Girl’s girl

I think about girlhood the way I think about driving down Montana Ave with the windows down and the sunroof open, the kind of afternoon where the light feels like it chose you.

It was one of those perfect LA days. The air warm but not heavy, the sky doing that soft blue thing it does making everything feel possible. We were blasting Manchild, the kind of loud where it’s less about the music and more about the feeling it gives you. Laughing mid-lyrics, acting out the words. Volume alllllll the way up. And of course, Lauren in the passenger seat.

I remember thinking, this is it. Not in a dramatic way. Not in a “life has peaked” kind of way. Just a certain knowing that this, right here, is what it means to be a woman. Not the big moments. Not the milestones. THIS.

The ease of it where you don’t have to perform or explain or be anything other than exactly who you are in that second, hair blowing in every direction, singing too loud, completely unselfconscious.

Lauren has always been that kind of presence in my life. Not loud about it. Not performative. She doesn’t ask you to sit down and unpack everything or try to fix what can’t be fixed. She just shows up.

“I’m outside your place, let’s walk to Gjusta.”

Suddenly you’re walking and the air feels different. The weight you were carrying softens, just a little, without needing to be named. She’s been there through everything. Not in a way that demanded attention or gratitude. Just..there. Steady. Certain. Like it was never even a question.

That’s the thing about her..about real girlhood, I think. It’s not loud and it doesn’t announce itself. It looks like someone curling your hair while you sit on the bathroom counter. Handing you a lip gloss without asking. Fixing the strap of your dress. Sitting beside you in silence that somehow says everything.

It’s care without condition.

Love without performance.

It’s doing all of that not because you’re trying to be a good friend but because it’s simply who you are. Lauren taught me that being a “girl’s girl” isn’t a label. It’s a way of moving through the world. It’s instinctive. It’s generous. It’s deeply loyal. And maybe that’s why that drive felt so significant. Because it wasn’t just the music, or the sunlight, or the street. It was the feeling of being held inside a moment that didn’t need anything more from us. Just two girls, windows down, singing too loud, completely free.

And somehow, that felt like everything.