The year is 1979. My mom’s eldest brother Billy began shooting a puck into a net, so naturally, she wanted to follow suit. The only dilemma: female athletes within male dominated sports was rare. But a child at the ripe age of seven is not privy to irregularities.

Lacing her skates and stepping onto the frozen pond, she didn’t notice the lack of gender representation. What she noticed is how fast she felt, gliding with her stick, surpassing the older boys and watching her slap shot hit the back of the net.

She wanted to be Wayne Gretzky when she grew up.

The year is 1990. My mom is walking up the steps to receive her title of homecoming queen. Her hair was teased, pumps strapped and black vintage gown cascading down her back.

She exuded divine femininity.

I’ve always had a distaste for the word “girly”. The negative connotation stems from the stereotypical traits associated with females that I felt disconnected from.

I prioritized being an athlete over all else. Coming from a household of multi-sport athletes, I’ve been motivated to continue the bloodline.

I’m competitive to a fault. Not in a charming, it’s-all-fun-and-games type of way. It’s an intense sensation that overcomes reason to reach my full potential. A gift and a curse. I put immense pressure on myself to perform at a standard that I can inwardly accept. Whether it’s ping pong or Catan, I play to win.

I’ve come to prove myself to men who see me as a weakness for being a female competitor.

My version of being ostentatious is throwing on relaxed fitting denim, a waist skimming tee and an oversized bomber jacket. That is my comfort and confident zone. Overtly showy does not suit me.

This all goes to say why I self identify as a tomboy.

I held that title like a badge of honor, combatting my mother’s spirit. To be anything like the naturally gifted, good at everything woman who raised me was something to be cherished, not ashamed of. Right?

The year is 2015. Freshman year of high school. I was a member of the “itty bitty titty committee”. I was (and still am) 5’7 and three-fourths, perfectly acceptable for an outside hitter. I was toned, developing an athletic build from working out with my strength coach dad.

A majority of my drive was stored within a synthetic leather ball. So much so that the email traced back to me was haleyvballpro@gmail.com (and have not lived in down since 5th grade).

Due to my sport selection, friends and classmates presumably classified me as girlish.

This imbalance has been consistent throughout my teens and twenties - shifting between gender narratives yet never registering where my self identity lies.

The year is 2019. I ventured to northern Minnesota for college where the generic style stemmed from cultural norms. Hunting, fishing, and lumberjack aesthetics consumed the hallways of my mid sized university.

But for the first time in my life, the trends did not make their way into my closet.

Although I was rocking a Goodwill budget, I created a “capsule” wardrobe that encapsulated my unique perspective on (the now coined phrase) ‘tomboy femme’.

Carpenter jeans, Air Jordan’s and oversized, thrifted college crewnecks flooded my hangers. In my right ear dangled a silver cross, in my right a stud. This realization that conforming to Northern patterns of hobbies, attire, and activities didn’t align with my lifestyle marked a pivotal moment in my self-discovery journey.

I felt invigorated with every step I took, knowing that I represented a piece of myself that I finally had the guts to explore.

When I Facetimed my mom, she would muse at how much I looked like her when she was younger. I beamed with pride every time.

The craziest part of this self reinvention is even though I felt more connected to style then I ever had, I still didn’t feel feminine.

Young woman’s strutted around the club scene with their hourglass figures. Busts were plunging out of their low-cut Urban Outfitters corset tops. Flirty giggles were naturally higher pitched. And their pores were invisible - because they had none.

Despite lacking all of these domestic traits, I never felt shame surrounding my figure or complexion.

And that’s when I discovered the secret behind it.

Femininity is not the ensemble you wear. The lip combo you use. Braiding each-other’s hair. It’s not a stereotype confined by socially attractive female attributes.

It’s in the way you carry yourself. The infectious energy bubble surrounding a woman who is self assured in the way she walks, speaks and presents herself.

It’s in the care she exudes when discussing her passions.

It’s in the distinction she holds when voicing an opinion.

It’s in the gentleness and delicacy she approaches a friend in need.

It’s in the humility she embodies graciously accepting a compliment (which caught her off guard because she wasn’t focused on her outward appearance, only inward).

