The world was an oyster. But she was a pearl trapped inside.

The world has never made things easier for girls. And I, as an author, made it even harder for Margo. I crafted her as someone who needed to be perfect all the time. It felt fitting. What I hadn’t realized was her need to be heard and seen.

She was a ghost. That was the only explanation for why her struggles were invisible to her family.

Margo is strong and empathetic. She felt everything a little too much–joy, fear, rage, love, grief. The world had space for everything but not for her big feelings. She chose to shrink herself to be more digestible and acceptable.

Her nervous, shaky breath was like a house of cards. Her eyes rolled upward, lips slightly parted, her fingers tugged her hair. Her other hand clicked a pen with a frantic rhythm. Any of her classmates who saw her in that moment would have imagined that she was summoning some ancient spirit–when in reality, she was just going over a speech in her head that she had to give post lunch.

Then the pen slipped from her hand, and the spell broke. Heat crawled up her neck when she realized she had been lost in her head. Her classmates already decided she was weird, but now she was certain they’d see her as even stranger.

Her appetite seemed too small next to the pounding heart.
Lunch was over, and she walked to the podium like it was a guillotine waiting to behead her.

She gripped the mic and pressed her other palm on the podium. She kept her voice louder to conceal the tremors behind her words. Everyone knew her speeches always evoked feelings–admiration, righteous fury, laughter, unease. Yes, Margo was weird, but she was good at this.

“Safety,” she began. “I haven’t felt it in a while. In fact, I’ve developed a craving for safety.” The room stilled.

“People say ‘YOLO,’” with her voice sharp she continued, “but let’s face it. There is no YOLO for girls when death follows us everywhere.”
A rustling murmur passed through the crowd, but she didn’t break eye contact. She had practiced for this.

Her empty stomach churned, but she forced a smile.

“I carry death in my clothes and choose bear over men. Women are more snails than women with death on their backs. I stare death in its eyes on the walk home, in the dimly lit parking lots and brightly lit traffic lanes. Not a cloak or a scythe in sight, but I know death is after me. Every time I think I’ve gotten out of the clutches of death, I see unearned shame wear its crown and rule every woman I know. Will I ever feel comfortable in my own skin, and will my skin ever stop crawling? When dreams are too hard to follow, with death behind you, follow your demons. Let it slowly get you unhinged enough to be loud in places that thrive in your silence. Claw your way out of the shell and carve your place with no justification for just existing.”

Her speech ended, but the electric silence remained. A silence that was much needed to absorb the weight of her words. She was shaking but she knew damn well she shook them all with every syllable and truth. And then, like a fierce onslaught of rain, the room broke into applause.

She scanned the crowd one last time before getting off the stage, and her eyes caught the boy she thought didn’t know her existence. His eyes were wide with something that almost looked like awe. The feeling of accomplishment she felt wasn’t just because of him. It was because her hard work cut through the noise, and her words mattered.

Later that day, at home, she showed the trophy she won for her speech, knowing she’d be dismissed. And yet, a microscopic part of her wished for a very small spark of approval.

And as expected, a distracted hum, a flat unimpressed, ‘if this were math, it would have been great.’

Margo’s grip around the trophy and her chest tightened with all the swallowed emotions.

More than she carried books in her school bag, she carried her family’s unrealistic expectations and let them shape and shrink her. She realized she had never lived for herself. All she did was carry the weight of unrealistic expectations so gracefully.

And no matter what she did, she’d never be enough to meet their standards. She would never be the fantasy daughter they wanted.

A comforting breeze ruffled her stray strands.

It then hit her like a wave. She understood; no one was coming. No one would ever come through her door and give her permission to take up all the space that she wanted. As an author, I did not like where this was going.

She took out her journal and pen. Her fingers were smudged with ink as she wrote with tears falling onto the page. These tears weren’t a sign of defeat. They were purgatory. A release. A silent rebellion. She wasn’t writing. She was rewriting the script of life that was taught.
She got cozy under her warm blanket and wrote away the things she wouldn’t be anymore.
- A girl who shrinks herself to fit in others’ mold.
- Someone who waits for permission to rest or just exist.
- A puppet.
- A performer in someone else’s play
- Someone who is scared of eggshells

She wrote until the grief became shapeless and the ache became distant. The footsteps in the hallway didn’t make her flinch. She didn’t feel the urge to hide her tears.

She promised herself that she would love herself the way no one did and treat herself the way she deserved.

And as the author of this story, I knew I was screwed but I couldn’t be more proud of her. I wanted her character arc to go a different way. Maybe the boy from her class came to rescue her. Maybe a best friend helped her out of the darkness. But this was even more fitting. Yes, she was broken. That doesn’t mean she wasn’t whole or incapable of collecting all her pieces together to reshape herself. I love this for her. She deserved all the peace she was denied.

Her shoulders weren’t heavy or aching anymore. Because she had set down the weight of expectations she wasn’t supposed to carry.
She wasn’t a burden anymore. She was free.

The world was an oyster, and she was a pearl. But she was not trapped inside anymore. She found a way to crack the shell all by herself.