IN MY HAPPY GIRL ERA

continuation

The moment I opened my eyes that morning, something inside me felt different. It wasn’t loud or dramatic — it was quiet, like a whisper that finally made sense. The air felt softer, the light kinder. Maybe it wasn’t the world that changed. Maybe it was me.

I’ve spent so long moving through days like someone watching her own life from a distance — smiling when I didn’t want to, saying “I’m fine” when I wasn’t, trying to be everything for everyone except myself. But lately, I’ve started doing something new. I pause. I breathe. I listen. And slowly, it’s teaching me that peace isn’t found in people, places, or praise. It’s built within you, piece by piece.

That morning, I looked at my reflection with new eyes. My hair was still messy, my eyes a little tired — but I looked real. Not perfect, not performed. Just me. I brushed my hair slowly, savoring the simple rhythm of it. There’s something powerful about caring for yourself like you’re something precious. Because you are.

I picked out clothes that made me feel me — a soft cream blouse, my comfortable jeans, a hint of lip gloss. I didn’t dress up for anyone, not even for the world. I did it because I liked the girl in the mirror. That was reason enough.

Music played softly in the background, the kind that makes you sway without realizing. I danced a little as I got ready — small movements, barefoot on cool tiles, smiling at my reflection. I wasn’t trying to look graceful. I was just free.

When I stepped outside, the sunlight touched my face like an old friend. It wasn’t just another day — it was a chance to live like I finally belonged to myself.

The street was alive: children running to school, traders arranging goods, laughter spilling through open windows. I blended into it all, but something in me stood apart. I walked slower, with a new rhythm — calm, certain, gentle. Like someone who had nothing to prove.

At the corner, I bought puff-puff from the woman who always smiled at me. “You’re glowing today, my daughter,” she said, handing me the warm paper bag.

I grinned. “Maybe it’s the oil,” I teased.

But I knew it wasn’t. It was joy. Real, quiet joy that doesn’t need to be loud to be powerful.

I sat on a low bench near the park and ate slowly. The puff-puff was sweet and soft, melting in my mouth. Across the street, a little girl ran after a butterfly, her laughter high and pure. I watched her for a while, smiling to myself. That was me, once — wild, curious, unbothered by the world’s noise.

I realized that I hadn’t lost that version of me. She’d just been waiting — under layers of expectations, heartbreak, and tiredness — waiting for me to come back.

After breakfast, I walked through the park. The trees swayed gently, the leaves glittering with sunlight. Everything felt alive — and so did I. I sat on a stone bench, pulled out my notebook, and wrote at the top of the page in neat letters:

> “In my girl era.”

Then I smiled. It sounded bold, maybe even dramatic, but it felt true.

I began to write:

> “I’m soft, but not weak. Kind, but not naïve. I give love, but I no longer beg for it. I forgive, but I don’t forget myself in the process. I’m no longer chasing peace — I’m becoming it.”

As the ink dried, I felt something in my chest loosen. Words have always been my way of breathing, but this time, it wasn’t about pain. It was about becoming whole again.

When I went home, I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazily. The room smelled faintly of rain and soap. The kind of smell that says, You’re safe here.

I thought about all the versions of me I’ve been — the girl who cared too much, the one who cried quietly into her pillow, the one who forgave people who never apologized. I used to be ashamed of her. But now, I thank her. She was doing the best she could with the heart she had.

I whispered softly, “Thank you, old me,” and something inside me healed.

I cleaned my room that day — slowly, intentionally, like I was resetting my life. I folded clothes I hadn’t touched in months, wiped down my mirror, and played music that made me feel alive again. Healing, I realized, is a lot like cleaning: messy at first, tiring in the middle, but freeing in the end.

By the time I finished, sunlight poured through the open window, turning the dust in the air into gold. I leaned on the sill, letting the wind touch my face. It felt like a quiet kind of victory.

My phone buzzed — a call from my best friend.

“Maryam!” she yelled. “Where have you been? You vanished again!”

I laughed. “I didn’t vanish. I just... unplugged for a while.”

“Unplugged?” she said. “You sound so calm. What happened to my dramatic bestie?”

“She retired,” I said, smiling. “I’m in my girl era now.”

There was silence on the line, then a soft laugh. “You sound happy.”

“I am,” I said. “Finally.”

After the call, I made tea — my favorite kind, creamy and warm — and sat by the window. The first raindrops began to fall, tapping gently against the glass. The sky darkened slightly, but instead of closing the window, I left it open. I let the cool air brush against my skin.

For years, I used to run from storms — real and emotional ones. But now, I let them come. I wasn’t afraid of getting a little wet.

Because I’ve learned something: peace isn’t the absence of rain. It’s learning to stand in it, knowing the sun will return.

I whispered to the window,

> “Let it rain. I’m not afraid of new beginnings.”

And maybe that was what my girl era was all about — not pretending life is perfect, but knowing that I am strong enough to handle it when it isn’t.

When the rain stopped, the world outside shimmered — pavements wet, leaves glossy, everything smelling new. I caught my reflection in the window and smiled.

This was me — not the version molded by others, not the one trying to be everything. Just me. Whole. Healing. Becoming.

I placed a hand over my heart and whispered, “I love you.”

Not for who I used to be.

Not for who I might become.

But for who I am — right now.

And for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough.