IT started over a casual chat with Pebbles — a harmless exchange about fashion flops and old movies over IG — when I realized I’d just sketched my life across three glorious decades. The ’70s, ’80s, and ’90s weren’t just style phases or musical eras. They were seasons of becoming — with confiscated garters, electric blue hair, and character shoes trying to keep up with my ambition.

Act I: The 1970s — Garter Wars and Glittery Spoons

I was a child of the ’70s — when phones were rotary and fashion sense was whatever your mother picked from boutique racks in downtown shops. Think dainty smocks with itchy lace, Peter Pan collars, and bows big enough to intercept radio signals.

I went to an all-girls Catholic school where Chinese garters were contraband. I smuggled it in like candy, only to have it seized by a nun who treated elastic as a moral threat. Getting caught was a rite of passage.

At home, however, I was a street athlete. Patintero, kundisi, and a running commentary from the household helped soundtrack my summers. My obsession? Sanrio maximalism. My Melody and Little Twin Stars adorned everything — my bag, my toothbrush, even my plate, spoon, and fork. It was peak girlhood consumerism with a kawaii twist.

Act II: The 1980s — Hair Dye and a Backbone

The ’80s brought eyeliner, attitude, and the audacity to speak up. I once stood up to a town mayor — as one does, between algebra and angst. “Feminist” wasn’t a term I’d worn yet, but I already had the shoes for it. Also, the walk.

Pop culture was my emotional scaffolding. Madonna dared me to be bold. Michael Jackson taught me rhythm. New wave bands told me weird was wonderful. One summer, I dyed streaks of my hair electric blue. A male cousin was scandalized. I was lectured. I listened, then went burgundy — out of spite and self-expression.

I wasn’t rebelling. I was rehearsing for adulthood.

Act III: The 1990s — Grandmother’s Sheath Dresses and Corporate Clout

Enter the ’90s: the era of fax machines, goth lipstick, and my first job in banking. Sales and marketing — even introverts can sell things when parental allowance runs out. I had to unlearn my quiet, only to discover I was a people person all along. My boss noticed before I did.

I showed up in remodeled vintage from my fashionista grandmother — sheath dresses, and the occasional character shoe. At 23, I bought my first car. Second-hand, but mine. At 24, I was an officer. While others were buying beepers, I was learning to drive my life forward — figuratively and in traffic.

Service back then was sacred. Clients knew your name. Relationships weren’t “leveraged,” they were earned — through coffee, conversation, and a little humanity. Try fitting that into a CRM tool.

Epilogue: Still Becoming

These weren’t just decades. They were plot twists. From the girl whose garter was confiscated, to the teen with burgundy hair and boundaries, to the woman decoding corporate dress codes and negotiating across mahogany tables — every version built the next.

And no, we don’t outgrow our past selves. We drag them like well-loved handbags — stuffed with quirks, receipts, and unresolved issues in the side pocket.

I sometimes wonder if that Sanrio-obsessed girl would recognize me now. Would she approve of the woman who wears heels not for validation, but for punctuation? Would she believe the once-timid girl would later hold her own with men twice her age and half her EQ?

We’ve inflated success into something sterile — title, income, algorithm. But real success? It’s quieter. It’s laughing at your younger self while still being proud of her. It’s knowing when to speak and when to dye your hair blue. Not because it’s logical — but because it’s summer, and you can.

The ’70s gave me imagination, the ’80s, voice, and the ’90s, confidence. They didn’t erase each other — they stacked like good decisions and bad hairstyles.

I’ve stopped sprinting toward reinvention. Growth isn’t about becoming someone new. It’s finally recognizing who you’ve been all along.

Some days, I’m still that girl in character shoes, winging adulthood with conviction and a hint of panic. But if I’m still asking, “Am I still becoming?” — then I must be alive.

Still brewing thoughts — no sugarcoating, just stories steeped in truth.