When I drove into Arlington for the first time, I played “Freedom! ‘90” with my windows down, a ritual I’ve maintained every time I move somewhere new after seeing Scarlett Johansson do it in The Nanny Diaries (totally underrated movie, btw). I pulled up and sent a picture to my parents and grandparents.

I never noticed our neighbor’s fig tree until one time I was about to go for a run and slowed to retie my shoe. Fig trees have always had a special place in my heart, maybe because, like so many young women, I’ve struggled with direction.

Sylvia Plath wrote in The Bell Jar:

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”

If you skipped that big chunk of prose, I’ll give you a summary: figs represent potential lives we could live out. Instead of picking a fig and savoring it, the author takes too much time deciding which to pick, and they all fall to the ground and rot, so she loses out on them all.

So many of us become paralyzed by decision-making. Of course, myself included. Especially for women. In order to justify spending our youngest, most precious years somewhere other than alongside a man or creating a family, we feel like we have to pick a purpose more significant, more “impressive.” But these expectations we carry are causing exactly what Plath is cautioning us against. Instead, we have to change our definition of success from doing what we think is right to going for what we want our lives to look like. After all, choosing one means losing all the rest. But not choosing at all means losing yourself.

When I looked up at my own fig tree for so long, none of them were ripe. It wasn’t quite time to get a full-time job, and it wasn’t quite time to change my career.

This summer was my shot. Either I stayed in DC and worked at a PR agency or another nonprofit, if I was lucky enough to get a job in the endlessly underfunded space, or I moved back to Georgia to get my Master’s in Social Work and become a social worker. Seems like an easy choice when you consider the pay cut.

Each time I laced up my shoes this summer, I had to face the same fig tree, owned by a lovely woman named Peggy, who was probably wondering why I kept staring at her house. I ran along the National Mall to the Washington Monument and pictured myself rushing to and fro between meetings. I ran through historic Georgetown neighborhoods and pictured my future family in the bay windows. I ran through the heat and the humidity and the rain and the spiderwebs…which may have swayed my decision a bit. Everything could’ve been laid out in front of me: a career in PR, a comfortable life where I worked to live and just ate for fuel and just ran to burn calories. I would be too busy for church on Sundays, but as they passed by one by one I would promise myself I could work my way into heaven. Next week. Next week.

Don’t mistake my introspection for arrogance, writing will always be my first love. A career in communications is noble, impactful, and wonderful.

But I was never going to be that person. I can’t help myself but crave something deeper and messier, after all I have a Substack.

I confronted each fig and inspected them, day after day, until they were ripe, until I jumped in and just ripped one off the vine. If I stayed here, and stayed working in a job to pay the bills, I’d forever be staring down another life just waiting until I could go back and change my selection. Like a kid who packs a healthy lunch and drools over his friend’s lays potato chips and oreos.

So I chose Georgia. I chose the MSW program, the pay cut, the harder road toward becoming a social worker. This new path will be challenging, but I will treasure it. I want to work on the issues I care about from the ground, not just write about them. Much like the garden beneath the tree, the choices I let fall to the ground and rot will enrich my soil. This summer I learned that I hope my life is not defined by the choices I didn’t make, but instead by the work I did when I decided to get my hands dirty.

Leave a comment

• I ran an ultramarathon, ruining my bright white shoes in the process

• I graduated college and celebrated in the most fun ways possible

  • Including but not limited to: karaoke, shotskis, and a trip to Hawaii

• I moved to Washington, D.C. for an internship with a national nonprofit

• And most surprisingly, I started dating someone, and I’m in love

  • Tell Caroline from October that, and she never would’ve believed you

I’ve since deleted my last post from the end of March, because when I read back through it, I felt so far from the girl who wrote it. Expressing your thoughts on paper is cathartic, but sometimes looking back on it is like looking at yourself through an inverted mirror. It’s you, but just different enough to be unsettling — like you’re in the uncanny valley, vision cloudy and confused. That piece was all about my fears surrounding the end of college. I was beyond discouraged, and I’d lost all interest in writing. But now, things are starting to come back to life again. Finally.

