Chasing "That Girl"

When does the path to "It" Girl end?

When I first got on social media— over a decade ago now around 2015 if not earlier —I still remember my first Instagram post. It was a photo of a diet coke and The Selection by Kiara Cass. I posted it with a thick filter on top trying to find myself in #Bookstagram.

From there, I posted more.

I made small reviews, book stacks that were color coded, and current reads alongside lifestyle posts as I tried to find my way through the many posts of those doing the same thing I was.

I had one clear vision in mind. I wanted to be that girl.

You know her. That girl.

The “it girl.”

The one with the perfect feed. The one who always seems effortlessly happy. The one who is optimistic in a way that you wish you could be. The right amount of realist with her bubbly that some people hate, but honestly, only because they aren’t her.

Sounds nice, doesn’t it?

She’s smiling in golden-hour selfies, sipping iced coffees on the go, turning every day into a lifestyle reel. She has the right outfits that border the line of too much and just right. She has the right energy, the right captions. She actually knows how to use emojis. She doesn’t stress about money or career or if she’s going to be okay— she’s already there.

Being more than ok. Being great.

At least, that’s what it looked like.

Maybe, I still sort of believe that.

I didn’t want to be famous most of the time as I chased that kind of girl or that kind of life. I wanted to be free. Or at least feel free.

I thought if I could become “that girl,” then I’d feel the weight of the world ease. I’d be lighter. Less worried. More lovable. More successful.

Maybe even like I’d finally made it.

And as an indie author that feels like the world and the internet is on her shoulders from the moment I wake up to the moment I go to bed, plugging my phone into the charger next to me? Questioning if I did enough marketing and connecting for the day…

That feeling is complicated.

Because writing, publishing, creating? None of it is effortless.

It’s late nights, editing drafts no one sees. Worrying about them when you aren’t staring at the computer screen. It’s rejection letters and low sales months (lately, some of the lowest I’ve ever experienced). It’s pouring your soul into a book that barely cracks a dozen likes on Instagram when you post about it while you see other people getting the dream happen to them every day.

I really thought if I could become “that girl,” maybe then I’d feel complete. Less worried. More lovable. More successful. Like I’d finally made it. And I don’t mean just as a person, but as a writer, too.

So, yep. I chased her.

Post by post.

Aesthetic by aesthetic.

Trying to brand myself, sell myself, turn my books and my life into something marketable. Something people would want to buy, follow, support.

But here I am, all these years later. After countless captions, photo edits, dream boards, Pinterest pins, and author rebrands (I’m still considering another)…

Still chasing a version of myself I never seem to catch.

Still trying to be effortlessly beautiful and a tiny piece of extraordinary when effort is all I know.

Still trying to look happy, even when I’m carrying more stress than ever.

Still trying to believe I’m doing okay, even when my bank account or book sales say otherwise.

And the question that’s been sitting heavy with me lately is:

When does it end?

When do we stop chasing the curated version of a life we thought would finally make us feel worthy?

Is it when the comments flood in?

When the algorithm finally says I’ve done enough to grant me a few extra views?

When I hit 5k, 10k, 100k followers I hope will buy my books, read my stories, see my value?

Maybe then. Maybe when that hard work and effort feels like it literally paid me back.

Because right now? I’ve been hiding.

And not in the romantic, soul-searching way.

More like scrolling for hours, zoning out, watching everyone else live the lives I thought I’d be closer to by now and sometimes I even tell myself it’s a break. The few minutes between writing that turns back into days that make me question myself as a creative again.

Because it feels more like avoidance.

I’m avoiding the reality that I’m not where I wanted to be. Not online, not in my author career, not even in my head. I’m not blocked anymore writing-wise. Not exactly.

Words are coming again when I don’t let my head think too much of other things (which is the true problem). That helps.

But the numbers aren’t.

The sales aren’t.

The recognition isn’t.

And it’s hard not to feel like maybe I’m failing at something I used to believe I was good at. I want to forgive myself for that. For not “making it” yet.

For not turning my stories into success.

For watching reels instead of writing chapters.

For letting the idea of being seen replace the joy of simply creating.

But I haven’t found that forgiveness yet for myself. I’m still writing, even if it’s slower. Still hoping, even when it feels a little foolish. Still chugging along because, honestly, I don’t know what else to do.

What is there to do?

Is this a good time to plug my Instagram? ;)

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