✨It’s in the faith that you can do anything you set your mind to because you are a woman, not in spite of it.✨

She’s in tune with the world around her yet prioritizes her inner peace (which she is unapologetically selfish about making her focal point).

This may be the greatest news you hear all day:

This woman exists within you - whether you’ve allowed her to show up or not. She may be timid to step out of the shadows at first, but she belongs in the light.

A note to my fellow “tomboys”

“Tomboy chic” is circulating in the media, being sited as a trend. Leaning into baggy, “model off duty” streetwear that feels casual and effortless. Women are vehemently diving into the masculine aesthetic, some labeling it “the new feminine”.

But trends come and go (more frequently than ever within modern media). So when the women cease to participate in the trend, resell their XL bombers, bring their utility pants to Goodwill and sideline their Bermuda shorts - I hope you remain steadfast in what makes YOU feel timeless.

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Ways I’ve learned to embrace my femininity as a woman in my mid twenties:

1. Choosing to believe in myself even when there are doubts

2. Uplifting other woman - virtually and interpersonally

3. Basking in my moments of solitude - looking at them as growth instead of loneliness

4. Allowing myself to have bad days, hours or moments and not be overcome by them

5. Doing things that bring me pure, unfiltered joy without fear of judgement

6. Feeling every damn feeling (cry it out, girl)

7. Inwardly accepting that my opinion holds value

8. Choosing my battles - Showing restraint in some circumstances and speaking with my chest in others

9. Petitioning my female friendships, even in the midst of a longterm relationship

10. Knowing that a man’s approval is not equivalent to self worth

I have never been a pursuer. I would not have my wits about me if I were to beeline it across a sticky wood floor with the soul purpose of confronting a man with my motives. I must be in proximity with a contextually clever opening to remotely consider engaging. And even then, I tend to save my social battery for my surrounding friends.

I’m a lover girl, consistently weaving in and out of relationships (or situationships) throughout my 4 year university span. But frankly, nothing exhilarates me more than a solid banter. The emotionally stimulating, fiery conversations that keep you on your toes. The back and forth tension that lights a fire in your mind.

I don’t think I realized that banter was the way to my heart until meeting a certain someone who sparked that flame inside of me.

“Believe me, you’d know if I was hitting on you. You wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from succumbing to my charms.” The Last Song by Nicholas Sparks

Believe it or not, I met this college boy at a nightclub entitled The Flame.

“So what’s your deal?” The one liner that was the beginning of the end for me.

Our first chat ignited a sense of self that I had been subconsciously longing to set free. I was not consciously preparing the next line I was going to deliver or overthinking the last. My mind was a blank canvas, being provided the material as the rhythm instinctively coursed through me.

I was in my element. A force to be reckoned with.

Sure, you can banter with anyone if they catch on. But discovering someone who matches your playfulness and zest for life is a rarity in itself. There is never a shortage of topics to cover because you’re subconsciously picking up on the little pieces of their lingo to throw back at them.

So to say the least, that first conversation left me buzzing. It scratched an itch that I was unaware needed attention.

“In your dreams, Bennet.”

“Every damn night, Buxbaum.” Nothing Like the Movies by Lynn Painter.

The rapid-fire tempo of the discussion left me desiring more. I lost track of time in the whirlwind of playful jesting and understated affection. The natural repartee that commenced between 22 year old me and the male I had only been an hour acquainted with was staggering.

My peace of mind left the building that night. And every evening after, I wanted to replicate that intellectual high. The sensation of being on the edge of your seat with a cheeky distraction.

The thing about banter is that it should convey a blasé nature. Eagerness does not pair well with endearment, unfortunately for the golden retriever puppies of the world. It is critical to remain collected and quick-witted while performing an Oscar winning, quip filled encounter.

“As it turns out, I have incredible focus when I’m interested in something.” Book Lovers by Emily Henry.

I feel giddy simply writing about this, reminiscing on the stomach flutters and heat radiating off my cheeks in the moment I know the energy is replicated.

The art of intrigue through dialogue is a daring practice. Putting not only your heart but your impulsiveness to the test, seeing if your intellectual nature aligns with another. .

