It was March of 2019. Little 6th grade me had just finished working on a missing assignment for English and decided to take a break. I grab my phone from where it was lying quietly and make my way to my bedroom. It’s silent, with only the sound of the air conditioning in the background. The weather is nice and the sun is shining through the blinds making lines on the wall. I settle onto my bed and turn my phone on, my super trendy “don’t touch my phone” Lock Screen staring back at me.

“What do I want to do today,” I think to myself. I open and close apps like it’s a game. How many times can Jordan open Instagram before she realizes there’s nothing interesting there?

“Maybe another hour or two of scrolling mindlessly through Tik Tok.”

 I take the idea and open the app.

I go through Tik Tok in an orderly fashion, barely even watching the videos popping up on my “for you” page.

“The time I-“ *swipe*.

“Have you ever thought about how-“ *swipe*

“I know we’re not perfect but I-“ *swipe*

It’s all just the same old same old. 

“If I hear that song one more time, my phone might ‘accidentally’ fly across the room,” I think. 

In the middle of my thought, the white noise from the air conditioning shuts off, leaving my room completely silent. I start swiping faster, now completely skipping most of the videos. All I can hear is a choppy mix of music and talking, which is usually what Tik Tok is anyway. I shut my phone off and throw it down next to me, dissatisfied with the app’s algorithm. For a while I just sit in silence, staring at the ceiling and creating random romance movie scenarios in my head (as most 12 year olds do). 

Then, it hits me.

“You have a severe addiction to Tik Tok, so why are you acting like you can just stop scrolling?”

Oh silly me. God forbid I can take over my own life. I unlock my phone again and it opens right to the app. I watch the video on my screen all the way through (if you’re wondering, no, it wasn’t worth it) and move on to the next one.

With the next scroll, my heart stops. A girl shows up on my screen, lip syncing to  a line from Adventure Time. Her firey, red hair bounces with every movement she makes and her eyes sparkle. Maybe it was the sparkle filter she had turned on, but still. Same effect. Now, I had seen pretty girls before, only prompting a “wow, she’s really pretty” in my head. But her…she’s stunning. She’s the “clear every thought in your head” kind of stunning. Seconds feel like hours while I just gazed at my screen, letting the video play over and over again. Everything around me fades away. The only things on earth are me and the girl on my phone.

However, my euphoria quickly ends when the thoughts start pouring in. I could hear them coming like a swarm of bees.

“What would your mom think?” 

“You’re tricking yourself!”

“Your brain is making you do this for attention!”

Just like that, it’s like I’m covered from head to toe in bee stings. Each one oozing with guilt and confusion. 

I supported the LGBTQ+ community, so that wasn’t the issue. The issue was my moderately Christian family and my incredibly religious (slightly homophobic) grandmother. Christian guilt is a beast, what can I say? 

I slap my phone down onto the space beside me and jolt myself up. My heart is pounding so quickly, I’m afraid it might burst through my chest. I find myself zoning out, staring at the wall, not wanting to zone back in and face the reality of the situation. The seconds feel like hours…again, but not in the good way this time. I fall back onto my pillow and covered my face with my hands.

I stressed over this for weeks. The thoughts rang in my head like sirens. They were my alarm clock, waking me up every single day. Of course I had to continue going to church, but I didn’t feel like I belonged there anymore. It always felt like all eyes were on me. Like they knew what was happening in my brain. I became less touchy with my friends to avoid any possible chance of them finding out. I was so confused all the time. I didn’t know what I was, what label to wear, who I could tell. I just wanted to know who the hell I was.

 It’s mid-April and I’m laying in my bed. The same spot where all of this started. It’s dark and my blinds are open, but I’m too comfortable to get up and close them. I’m scrolling through Instagram, liking posts and reading screenshotted tweets. There’s nothing super interesting, but it’s enough to keep my eyes glued to my screen. I open my Explore page to find some funny videos when I post catches my eye. It’s pictured at the top left in the corner. A solid blue screen with white letters gaze back at me. I can’t quite make out what it says so I tap it, causing the post to take up my whole screen.

“It’s ok to be unsure”

It’s ok to be unsure. That one sentence rang in my ears louder than any other thought I had in the past month. It felt like a weight had been lifted off of my shoulders. I didn’t know what I was, but that’s ok.

It might have taken a little longer than expected, but I’ve finally come to terms with who I am. Did I know the exact answer immediately? Of course not. But I figured it out on my own and I stopped pressuring myself to slap a label on my identity. Accepting that I was unsure was the best thing that I could have done a year ago, and now I’m happier because of it.