To the Girls I’ve loved

Girlhood is lace-trimmed and sun-washed, soft as peonies and as fleeting as fireflies. It lives in the shimmer of childhood summers—swimming until our suits faded pale by the sun, barefoot in the grass, catching light in glass jars, making wishes we thought the world would keep.

Kristen and I spent those golden days together.
We hosted ramshackle tag sales with our parents’ forgotten treasures, infuriating them but delighting in our enterprise. We eventually drifted, as some friendships do. But even that ache belongs to girlhood—the tender unraveling. The gossip, the hurt, the stitched-back forgiveness. And then the quiet realization that time passed, and that it’s okay to leave some people in the rearview, framed forever in glittering, cherished memory.

Nicole came with my early twenties.
We were on a pool league, sipping drinks and whispering about love between rounds. I remember when she told me she was pregnant with her first child, her voice trembling with something sacred. That age is so delicate—some of us were still heartbroken girls, others were buying homes and changing diapers. We were all trying to figure out what womanhood was supposed to look like.

Danielle always dreamed of motherhood.
Soon, she had four children, moved to Florida, and built a life out of that very dream. And another Danielle—(it’s a popular name, what can I say?)—shared jobs with me. She’d do my hair with a kind of gentle reverence, that pure feminine energy that makes a woman feel safe. We’d talk about our childhoods, our heartaches, healing in little stolen moments.

Then there was Carissa.
She was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen—glitter and punk, eyeliner and edge. She made cool look effortless. I remember us walking in downtown Branford, and two men—far too old—called out to her. I was jealous, yes. But now I remember the look on her face, the discomfort. How she turned away.

Years later, she reentered my life after battling addiction and time behind bars. Sober and older somehow, though younger than me, we’d go shopping or make silly Long Island-accented videos to pass the time. I tried to hold on. But addiction has sharp claws. We didn’t speak in the last two years of her life. When she died of an overdose, I didn’t cry at first. I told myself I saw it coming. But years later, on a Zoom call with my therapist, I broke down when I learned she had no grave, no resting place. I wept a sea that day—maybe so I could float, find her, and bring her gently back to shore.

Sarah came like a soft breeze.
Years younger than me, with eyes that belonged in poetry. We’d dance through Friday and Saturday nights together, laugh until our ribs ached. Over time I watched her fall in love, survive unspeakable loss, and build a life that glowed with grace. It was often Nicole, Sarah, and Kate I’d return to. Maybe that, too, is girlhood—befriending sweet souls in your orbit, sharing seasons of laughter, but always coming back to the ones who feel like home.

And then, Kate.
She entered my life giggling, her laugh a melody I can still hear. We wandered downtown Wallingford like starlets in our own indie film, wrapped in the magic of becoming. She once took me to a hidden garden behind a church, where an angel fountain spilled water like a prayer. We shared our dreams beneath its hush—love, beauty, freedom.

Later, in our late twenties, we found comfort in each other’s everyday lives. She’d stop by my job just to say hi. I’d come over for drinks and sock monkey crafts, for beach plans and vineyard dreaming. Kate was always ready to find something sacred. She once made a vision board: love. travel. happiness. That was her essence, arranged delicately with glue and hope.

August 2021.
I was in Hyannis, Cape Cod. The air was soft and full of butterflies. I had just slipped past a group of protestors and sat down on the grass when I got her text. Stage 4 cancer. No stage 1. Just 4. Just the end. They weren’t sure—breast or liver. I stood up. The world shifted.

She kept it quiet. Only those closest knew.

In 2022, we ran off to Florida.
Art in Miami, tucked-away treasures in Boca, long drives, shared silences. Girlhood, even in our thirties. But now it carried weight. We talked about life and dying, her cancer, her fears. She said she knew breast cancer would take her. I told her no. I wouldn’t believe it. She looked too alive. Too radiant. We did a photoshoot under the Miami sun, and she was pure light. A woman glowing from the inside out.

September 2024.
She passed.
At her funeral, I watched the leaves fall like velvet from the trees, drifting gently onto her grave. The ache in my chest was deep and precise. This—this—is why girlhood is holy. The love. The loss. The bonds that defy age and time.

I’d do it all again. Every single friendship. Every secret shared.
Every laugh in the dark.
Every heartbreak, even.
Because girlhood is magic.
Even in the end.