Girlhood is sparkly and brutal, lovely and angry, sweet and ugly. It's an oxymoron of an extreme degree. It's a time of self reflection, anxiety, social expectations, and exploration. Being a teenage girl in the height of Olivia Rodrigo's popularity has been an enlightening experience. It's provided a sense of connection to other teenagers, giving me auditory proof that everything I have struggled with is something others have struggled with as well. It's about the unity of her music- no matter how much hate Rodrigo is on the receiving end of, she provides a shining beacon of light to teenagers undergoing similar developmental drama within their everyday lives. The lyrics that have resonated with my teenage experiences is from the upbeat pop song 'Ballad of a Homeschool Girl'. In a tense tone, Rodrigo sings, "Thought your mom was your wife / called you the wrong name twice / can't think of a third line!" It's a somewhat ridiculous line in a song that is about social awkwardness within high school situations. This song has always held a special place in my life, as one of my favorite Olivia Rodrigo songs. The rhythm, tune, and lyrics have always managed to capture my attention, relating to my own experiences of social anxiety and high school drama. This specific verse resonates deeply within my life. It could seem stupid to someone who can't relate to it, as does teenage hood. The phrase "Thought your mom was your wife," is about social awkwardness, something that I have experienced. I tend to amplify my own mistakes in my mind due to my anxiety disorder, leaving me with sense of dread about seemingly normal social situations. I remember being six years old and hugging someone I thought was my mom, due to her looking the same as my mother from the back. It left a lingering feeling of ineptitude, like I'd never manage to feel as comfortable interacting with other people as those around me seem to. This part of the song invokes that feeling; it's like I'm six years old with that unwavering faith when I hear it, positive in my actions only to be disproven. The following verse in the song, "called you the wrong name twice," has a similar message of awkwardness and fear. It's about not learning from your mistakes when you know you should, about getting it wrong when you know you should get it right this time. It describes the shame of feeling like you've irreparably messed up, even when you know it's just a small thing, like getting someone's name wrong. It feels big, when you are young and don't have much to compare it too. It feels big, when you are young and it feels like your life is a Jenga tower that will all come crashing down soon enough. The next verse, 'can't think of a third line," is a verse that can sound like Rodrigo is being honest and silly. Looking at it deeper, it can be thought of as a cry for help. She is struggling so much with her self and her feelings of worthlessness that she can't finish a thought that she's spent the entire song trying to summarize. Olivia Rodrigo has had a major on many teenagers lives including my own. She has built a community connected around the feeling of being a part of something bigger than herself. Through her brilliant lyricism, she depicts the conflicted thoughts and feelings of her teenage demographic, giving them a voice in a time where they are struggling to find their own.

I have never wanted to kill myself. Here I am, sixteen years old and preparing for college, doing better and worse then I ever have before, and I don't want to kill myself. It's a good thing. It's wonderful thing. Yet, I am sixteen years old with a diagnosis of anxiety and depression, and it feels alienating to be okay with that. There's this culture around mental health, and it is to do everything you can to not kill yourself. What about when you have never been to that low of a point? What happens when you are on this cliff, this brink of existence, teetering between a magnificent, glowing hope and the anger and deep sadness that spirals into a breakdown? My name is Sarah Garrison, and this is a balance beam I have been wobbling along for a long time. Growing up, I was the kind of kid teachers discussed as being 'sensitive'. I was in the gifted program and got good grades, so no one was too concerned. Sure, I cried at the drop of a pen, and sure and sure, I spent all of my waking hours making my way through the school libraries selection, but what did it matter? I wasn't disruptive. Reading was an escape for me. Books were something I understood. My siblings teased me all the time, and as a sensitive kid who couldn't understand tone, it usually ended in yelling and tears. It's always been frustrating to me, feeling like I have so much to say but there is no one who will listen to me. It's like my issues have always been just fine enough to be brushed off. I may have been a child who didn't like being home because of the fighting, but it wasn't my parents who fought. It was my siblings, who are all within five years of age. I may have always struggled with anxiety attacks, executive dysfunction, alienating mood swings, and social ineptness, but I have never been suicidal. I thought that there was something wrong with me for a long time. In middle school, everyone was struggling as well. It was the times of the Covid-19 lockdown, and it felt like I was one of many struggling. I didn't feel as alone. Afterwards, it felt like everyone else had moved on and I was there, stuck knee deep in sticky, depressed molasses that I couldn't pull myself out of. A major turning point for me was meeting my best friend. They are a mental health advocate studying psychology, and they are someone I have admired for as long as I've known them. Eventually, I found out the depths of their own mental health issues. They struggled with an eating disorder and OCD, and I tried my best to help as much as possible. Eventually, they were hospitalized, and later, institutionalized. It was not a great experience for them, but afterwards, I saw how much better they were doing. They were the reason I got help. If they could work hard to make it through rehab, I could work hard too. I talked to my mom, who also struggles with anxiety, and I got diagnosed. I found a therapist, and I've worked hard. I learned coping skills, I learned how to cling to that little spark of hope amidst the dark days and the days where it feels like my ribs are collapsing. I know that I have lived through every single thing I thought I wouldn't survive. I know that I will make it through whatever comes my way.