The key is to not undermine your cleverness in order to sustain another’s. Embracing what you bring to the table is how you gain the confidence to square up for the raillery. And if it’s meant to happen, your satire partner will step up to the challenge.

Everybody has it in them. But are you daring enough break free of the mental block that keeps you in check? The imaginary obediences that confine you to socially acceptable flirting tolerance, or is it time to turn the heat up a notch?

“I’m totally digging that snorting thing you do. It’s kind of a turn on.” The Deal by Elle Kennedy

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The Illusion of Book Banter

Let me level with you. Book banter is entirely different than interpersonal jesting. If a man called me “darling” or “sweetheart” in the present moment, I may flee. Unless, of course, it is done correctly.

“Careful, darling. You forget that spilling blood is what I do best.” Powerless by Lauren Roberts.

It’s typical to compare potential suiters to the make believe men (or more often, immortals) of books. But nine out of ten times, those men were written by women.

These brilliant masterminds of the written word take time to craft their dialogue. It is drafted, countlessly edited and viewed by many prior to being published. Whereas, within a face-to-face setting, you’re speaking off the cuff. The only frame of reference you have to speak with is the last line your counterpart spoke. It’s spontaneous and spur of the moment reflections.

So, as much as we can appreciate the effectiveness of lively book banter, it would be in good faith to remember that human beings are not provided an editing phase.

“If you think I’m jealous because someone else got to stab you, then you’re right.” The Ballad of Never After by Stephanie Garber

Resources to discover books with top notch banter:

• Goodreads: Popular Witty Banter Books

• The Every Girl: 12 Books with Such Good Banter, You’ll Want to Highlight Every Line

• Zibby Mag: A Banter-Filled Rom-Com Reading List From Author Martha Waters

My personal list:

This is more of a PSA to myself as I adopted the love language of banter through fictional beings.

The five things that shape banter:

1. There is no room for sensitivity.

Banter calls for think-skin. Do not be fooled, I typically feel like a glass teacup with intricate detailing that has remained in the family for years when it comes to emotional offenses. But when you’re bantering, it’s as though you’re playing the role of the most cool, calm, collected version of yourself. Not easily rattled, but secure in her skin and psyche. Your intellect adopts to the beat of the drum. The worry dissolves and all that is left is wonder.

2. Allow your zest for life to shine through

Consider the moments when you’re fully present. Think about the charisma you exude during lively chats with your best friend. The laughter you share with your sister. The effortless way you can complement a stranger without hesitation. Harness this energy.

3. Attention to detail

This is crucial to remember: there’s no room for overthinking. Your mind is a blank slate, eagerly awaiting the next word from your banter partner as they conclude their quip. You’re fully engaged. Your listening skills are exceptional. You’re allowing your expressions to be playful and commented upon while being completely absorbed in your counterpart.

You’re picking up singular words, expressions or minor tidbits that could be lightheartedly jested about. Being intuitive enough to avoid interrupting whenever there’s a chance to share a charming joke. Archive it for later.

4. Having the utmost faith in your mind

Trusting the inner workings of your brain to quip back on queue. Allow your brain to abandon all self doubt and spread its wings to new heights. You may be surprised what you’re capable of when given permission to unlock the feisty, ferocious layers of your intellect. You have the courage, now believe it for yourself.

5. Curiosity will take you far

Following attention to detail, allow your curiosity to roam, linger, and fixate on the scintillating layers. Have a keen eye toward the elements that make your banteree ignite. As the blankets of surface level shed, you will begin to notice whispers of passion in their tone. Identify it, then seize the opportunity.

Everyone is welcome, supported, and vulnerable here.

Special delivery!

Dear lovely reader,

Please treat this letter as one that was properly homemade, glittered, and received in your mail box. Cozy up next to a fireplace (if you don’t have one, use this gem of a video from YouTube) and tuck yourself under a fuzzy blanket. Once the ambiance is set, allow this love letter to trickle into your soul.

Whether you’re in love, looking for love or entirely on your own path, you’re meant to be here. My version of Valentine’s Day does not discriminate based on relationship status (and frankly, nobody should tell you any differently). Everything happens in the time it is meant to, and regardless, we are all in a serious, full fledged relationship with ourselves. This is the relationship that I want to breathe life into.

