The Girl That Loved Sunshine Yellow

When I was little, I was always scared that people would forget me—not like forget my favorite color, but forget who I am. Forget my name in their head, forget my presence in a room, forget the feeling of me. And as long as I remember, I always felt out of place and boring, like my personality was too boring to be remembered.

And as I grew up, that fear never left. It just moved. It lingered in the back corner of my mind like a shadow I couldn’t shake—the gut-wrenching fear of being forgotten… and the even worse fear of not remembering who I am.

So let me tell you what I did.

I twisted myself into this mean girl. This all-black, “I hate life” aesthetic. This sharp-edged version of me that I knew would make people look twice. I thought if I became loud enough, cold enough, unforgettable enough, then nobody could erase me.

And it absolutely did not matter to me that people weren’t remembering me for who I actually was—

as long as they remembered something.

Even if that “something” was a miserable girl who wasn’t even real.

I carried this act for so long I didn’t even notice the truth: the one that was forgetting me wasn’t the outside world.

It was me.

Not only did I forget my personality and what made me me—no, I also forgot about that little version of who I am. The girl who said sunshine yellow was her favorite color. The girl who used to smile as wide as she could because she knew it would make other people smile with her.

And I stopped asking myself if all this was worth it.

If it was worth it to be led by some stupid fear.

Because that’s all it was: fear. Fear I did not need to have.

Because I know now that my life—and I—might not be perfect, but I’ll do anything for someone I love or know needs help. Because that’s just the kind of person that little version of me has taught me to be.

And listen to me when I say this:

If I am standing here today achieving everything I ever dreamed of, this 21-year-old version of me has little influence in it. I didn’t start dreaming—she did. I only walk because she ran. She ran so I could stand here with the personality and the love I have today.

And as far as I care, I should not care who remembers me or not—

as long as I don’t forget her.

The little me that dreamed big.

So please, dear reader, I am not saying this lightly: do not forget who you were as a kid. Do not forget who started your journey. Because the little versions of ourselves are the ones that planted the seeds for us to be able to be who we are today.

And we should all try—really try—to make those versions of ourselves the proudest of the version we are now.

Yours truly 🤍