What all this change has taught me is that the future that’s meant for you is always on time. I’m a Christian, and my relationship with God has grown increasingly deep and dynamic over the past year. When I started giving my fears and worries to Him, my life was absolutely transformed. It felt like a cheat code to life: someone to talk to who would listen and create change out of thin air for me. But as I’ve grown in my faith, I’ve learned that the longer you trust God, the more trust He gives you back.

I always thought there was one perfect plan He had for me: a career, a husband, a home, all handed over on a silver platter. If I was just good enough to earn it, it would be mine. What I’ve learned instead is that God isn’t waiting for us to walk a tightrope to a perfect future. Instead, He’s transforming us into the people worthy of it. As I was deciding whether to jump into a new relationship or move to Washington, I was waiting for a “green light.” But one of my friends, whose faith I deeply admire, reminded me that it might not come. When I first started walking with Jesus, I needed Him to direct every step until my faith and trust in Him grew strong. Now, I know how to walk alongside Him in alignment. His voice and His values have become more familiar to me than my own doubts. While I’m not there yet, I know if I stay the course I’ll become the person He made me to be, the career and lifestyle will just be a side-affect.

Sometimes I get frustrated by how everything always works out just in the nick of time. It’s always stressful, always inconvenient. But I’m missing the point entirely: it always works out. It’s always right on time.

God-winks will reassure you that you’re doing it right. Take this summer, for example: I’m getting a life-changing surgery in September. While I was initially disappointed I didn’t land a full-time job, my internship ends in September. So does my lease with roommates who only had a room open for the summer. He’s cleared a path for me to take care of my health before anything else has the chance to complicate it. So while I wait for a full-time job, I’m trusting that, yet again, He will provide right on time. In the meantime, I will be thankful and rest knowing I'm becoming who He's already decided I'm worthy of being.

I remember vividly the first time I felt joy after the breakup. I was home for winter break with my family in Colorado. Each day was slow, sniffly, and miserable. Eyelids always sore from the tears and exhausted from fighting off memories every day. But this stretch of time allowed me to confront the pain and commit to healing. One day, I came in from a run and took a bite of a strawberry. And just like that, I actually felt a twinkle of joy. While I’d been in happy situations in the past months, this was the first time the feeling came naturally, in such a long, long time. Over time, these moments have been sprinkled through each day more and more. But I can remember a time when I didn’t have this cloudy filter over everything in my sight. People have come up to me saying that I’ve been glowing since the breakup, but why can’t I feel it in my heart?

My roommate and dear friend Natalie has been absolutely transformative throughout this journey. She was the first one who intercepted me crying through our parking lot after I found out about all of the lies. I’ll never forget her pulling over and ditching all of her plans just to sit and sob with me on the floor. A breakup survivor herself, her advice has saved me from a lot of pain and disastrous decisions. She and I were talking on our way to class the other day and I asked her about what it was like for her to “get her spark back” after her breakup. She told me it just happened one day, when she began to notice her baseline had become happiness, instead of fear or sadness. She played a joyful song on her walk to class and realized just how content she was.

I’ve felt frustrated lately that while I’m healing and putting time into recovering, my baseline isn’t where I expected. I’ve attributed it to other factors, like being about to graduate and feeling nervous about my future. But while some people’s sparks come back naturally and gradually, I think I might need to take it into my own hands.

There’s a trend among Gen Z called looksmaxxing, which is defined as “the practice of maximizing one’s physical attractiveness through methods ranging from improved skincare and fitness to, in extreme cases, plastic surgery.” It means taking any means necessary to improve your appearance. I propose to you all: joymaxxing.

It is time to choose joy and grab my own flint and steel and create this damn spark myself. I refuse to let my baseline stay this negative. It’s rooted in the injustice of it, that I was never supposed to be in this position, being single and unsure of my future. It was not my choice and not a future I prepared for, but there is genuinely nothing I can do about it. I’ve chosen to stop waiting and take any means necessary to reignite my life.