I was always envious of the women who basked in their autonomy and celebrated their independence like it was their reason for being. You know the ones, sitting at coffee shops, kindle in hand, legs crossed without a care in the world. They roam the city in search of a crisp pinot grigio midday. Because they deserve it, of course.

And I finally think I’ve cracked the code as to how these wonderfully feministic creatures embody this aura.

Whether they were alone or accompanied, they were never lonely.

Your toxic fling hasn’t replied in a few hours? Who cares, more me time. Plans fell through? Hallelujah, I can get ahead on my monthly to be read or sign up for the pilates class I would’ve missed.

It took me 25 years and 158 days for my psyche to appreciate that reveling in your own company is a privilege. Settling into the initial discomfort of alone time is a small token to pay towards enjoying the energy that you single-handedly bring the world.

I’m letting you in on a little secret… the love you carry (or will learn to carry) for yourself intertwines with every other relationship. “Love fully” is a common narrative strewn about in Pinterest saves and everyday lingo. Yet in order to put this aesthetic phrase into practice, there is one, crucial person you must begin with.

It feels much more simple to love your past self. To think back on the three, thirteen or twenty-three year old version of you and nostalgically declare “I want to give that person a hug”. It’s because you knew where that person ended up, and they lived everyday, showing up in that past life as someone you can now feel proud of.

Why is it so complex to give your present self that same energy?

I spent my early twenties in an unrequited paradox. I nourished my mind and body with only the bare minimum, essential modes of survival. I have my persevering body relentless mind to thank for where I am today. For adapting to the inconsistent patterns and mental rollercoasters. For battling each day and believing it was worth the fight.

Although I never intentionally neglected my physical and mental being, I lived in a state of impassiveness. Words without backup. Internally urging myself to go to therapy with no research or follow through. Blaming my lazy self care methods on college coursework or going through heartbreak.

Then, one day, I stepped to the plate.

Maybe it was because I never felt well rested enough to complete the to-do’s I asked of myself the night before as I was binging the new season of Love Island. Maybe it was my jeans fitting looser from not having the willpower to walk to the college cafeteria. Maybe it was selling all of my clothes to Plato’s closet because I did not have the motivation to work 5-9 after completing my Philosophy & Rhetoric essay. Maybe it was the crumbling sensation I felt after enduring yet another panic attack from lack of, well, everything.

Whatever it was, my determination to overcome the self loathing period I had dug myself into felt astronomically more powerful than the desire to hunker down and click on Netflix.

It was not an overnight sensation, but I felt myself within reach of grasping the second rein. I did not want to ride bareback anymore.

Shifting your perspective is key to self love.

Although love is everywhere, the greatest love you’ll ever know is internal. It’s human nature to crave being loved, and simultaneously abandon the person you spend every breath, every waking moment with.

I’m going to challenge you. Regardless of your relationship status, take yourself on a date. Head to your local coffee shop that has a seasonal pink latte, treat yourself to a massage or hydrating facial, spend a Saturday night in watching a classic film (highly recommend The Parent Trap), grab a table for one at a cafe and bring your current read.. the options are endless.

You deserve to know what pride feels like in the present, not just the past. And you’re never too far gone to be the woman who looks self sufficient sitting alone on the porch at your local diner.

Love always,

Haley xx

Now that we’ve dug deep into self love, I want to share resources on how to love others during February.

How to Spread the Love

❤︎⁠ Letters of Love Global: A simple yet creative way to put a smile on a child’s face. As this organization typically operates within high schools and teen settings, there’s not an age limit for who can send a thoughtful message. And you could make a night out of it! Host a gals night, grab some art supplies (they go to kids, don’t skip the glitter!) and get crafty while speaking from the heart.

❤︎ Donate blood through a local blood drive, such as American Red Cross. They are urgently seeking donors as there is a severe blood and platelet shortage. Find a blood drive in your area now.

❤︎ Support local businesses. Buy your V-day letters, candles, or care packages from communal stores. A resource for my Minnesotans from MinnBox.

