I’ve been thinking about The Virgin Suicides quite a lot lately. About the way the Lisbon sisters would lie about their rooms, clad in delicately patterned nightgowns and acting how people expect teenage girls to act.

It is said that comparison is the thief of joy, especially with fictional worlds and women that aren’t even real. However, I can’t help feeling a tendril of vicious jealousy when I think about them. I didn’t even like the movie that much! Maybe it’s because I’ve been lingering on my femininity for days. Thinking, no agonizing, over the pink that seems to be taking over my life. The multiple sewing projects and the long dresses.

But I don’t look like the Lisbon sisters. My hair is the color of chestnuts, my skin is not that maiden fair milky complexion, my hips seem to judge me. I think it’s hard to eclipse white girlhood and the girlhood of everyone else.

I grew up with a father that was similar to Mrs. Lisbon but so. much. worse. He made me pray for chastity when I didn’t even know what a word like that meant. I think my femininity will forever and always be linked with him.

Even as I put on my long flowery dresses, I think of the coquette aesthetic. The TikTok trend that is linked to the romanticization of girlhood but also to the patriarchal undertones of cages and control. I can’t be free of the oppressive weight of girlhood and yet I adore it all the same.

I love the pink accents in my room. How my toiletries are held in a Laura Ashley pink makeup bag. How meditative sewing is.

As far as an introduction goes: this is a glimpse into my psyche, I will write what I want and since you don’t know me, I don’t have to fear judgement. I am trying to understand myself better outside of the expectations that have been placed upon me. I have already shed a few tears as I drafted this so I hope you find some solace here.