Some examples of joymaxxing:

• Strike up a conversation with anyone you run into or meet, even small talk can boost your mood

• Choose to listen to uplifting songs instead of shuffling your depressing breakup playlist...again

• Treat yourself to things that undeniably improve your mood, without feeling like you’re unjustly indulging

• Stop the doom scrolling and go outside (this is a personal callout)

While it’s a privilege to spend time, effort, and sometimes money to curate special moments, you will be paid back undeniably with happiness. This may not have been your choice, and it is not your fault. But in the injustice of it all, you can’t let what brought you down stomp you out completely, forever. So when it comes to getting your spark back, it might slowly light your way back, but sometimes you have to build the fire yourself.

Leave a comment

Here is what I have been told about myself: I’m going to live a long and healthy life. I would be an excellent mother. My soul is a deep purple color. I’ve been told I am career driven and motivated. Regardless, I am a hopeless romantic. I’m a big crier. I’ve been told I take good care of myself. I am a devoted runner.

These labels we are “gifted” throughout our lifetimes carry more weight than a fleeting comment in passing. Sometimes rude, sometimes sweet but uninformed. They feel special in the moment, as if someone has seen the real us. If told enough times, we wear these words like badges of honor, projecting outward what we’ve come to believe is true about ourselves. If we’re not careful, before we know it, our identities have been curated not by our own thoughts and experiences, but by the words of others.

The truth is that each of us contains a lifetime of memories no one else can fully hold. Every single second of life, living and breathing life, is unique. With sonder in mind, how could anyone dare to summarize a person into a few words?

The things that represent me are not how long I will live, or who I will marry. Matter of fact, I come from a long line of Native folk who died extremely young from complicated health issues caused by being forced out of our land for one reason or another. And while I once was a lover girl, I experienced a heartbreak so profound it permanently changed the way I view relationships forever. I may make a good mother because I had one, but I have never dreamed of having children.

For women, identity is never just personal. It becomes the blueprint for the worlds others build around us: worlds of abundance, or worlds of control.

So I am choosing to remain unfinished, ungoverned by anyone else’s words. The truest thing about me is not what has been observed or predicted, but what has been lived, quietly and completely, by me alone all in my mind. I am not a collection of compliments or a reflection of someone else’s perception. I am the grief I have carried, the land my ancestors were torn from, the silence after a heartbreak that never fully healed. I am every moment I chose myself when the world had already decided who I was supposed to be. And that is not something anyone can hand to you. It is something you have to keep taking back.

Reflection: This was a very enjoyable process to me, as I have always loved writing. However, the concept of reflection didn’t come easy. I had to untangle my own perception of myself to reach a conclusion I was comfortable with putting out there. The fact is in social work when we are discussing identity, we are discussing humanity, which cannot be labeled or put into a box. Through this process I learned that if I push through writer’s block I can find my inspiration through having a dialectic within my own mind and being critical of default thoughts I have or cliche conclusions. I also realized that the answers to so many questions like this one, are in the grey area with no black and white answer. I’m learning to love that about life. The more you learn, the more you realize you know nothing at all. But this internal debate is the entire point of this exercise and of my piece, there is always more to the story and black and white thinking gets you nowhere. I really enjoyed having the opportunity to practice the tools taught in class in such a creative way! I hope to keep up this practice and awareness of when others say things about me or when making observations about others.

Once in my Applied Politics class we had the opportunity to meet the Governor of Georgia. As he spoke to my class I felt that familiar catch in my chest, like the gears of a bike getting stuck, where I couldn’t breathe. Tears welled up in my eyes as I tried not to cough and held my breath, then slipped out the door in the back of the room, where I finally let it all out and heaved in air. I snuck back in hoping no one noticed, but my teary eyes did make eye contact with the governor as I sat back in my seat.

I later found out the door was in fact, not sound proof. Whoops.

I've been sick my whole life. College just made it impossible to ignore as it held me back from more and more. I’ve done immunology testing (result: crappy), allergy testing (result: everything), and had sinus scopes to look at my anatomy (result: hella deviated). But doctors have all summarized it with bad luck. Because of my weakened immune system, I don’t produce as many antibodies as the average person. I’m twice as likely to get sick, and my body struggles to fight off illness while simultaneously battling chronic pansinusitis and allergies to just about everything. I haven’t taken a truly deep breath in at least four years. And it’s driving me insane.