I have never wanted to kill myself. Here I am, sixteen years old and preparing for college, doing better and worse then I ever have before, and I don't want to kill myself. It's a good thing. It's wonderful thing. Yet, I am sixteen years old with a diagnosis of anxiety and depression, and it feels alienating to be okay with that. There's this culture around mental health, and it is to do everything you can to not kill yourself. What about when you have never been to that low of a point? What happens when you are on this cliff, this brink of existence, teetering between a magnificent, glowing hope and the anger and deep sadness that spirals into a breakdown? My name is Sarah Garrison, and this is a balance beam I have been wobbling along for a long time. Growing up, I was the kind of kid teachers discussed as being 'sensitive'. I was in the gifted program and got good grades, so no one was too concerned. Sure, I cried at the drop of a pen, and sure and sure, I spent all of my waking hours making my way through the school libraries selection, but what did it matter? I wasn't disruptive. Reading was an escape for me. Books were something I understood. My siblings teased me all the time, and as a sensitive kid who couldn't understand tone, it usually ended in yelling and tears. It's always been frustrating to me, feeling like I have so much to say but there is no one who will listen to me. It's like my issues have always been just fine enough to be brushed off. I may have been a child who didn't like being home because of the fighting, but it wasn't my parents who fought. It was my siblings, who are all within five years of age. I may have always struggled with anxiety attacks, executive dysfunction, alienating mood swings, and social ineptness, but I have never been suicidal. I thought that there was something wrong with me for a long time. In middle school, everyone was struggling as well. It was the times of the Covid-19 lockdown, and it felt like I was one of many struggling. I didn't feel as alone. Afterwards, it felt like everyone else had moved on and I was there, stuck knee deep in sticky, depressed molasses that I couldn't pull myself out of. A major turning point for me was meeting my best friend. They are a mental health advocate studying psychology, and they are someone I have admired for as long as I've known them. Eventually, I found out the depths of their own mental health issues. They struggled with an eating disorder and OCD, and I tried my best to help as much as possible. Eventually, they were hospitalized, and later, institutionalized. It was not a great experience for them, but afterwards, I saw how much better they were doing. They were the reason I got help. If they could work hard to make it through rehab, I could work hard too. I talked to my mom, who also struggles with anxiety, and I got diagnosed. I found a therapist, and I've worked hard. I learned coping skills, I learned how to cling to that little spark of hope amidst the dark days and the days where it feels like my ribs are collapsing. I know that I have lived through every single thing I thought I wouldn't survive. I know that I will make it through whatever comes my way.

I have never wanted to kill myself. Here I am, sixteen years old and preparing for college, doing better and worse then I ever have before, and I don't want to kill myself. It's a good thing. It's wonderful thing. Yet, I am sixteen years old with a diagnosis of anxiety and depression, and it feels alienating to be okay with that. There's this culture around mental health, and it is to do everything you can to not kill yourself. What about when you have never been to that low of a point? What happens when you are on this cliff, this brink of existence, teetering between a magnificent, glowing hope and the anger and deep sadness that spirals into a breakdown? My name is Sarah Garrison, and this is a balance beam I have been wobbling along for a long time. Growing up, I was the kind of kid teachers discussed as being 'sensitive'. I was in the gifted program and got good grades, so no one was too concerned. Sure, I cried at the drop of a pen, and sure and sure, I spent all of my waking hours making my way through the school libraries selection, but what did it matter? I wasn't disruptive. Reading was an escape for me. Books were something I understood. My siblings teased me all the time, and as a sensitive kid who couldn't understand tone, it usually ended in yelling and tears. It's always been frustrating to me, feeling like I have so much to say but there is no one who will listen to me. It's like my issues have always been just fine enough to be brushed off. I may have been a child who didn't like being home because of the fighting, but it wasn't my parents who fought. It was my siblings, who are all within five years of age. I may have always struggled with anxiety attacks, executive dysfunction, alienating mood swings, and social ineptness, but I have never been suicidal. I thought that there was something wrong with me for a long time. In middle school, everyone was struggling as well. It was the times of the Covid-19 lockdown, and it felt like I was one of many struggling. I didn't feel as alone. Afterwards, it felt like everyone else had moved on and I was there, stuck knee deep in sticky, depressed molasses that I couldn't pull myself out of. A major turning point for me was meeting my best friend. They are a mental health advocate studying psychology, and they are someone I have admired for as long as I've known them. Eventually, I found out the depths of their own mental health issues. They struggled with an eating disorder and OCD, and I tried my best to help as much as possible. Eventually, they were hospitalized, and later, institutionalized. It was not a great experience for them, but afterwards, I saw how much better they were doing. They were the reason I got help. If they could work hard to make it through rehab, I could work hard too. I talked to my mom, who also struggles with anxiety, and I got diagnosed. I found a therapist, and I've worked hard. I learned coping skills, I learned how to cling to that little spark of hope amidst the dark days and the days where it feels like my ribs are collapsing. I know that I have lived through every single thing I thought I wouldn't survive. I know that I will make it through whatever comes my way.