DEVOTED TO BECOMING
Reclaiming the Pop Star Princess Within.
When I was little, I wanted to be a pop star.
And I think somewhere along the way, I lost the plot.
Dreams and possibility, daydreams of a glamorous life on stage, wrapped in sparkles and sequins began to be stifled and locked away in a chest under my bed that dared not be seen.
And it’s important to note: Pop star didn’t just mean pop star, it mean pop star.
It meant anything was possible. In my eleven-year-old definition, it meant I could have anything I wanted, be anyone I wanted: go to the moon, face my bullies, marry Justin Bieber. The world was my oyster.
The chest started collecting dust. Thick layers of it. Under my bed. And in its place, clouds of lies and limitations moved in their place. Whispers of quiet rules and “realistic” plans that changed with time as the box itself did.
I. THE GOOD GIRL
In high school, my box was simple: “the quiet one,” “the nice one,” the girl who went home instead of to parties. And I told myself I was fine with that. Actually, I told myself I was above it. I was morally superior because I liked studying and being alone and going to bed early.
But if I’m honest it’s just the part of me just decided: “This is who I am. And I’m not allowed to want more than this.” So I didn’t try to be seen. I didn’t try to be loud. I didn’t try to take up space. I made myself small…and called it being humble.
Small Enough to Be Safe. That was my first box.
II. THE UNDOING
Then I went to college.
And I left my bubble.
And suddenly my new box was the opposite.
I wanted to be the girl who questioned everything.
Belief. Rules. The version of myself I grew up with.
I dated people who believed nothing I believed.
I wanted to prove I could survive outside the world I came from.
And for a while, that felt like freedom.
But eventually, it just felt like… another costume.
Like I traded one label for a cooler one.
But I was still dressing for a role.
Loud Enough to Be Free. That was my second box.
III. THE GIFT WRAPPED GIRL
And then the internet happened. This box came with compliments. And opportunities. And numbers that made it feel real.
I became: “the fashion girl,” “the lifestyle girl,” “the girl who does cute little routines and perfect days,” “the girl who teaches people to grow on social media,” “the girl that…”
And I loved it.
I still love parts of it.
But somewhere along the way, I started asking myself: “Would I still be doing this… if no one was watching?” And that question messed me up a little. Because I realized I was starting to perform my own life, instead of living it.
Palatable Enough to Be Loved. The box I still struggle with today.
And still, underneath all of it, there was (and sometimes still is) a dull ache. A longing for something divine. For a kind of otherworldly freedom that would give me space to devote myself to dreaming again. Because I went numb from the busyness and distractions and day-to-day performance of being a person in the world.
I needed a space where my pop star princess could run wild: no embarrassment, no cringe, mistakes allowed and encouraged, a space with no weight of approval, no hunger for applause. Returning within to remember what a life lived in pure devotion feels like.
These days, I’m thinking about that chest under my bed again. I can see light cracking through the seams, glowing from the inside. And I want to open it. I want to uncover in the version of me that returns.
So I’ll ask you this: Will you be by my side while I do? And maybe…open yours too?
I will always follow your path Te Amo💕