❤︎ Purchase from brands that are giving part of their proceeds to a cause. Examples include:

- See’s Candies supports the Melanoma Research Center

- Kendra Scott benefits local charities under the Kendra Scott Foundation

- St. Jude Gift Shop: all proceeds go to the children and families at St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital

❤︎ Mail a handwritten letter to your grandma

❤︎ Participate in a local food drive, such as Loaves & Fishes located in Minneapolis, Minnesota

❤︎ Bring your dear mother flowers

❤︎ Visit senior citizens at your local nursing home

❤︎ For families to do tougher via Doing Good Together:

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I’ve been sitting at the Honolulu airport for the past three hours reflecting on why I’m excited to fly home. Immediately upon entering the airport, my boyfriend looked at me and said “I don’t want to leave Hawaii”, to which I replied, “Same here”, even though I felt ready.

I may be in the minority, but every vacation leaves me feeling grateful for where I’m at. Keep in mind I’m in Oahu, a tropical paradise, for crying out loud, and I still feel a subdued sense of relief stepping onto the return flight.

This isn’t me diminishing the cherished, once in a lifetime memories I made snorkeling with sharks or visiting Bonzai Pipeline to watch a surf competition that Bethany Hamilton has competed in. These sacred moments are engraved in my mind.

But I’ve realized something about myself: I feel the most grounded when I’m back inside the life I’ve built. My slow, uninterrupted mornings, being a regular at my small-town coffee shop, reading on my comfortable couch with the fairy lights twinkling; all of my familiar comforts. The framework I’ve intentionally adopted.

And isn’t that poetic? To travel far, gather stories, let your curiosity roam, yet still come home content and clear-headed? In an article from The Travel Psychologist, Dr. Charlotte Russell, Clinical Psychologist, designates the initial comfort of coming back home as “the honeymoon period”. The time of resettling and reconnecting to your lived-in experiences that shape your everyday existence. Whether it’s four days or four months, I always reunite with that blissful feeling when I return, the exhale. The emotional settling.

In a culture immersed with the idea of “living life to the fullest,” we find ourselves in a predicament. We feel compelled to document our joys, display our fulfillment, and consistently update our social media feeds to maintain a vibrant appearance that aligns with the emotions we’re supposed to be experiencing. Amidst this relentless pursuit to be the paragon of perfection, on screen and in the flesh, I’ve come to a profound realization that continues to resonate with me:

Be where your feet are.

These five humble words have provided a safe space within my brain (that typically defaults to anxiety), learning that presence is not something you master, it’s something you return to. Over and over again, even in the smallest, most understated ways:

By noticing the sound of the wheels rolling across the airport tile.

The feeling of my breath moving in and out.

My unkept travel hair itching the nape of my neck.

The chill that will instantly hit as I exit through door B at MSP.

When I anchor myself in what I can see, touch, taste, smell, hear.. I stop living ten steps ahead of the current moment. I quit rehearsing conversations that haven’t happened yet. I cease worrying about how I should be feeling. I come back into my body, into the here and now.

And that’s when experiences begin to feel tailored, more intimate confrontations of your reality. Not louder or more impressive, but a portrait of simply being.

I’ve always had a lust for travel. For reinvention. For grander cities and unfamiliar streets and different versions of myself. After college, I applied almost exclusively to jobs that involved travel, like motion itself might answer something I hadn’t yet articulated.

For a long time, I thought home was something I would eventually find. Now I understand it’s something I’ve been steadily building.

Maybe one day I’ll live somewhere entirely new. Maybe I’ll stay close to where I started. Maybe I’ll change my mind a dozen times before I’m thirty, which honestly feels more likely.

But I’ll always feel something when I unzip my suitcase and find leftover sand tucked into its crevices. Not because I miss the place, exactly, but because it reminds me that I let myself go. That I was courageous enough to have lived a different life. That I didn’t rush through it.

Lately, I’m realizing that home isn’t tied to a destination. It’s a version of myself that I keep coming back to. The one that feels harmonious and wholehearted, and less like she’s conducting her demeanor for anyone else.

And maybe finding your way back home isn’t about where you land. Maybe it’s about who you become in the in-between, and how gently you learn to meet yourself there, again and again.