Raging Girlhood

Yesterday was Valentine’s Day — my second one ever with a boyfriend.

I got close once before, if we can even title it that. Freshman year of high school. Unfortunately, I broke up with him on Valentine’s Day — happy to say somehow we’re still friends and he doesn’t hate my guts (at least I think).

This year, Mr. International and I weren’t celebrating love just four days after meeting anymore — we were remembering it. 

I looked back at photos and videos from last February, watching him get incredibly and adorably nervous buying me roses for the first time. Walking through Park Güell. Motorcycle rides through Barcelona from one adventure to the next. Sushi dinner that turned into dancing and a drag show. Him confessing I was his first — American, at least — Valentine.

I know he’s so perfect for me.

This year was long-distance Valentine’s Day. And when you’re long distance, you learn to enjoy whatever you can get. I had built up this whole vision around finally having a FaceTime date.

But life, in its current stage, had some interruptions planned.

First, the yoga class I squeezed in before the date — life-changing, grounding, wonderful — ended with a literal Dallas monsoon. My car fogged up so much it looked like my girlfriend and I had actually celebrated Valentine’s Day in there, and the drive home took way longer than expected.

Then, the moment I finally got on the phone with Mr. Intentional and convinced him to watch The Notebook with me (he hates sad things, which honestly made me want him to watch it even more), my roommate and two friends burst in the living room with big dreams of chaos.

Not like the greatest love story ever was playing or anything.

This was literally our second attempt at watching it too. The first time we tried in Spain, he fell asleep.

Suddenly, there’s a piñata hanging from the ceiling fan in front of the TV, everyone yelling, laughing, swinging at it — including me, because there was no way I was going to sit out the fun.

In the moment, I was slightly annoyed. But I was so high on love all day that it just became another thing to laugh about later.

That night I went to Ladylove with my Galentines — a place started by two lesbians with, appropriately, breasts and nude art all over the walls. And somehow, even that didn’t capture the level of divine femininity happening at our table.

A random group of friends from completely different parts of my life, pulled together for one night, all beaming in their own ways.

One of my dearest friends had just stopped wearing her wig, letting her natural hair out. She had that no-makeup glow that shows up when someone’s truly fallen into alignment with themselves — recently in love, fully present, effortlessly radiant.

It felt important to make note of that.

Then this morning, I saw a TikTok. A girl on vacation with her husband texting her group chat saying, “I’m having so much fun… but I miss the bathroom filled with hair straighteners, makeup all over the floor, music blasting, giggles, and trying on outfits.”

And I realized something.

I’m so grateful that even while I have my dream love, it’s still interrupted by the loud, chaotic, beautiful joys of raging girlhood.