I’m tired of hearing that my anatomy, immune system, and environment are the “perfect storm,” because nothing about this feels perfect. It feels like being constantly waterboarded, and it has taken a tremendous toll on my favorite things, especially running, which is usually my escape. Trying to train for a race when you’re too out of breath to even cough is beyond frustrating. Going out and drinking, knowing you’re directly making things worse, becomes harder and harder to justify. Time and time again, I’ve had to press pause on my healing for the sake of college life.

After about 60 rounds of antibiotics and no real reprieve from sickness and sinus infections, my doctor has finally recommended surgery. I’m not saying all of this to complain, I’m saying it to remind others to honor their pain. For years, I minimized and made excuses for symptoms that caused real damage to my entire respiratory system. And despite everything, I’m genuinely thrilled at the prospect of surgery and finally being able to breathe better, at least for a little bit.

As women especially, we’re told to avoiding being dramatic and often toughen out things we shouldn’t. It is difficult to ask for help and advocate for yourself, but the alternative could be infinitely more damaging.

Don't wait until you're 60 rounds of antibiotics deep to start advocating for yourself. Do it before your body forces you to.

My senior year of high school will go down as one of the most overwhelming times of my life. I was going full speed on cruise control, flying toward graduation, until the wheels started coming off. Enter the eye twitch. Now, four years later, it’s back. My stress is seeping out of every pore, and I can’t seem to get out of my own head. Only this time, with graduation in 55 days, I have a deadline approaching that represents everything changing.

So how do you find a solution to something directly caused by exhausting your efforts? We’re so often overwhelmed by advice to “be present” and “take breaks” with no tangible way of implementing it. The guidance becomes too big to be practically useful. For type-A people like me, we need something more tangible and concrete, a way to actualize these abstract concepts that we can actually feel making a difference.

I’m writing this on the drive back from our senior spring break trip. It was a blissful five days on a cruise to the Bahamas with my closest friends (full review coming soon). I went in telling myself I had no choice but to recharge and that I would listen to the advice I’m always hearing. But whether it’s “living in the moment” or “slowing down,” these remedies never seem to stick, especially when preparing to take a week off adds double the stress beforehand. The week itself was blissful. Coming back, though, when I felt all the anxiety flooding back in all at once it wasn’t quite as sharp.

The most reliable relief from burnout doesn’t come from more effort or from better understanding vague concepts. It doesn't yield to force. It yields to the unexpected.

Laughter is one. Sleep is another. Your favorite song coming on in the car. Or for me this week, sun shining on your face after a very long winter. Call it gratitude, or call it being surrounded by incredible people, but the answer to burnout is collecting small charges and little breaks from everything around you. You cannot recover by doing the same things that caused it in the first place. Worry and frustration will only keep you there.

One of the wisest things my sister ever told me is that while you can’t always plan on things getting better, you can always trust that they’ll be different. Burnout is the result of a monotonous cycle and after a while it becomes a dull pain. Sometimes all it takes is one small moment to break it, or at least make it different for a little while.

You may not even realize how long you’ve been running on empty until your tank is full and the road is smooth again. If you find yourself gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles, or in my case, with your eye twitching, try to loosen your grip and let the contentment slowly come to you. Be a sponge to the goodness in your life, even if you have to complain a little along the way.

Leave a comment

This decision fatigue can keep us paralyzed while staring at LinkedIn and rereading our resumes for the fifth time that hour (speaking from personal experience).

The way I described it to my poor sister, who had been subjected to these rants on the phone, is that it’s like having a massive, all-consuming crush on my future. I can’t stop imagining what it might be like, how I would act if I got a job offer, where we could go together…just me? I might be getting carried away.

It got to the point where my roommates gave me a “congratulations on leaving your situationship” card after I quit a part-time job that kept postponing the post-grad offer they said would be signed next week…for 12 weeks. Yet regardless, I toss and turn all night with no clue as to what my life will look like in just two months.

This struggle is all confounded by my inability to decide what I want to do. I’m so used to my life being categorized and aesthetic-fied to perfection, but now I can’t even conjure up a job title in my head that seems to fit. It keeps me confused and stuck, and I know I’m not alone in this.

So how do we move forward when we don’t even know what we want? The answer, I’ve found, starts with getting clear on who we are.

