The Girl Who



I guess you could call it personality disorder, but I believe there are multiple people inside each of us. Not just the person we are in front of our parents in contrast to who we are with friends, but actual different personalities. Perhaps the people we want to be or the people we dream we are. The people who have the exciting lives we dare to chase and the ones who find contentment in themselves alone. In each of us lies the people we’ve imagined ourselves to be, and in honor of discovering whom those people are, I thought I’d share myself with you.

I think it just depends on the day, but I believe there is a part of me that views myself as the girl who writes. Short stories, poems, and now blog posts are seemingly inherent to who she is. When she puts the title behind her name, she is a deep, thought-provoking individual, trying to capture moments and questions into words and phrases. She has glasses and pages of notes, secret corners for inspiration and a freelance mentality. She can name off her top ten favorite authors, and defend them against anyone who disagrees. With her scarf wrapped closely around her neck and shoulders, she takes on a style of Maya Angelou, with more wisdom about life than that of a gossip columnist. She wants to be a writer that gives value to some of life’s smallest quirks, and because of this, she hopes other people see her as that person too; as Celia, the writer.

Alongside the girl who writes lives the girl who paints. When she’s working on projects late at night, in her makeshift studio, she is unaware of reality, solely focused on her piece. She is an eclectic artist. Her studio reflects her inspiration and the ideas swirling around her head, sketches pinned to the walls, art supplies covering canvases and the floors. She doodles on the corners of napkins and keeps a sketchbook in her passenger seat. Pencils stuck in her hair and paint dripped down her tattooed arms, she is covered in her own creation. She often finds folded ideas and erasers in her overall pockets. She has discovered the difference between a mess and a masterpiece. The girl who paints lives in a world of pure admiration, both for her own work as well as the work of others. She is unstoppable.

This might be surprising, but within me is a young, independent black woman, the girl who don’t need no man. She’s not afraid to take her earrings out and get involved in a fight. (I imagine she could hold her own.) She smacks her gum, stirring sarcasm, attitude, and sass into her words like an overwhelming cocktail. Her tight jeans and lip gloss speak for themselves. She is the life of the party when she eventually shows up. Unaware of deadlines and curfew, she cares more about her social life than her school life and makes that evident in all her classes. Her friends call her Celi$ha. She’s a hot mess.

In the corner lives the girl who views thrift shopping as a treasure hunt, finding priceless vintage pieces next to worn-down and broken-in t-shirts. She finds a story in each of the pieces and works to pull them together into ensembles. She has a taste of every decade in her wardrobe as she purchases more clothes than her closet can hold. She is the Carrie Bradshaw of the thrift-shopping world. Nothing is new, but everything is new to her. She has flower crowns next to strappy heels; cut-off jean shorts next to sequin dresses. She hasn’t decided on her style, but rather lets what she wears define who she is that day. Her outward appearance is a reflection of her complex personality on the inside. She is indecisive and sometimes unreasonable, trying to find the balance between logic and emotion. She is a treasure-hunter trying to read her map.

Finally, next to the girl who paints, sits the girl who sails. She lives on a sailboat, regardless of the season. Her adventurous mentality carries her to all the corners of the world as she finds security in her passport and its pages of stamps. She is the first to volunteer, unafraid of the risks and ready to confront her fears. She sends postcards, but is often left to her own devices, ready to see the world at its finest. Her tan-lines and sun-blonde hair show her interaction with the sea. She takes in everything: all the people and the foods and the traditions of the countries in which she leaves pieces of herself. She finds home where she finds happiness, regardless of where that is. She is the definition of wanderlust.

I don’t know how evident these different people are in my being. Some of them are imaginative, and others are a much more accurate depiction, but I believe they help to break up who I am, as complex of a task as that may be. No matter how many different personalities may run through my veins, it’s nice to take a step back, and remember that who I am is not determined by my career, my title, my relationships, or my hobbies, but rather who I was created to be. I am learning that the difference between a mess and a masterpiece is the love in which one is created. You and I are masterpieces. Let that sink in. The hurt and the pain and the scars we’ve experienced only enhance our value. I am who He says I am and he calls me His Beloved.


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