In this decade of life, understanding ourselves is harder than ever. Each day I wake up and feel like a completely new person with different passions that ebb and flow. I even went to therapy my sophomore year of college, driven by the fact that I didn’t know where I stood on anything.

How was my day? Not sure.

Where did I want to go to dinner? Not even a clue.

Thoughts on the geopolitical climate in modern day El Salvador? Nothing.

Thoughts on the Oxford comma? I actually do have a lot of opinions on that one.

My values felt like things that were assigned to me, that I didn’t have the power to choose. Through talking through my feelings with an objective and trained professional, I had a breakthrough. I’ll save you the intake form and cost of those sessions and give you this practice for free. Below is a list of possible “values” created by researcher and author Brené Brown. Using a process of elimination, you can whittle the list down until just two or three remain.

Of course, it can feel uncomfortable to choose one over another, but to find your core motivators, you have to make some cuts. A good way to get started is by asking yourself what makes you tick. What irks you when someone else does it? For me, I get especially irritated when act controlling toward others, which correlates to my value of freedom. The name Caroline also means freedom, and people have spoken it over me my entire life, so it really resonates.

My three core values are creativity, community, and freedom. What are yours?

Having these values listed out clearly can help you make decisions. All you have to do from here on out is ask yourself which option aligns with them best. It won't make every choice obvious, and sometimes both paths will check different boxes. But at least you'll have a compass instead of spinning in circles. When that recruiter emails, when you're comparing offer letters, when you're deciding whether to take the safe route or the scary one, you can come back to these values and ask: which choice honors who I actually am?

For me, I desperately crave a job where I can create things and connect with people. I don’t know what that looks like or how long it will take to get there, but I know that if I keep these values close to my heart and in my mind, each day I’ll get closer. But in the meantime, if you wanna connect on LinkedIn or have a coffee chat leave a comment below ;)

In those early days, I craved the things people wanted to leave unspoken, that dark and dirty unfathomable pain that no one wants to talk about, let alone post on the internet. But all I saw was glow-up propaganda and messaging to exact revenge by changing your appearance. All the advice promised my life would suddenly get better overnight, but nothing felt further from my reality. I’m here to tell you, if you’re going through a break-up or a difficult time: you are perfect the way you are. You do not need to lose weight or get angry or rush into your “healing girl era” at all.

Instead, dive deep into the pain you feel and investigate it. Pick it up and stare it in the eyes. Inspect its depth and cracks and jagged edges. Over time, it won’t look so scary. It becomes something you can hold, something you can know and own.

One thing I wish I had been told is that every day feels completely different. Sometimes it’s a heavy wet blanket keeping you trapped in bed all day. Other times it’s a fire that drives you mad and energizes you until you crash. All of it is miserable, but all of it proves you’re still alive, still moving through it. The days will go by no matter what. You cannot force the healing, but you can give yourself space for it to breathe.

The hardest part is releasing control. You may never know why they treated you the way they did or why it had to end. You will likely be full of questions about where they are or how they feel or what could’ve been. Many people say closure doesn’t exist, I say do what you need to do to detach yourself from them again and again as many times as it takes. Instead of shaming yourself for being curious and shutting it down, vent to your friends. Daydream about what could’ve been until you snap back to reality, it usually took about 30 seconds before I’d recognize the fantasy for what it was.

Remember why it ended. The waves will come, anger, sadness, regret, and whether they make you mad or sad, take them as they come until they level out and eventually retreat. And when the pain feels endless, know there will be another side to this. If that thought helps you, hold onto it. If it feels overwhelming, then just focus on the moment. This is your journey and no one can tell you how to feel.

But my biggest piece of advice is to be loud. Cry anywhere and everywhere. Ask for help and share your story.

When I was going through my breakup, I felt like I was walking around with a huge badge across my chest that said “FRAGILE, DO NOT TOUCH”. I was oozing sadness and heartbreak everywhere I went. But this is the time to do that, to ask for help and receive comfort freely from others. You deserve the showers of love and hugs that will help you feel seen as you are.

When I was with my ex, I believed the hardest days of my life were behind me because I’d always have him by my side. Now I know the hardest days of my life are behind me because I survived them alone. I discovered a trust in myself I never knew possible. While time is truly the only thing that makes it better, embrace the pain when it is all you can see no matter how confusing or scary. And one day, when someone comes up to you with that same familiar soreness in their spirit and tears in their eyes, you’ll have something no one can take from you and no one can replicate, you have a story of how you are living proof of healing. And that is a gift.

I treasured our runs, though my dramatic streak didn't always show it. During my dad and I’s first 10k race together, I protested that it was “the worst hour of my life.” While it remains one of the hardest runs I’ve done to date (relatively speaking), I deeply regret my mindset at the time. I didn’t understand the privilege of running alongside my dad, the blessing of having a functional body, or the gift of choosing to run a race simply for the joy of it.

Running even brought me my first best friend, Eva. She and I grew up together, passing people during cross country races, laughing on the bus, and still sometimes complaining all along the way. Those countless steps we shared helped us process and unpack things that only the mental clarity of running could bring and forged a lifelong friendship. Still, however, it hadn’t clicked for me.

And it didn’t click until college. I stopped running during the pandemic and didn’t lace up again until sorority house life left me itching for time to work out my thoughts in the fresh air. It wasn’t until I restarted that I realized running was the great love of my life I’d been looking for. Seriously, I cried just as hard with my posterior tibial tendonitis as I did my break-up. Even alone, it was therapeutic to physically work through the thoughts racing through my mind during such an overwhelming time.

I started running with a friend from school, Sarah, and we developed a beautiful friendship, her positivity balancing out my competitiveness and me keeping us on a training schedule while she reminded me to enjoy the process. She is also the only person I could have (or ever would’ve wanted to) convince to run a marathon with me.

Cue the pain cave: The pain cave is a concept in endurance running where the physical and mental exhaustion manifests into just pure suffering. With every fiber in your body begging to stop and your mind trying to convince you to give in, you have to rely on your heart, your why.

I was deep in the pain cave during the Colorado Marathon. The first 17 miles are downhill through the mountains where I grew up which is absolutely breathtaking (literally) but so bizarre since there are no spectators. When we exited the canyon and reached the flat roads that would carry us the last 9 miles to the finish, I was exhausted and discouraged. I felt like I had used all my willpower to do the easy part, and still had so far to go. I was deep in that dark pain cave, but that’s when I saw it: my first ever running partner waving a big red University of Georgia flag to cheer me on. He was the very first spectator on the course, but it didn’t matter where he stood, he had been with me the entire race.

My why, my heart, carried me to the finish. Looking back, my happiest moments have taken place when my steps and breaths perfectly aligned with another person’s. The calming pattern of left, right, left, right is increasingly rare in a time of constant distraction. Running has gifted me relationships I cherish, countless memories, and time. Time to process, time to be present, time to choose.

I have sobbed on runs, yelled on runs, but the trail of sweat and tears that I left all come out in the wash. Everything is worth it for the sake of choice. What a privilege it is to choose to put yourself in such a hard place, knowing your heart will carry you through.

So if you are looking to start running, find a friend, take a deep breath, and enjoy the ride.

But I believe in social penetration theory, so to establish this as a safe space and demonstrate my expertise, I’ll share a few stories with you.

How about opening up your phone the first week of college to see someone posted a video of you kissing a stranger at a bar? Only to see it has nearly 20,000 views. What about sprinting around the dead silent library to film an Instagram Reel? Hey, at least I got paid for those views.

Just this past semester, I started taking a soccer class where everyone but me had played competitively. I wanted to live out my “Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants” dreams like Blake Lively and run around with my high-pony in the wind behind me.

What I got was more like “She’s The Man”. We were immediately thrown into a scrimmage and I didn’t even know which team I was on or what goal I was aiming for. Thankfully, no one tried to pass me the ball after I lost my team the relay race by knocking over all the cones while everyone watched. I could go on listing examples, but my cheeks are already blushing.

Subscribe now

I used to let moments like these destroy me. But while my ideas about embarrassment aren’t revolutionary, they are rooted in personal experience.

The conversation around whether or not embarrassment is a “choice” has held us back from growth.

We’ve been told to “just be confident” or “stop caring what people think,” as if we can simply flip a switch and turn off our feelings. But emotions are impossible to control. The more we hyper-fixate on denying ourselves the awkwardness instead of just embracing it, the more we stay trapped in a cycle of panic and self-criticism.

Here’s what I’ve learned: My mom is a nurse, not just a nurse, but a nursing professor, which means she knows her shit. I remember being blown away as a kid when she taught me that an itch was just low grade pain our brains couldn’t differentiate.

Embarrassment is a social itch, low grade pain that can strike deep insecurity while we try to brush it off and “don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry”. It is not a choice, but an inevitable feeling when you are growing. If you think about it, little kids rarely feel embarrassed. That level of self-consciousness begins to develop when we get older and start pushing boundaries, making jokes that might not land, trying on different identities, testing our place in the world as we search for our voice. The embarrassment isn’t a sign we’re doing something wrong. It’s proof we’re trying something new.

Dr. John Sabini of the University of Pennsylvania actually claimed the root of embarrassment is the social fear of not knowing what to do next, like when all of your friends sing you “Happy Birthday” around the dinner table. And if embarrassment is just the discomfort of growing and learning what to do next, then a lot of life qualifies. Especially in your 20s. By that same logic, ending relationships can be considered embarrassing. Saying publicly that “I was wrong for years” can bring up the same sensation.

But the benefits on the other side of embarrassment far outweigh the fear.

I chose to share the full extent of my breakup story, however embarrassing the details may have been (ifykyk). What I got back was more comfort and a deeper level of understanding than I ever expected. As others opened up to me, my trust in myself grew too. Honesty is refreshing in a time when all of us are trying to curate our way out of embarrassment. But true connection and trust are formed when you stop performing, embrace the cringe, and let people see you as you actually are.

While I’ll never be a professional soccer player, or probably even a competitive one, I really don’t care. And I guarantee others don’t either. These are just growing pains. I just hope I can emerge a bit braver and with new friends.

So the next time you feel that itch, scratch it. Post the unflattering photo. Tell the story that makes you squirm. Try a hobby you are unapologetically bad at. I promise, the people worth keeping around will laugh with you, not at you.

I grew up the most pink and sparkly diva in Northern Colorado and chased my dream of becoming a journalist all the way to the University of Georgia. While my chronic optimism and enthusiasm were tremendous advantages in sorority recruitment, not so much at the local newspaper where I started working. I quickly found out I was a bit too promotional for “hard news” and after years of editors asking me to “grab the reader by the jugular” or that my voice was too feminine for radio, I switched my major to Public Relations. What even is a jugular, anyways?

While at UGA I pursued my academics interests in Spanish, public affairs, and nonprofit management. I began working for the library as a social media intern and absolutely fell in love with it. The first few years were scary and intimidating, but I was in love with the process of growing and motivated to find my place at school. I also fell in love with many other things, running, the city of Athens, and a boy. A frat boy. Not the best first selection.

I fell in love hard and fast before I had even gained my footing and it absolutely consumed me for three years. But what started as constant daydreaming and infatuation, morphed into an obsession with trying to understand him. I went from being a hopeless romantic to an investigator. My questions and confusion were just as all consuming as they honeymoon phase was, and I can’t help but wonder if that is why I stayed so long.

When I had uncovered and exposed all the lies and the reality of how I was treated, I was initially thrilled at my investigative skills and satisfied that I was right the whole time. But the realization hit, as it always does, and I was crushed. Beyond crushed into dust, almost smothered out of existence. But the other part of my story I have yet to mention put me back together. They were there the moment I broke down all the way until I started to move again. My friends have nursed my heart back to (almost) health through countless hours of listening and supporting. They shared my anger and search for revenge just as much as my hurt and all the “what ifs”.

Now, six months out it is still on my mind and still stings in my body, but I can breathe again. And for a while, I didn’t know if it was possible. I am starting this Substack to be the kind of friend mine were while going through a time of change and heartbreak. So, here I am! Your friend Caroline (r) here to rant, answer questions, and hopefully provide some comfort in this mess we’re all growing through.

I am no Carrie Bradshaw (more of a Charlotte actually), but I plan to give some entertainment and food for thought along the way. Subscribe below if you’re interested in being my friend too ;)

Subscribe now