You can run, but you can’t hide.

Chapter Seven

Boulder, Colorado - October 17, 2020

Seven hours of driving ahead of me–that’s what separates me from Lincoln, Nebraska, the next stop on my road trip. I adjust the seat of my jeep and notice a small message on my side mirror: Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear. And it hits me. For as far away as I’ve tried to get from Dave, California, and the lonely girl I left behind, they haven’t gone anywhere. They’re still right here. I carry them with me wherever I go.

"Hey, this is random," I pick up my phone and type, "but I’m going to be in Lincoln tonight. Are you around?"

Swoosh.

And I’m gone.

—

Earlier that morning, I’d checked out of Hotel Boulderado feeling eager to see more of the city. Perhaps regretful that my journey across the country had started to feel like a monotonous routine rather than my "Great American Road Trip." I wasn’t sightseeing or jumping from one spontaneous adventure to the next, I was working in hotel lobbies and eating dinner at bars, alone.

For as much as I wanted to immerse myself in each new city I traveled to, I couldn't pull away from my past, nor my work completely. There were clients to attend to, content to write, marketing to do, all for my course, Personal Brand Accelerator, which was single-handedly funding this entire road trip, making it possible for me to reach the other side of the country. Hopefully. The jury was still out on that.

Before leaving California, I promised myself that if I was going to take this road trip, I had to document everything and share it on Instagram and TikTok. I had high hopes that this content—different from the educational posts I’d shared in the past—would help me continue to build my platform and business. It was a promise I fully intended to keep, and truthfully, there was no arm twisting, I enjoyed it.

When I was eight years old, I'd scurry down to the basement and use my dad’s dial-up computer to create a publication called The Vatuone Weekly. I’d print off copies and hand them out to each member of my family, updating them on the week's events.

In junior high, I made a MySpace account behind my parents' back. There I was, 13-years-old and learning to code, all so I could have the perfect background and music for my MySpace profile. One summer afternoon, my friends and I did our makeup, put on frilly dresses and took photos with one of those old flash cameras. Everyone had a good time. But for me, it was different. I loved editing the photos in iPhoto, adjusting the brightness and contrast until they were just right. Later that night, we posted them to MySpace and I felt a surge of excitement as the likes started to roll on—all ten of them.

From that point on, I was hooked.

When Instagram came out, I was a senior in high school. "I really want an iPhone so I can get Instagram,” a friend once told me in photography class. That conversation always stuck with me–it signaled that Instagram was going to be something, and I knew I wanted to be a part of it. So I downloaded the app a few weeks later. Some of my first posts were of the college campuses I toured with my family, as I was in the process of applying to different schools. No matter where we went, I made sure each college we visited got its own little square on my Instagram profile.

Looking back, I realize social media was an escape. High school had been hard. On paper, everything seemed fine: I cheered my heart out on the JV and Varsity teams, was the junior and senior class president, and had a good group of friends. But it wasn’t enough.

After my breakup with Adam, I was determined to find a new boyfriend, lose my virginity, and fix myself into being beautiful like I believed the rest of my friends were. I wanted people to stop making fun of me, to stop calling me "mom" for my goofy mannerisms and frumpy clothing. I wanted to stop showing up at school looking so disheveled. I wanted, for the love of all things good and beautiful, to finally outgrow my never-ending awkward phase.

Yet despite my wanting, I never got a boyfriend—not for lack of trying—but because I was constantly getting rejected, presumably, by the guys I liked. I finally got my braces off, but I couldn’t hide the missing tooth, courtesy of genetics, which left me wearing a retainer that always seemed to have food stuck in it. I was also 20 pounds heavier than I deemed I should’ve been and I never let myself forget it:

You're hitting the gym tomorrow morning, I'd tell myself. Eat this carrot. Keep eating them! You can do it, Anna. You can be skinny if you want to, you just have to want it. All day long, the thoughts spun round and round. Constant. Incessant. Nagging.

Taking photos and posting them online—controlling the angles, tweaking the filters, perfecting my profile—became my way of compensating for what I felt I lacked in the real world. I could craft a version of myself, far prettier than the girl I faced in the mirror every morning. She was curated. Beautiful, just as I always wanted to be.

But this desire for reinvention wasn’t just limited to social media; it consumed me as I toured and applied to colleges. College, to me, represented a chance to start over, to finally embody the curated, confident version of myself I had caught glimpses of online.

On college move-in day, in August 2012, I was so eager to move out of my parents’ house and live on my own that I brought my entire closet with me—two giant trash bags full of shoes and a dozen bins of frumpy clothing. Looking back now, it seems absolutely hilarious. Most of my high school classmates brought only the essentials to their dorms, leaving the rest at home, knowing they’d be back for summers and winter breaks. Not me. I brought it all. No piece left behind. I was an independent adult.

But I wasn’t as independent as I gave myself credit for. My highly-anticipated college experience was not a solo adventure. Becky, my childhood best friend, came too. When we arrived at Sonoma State that summer afternoon, the number on our freshman door read 7106, and it felt more like an apartment than a typical college dorm. It had a front door with a doorbell, a fully equipped kitchen and living room, and each bedroom had its own bathroom.

As Becky and I unloaded our things into our bedroom (which we had color-coordinated with matching duvet covers and teal throw pillows from Pier One Imports one month prior) we met Kierstyn and Rachel, two girls from Fullerton, California, who had also grown up in the same city and gone to high school together.

On the first night at 7106, we all gathered in the shared common space, our Macs resting on our laps, chatting casually about the year ahead. By the end of that night, I knew we would be good friends.

And we were.

Kierstyn and I shared the same chaotic, outspoken energy, while Becky and Rachel were more easygoing and laid-back. As a group, we blended seamlessly, our friendship was stabilizing. The four of us pursued different degrees, worked as waitresses during the nights and weekends, and even joining the same sorority: Alpha Xi Delta.

At our first college party with our sorority sisters, I showed up to the pre-game in flair jeans and black ballet flats–a big ‘no-no’ in the name of all that was good and fashionable in 2012. I glanced around at my new sorority sisters, all dressed to the nines. Many of them wore mini skirts, 4-inch heels and statement necklaces that made their eyes and makeup pop. These girls were beautiful, thin and confidently throwing back shots of tequila. I felt so uncomfortable standing there. I wanted more than anything to call a taxi (this was pre-Uber) and escape back to my dorm.

Then, I spotted my sorority "big," Taryn, walking toward my roommates and me. I was so relieved to see her. She gave us all hugs, and after exchanging hellos, I pulled her aside.

“Do you have any shoes I could wear? I feel like I’m a little bit underdressed,” I said, embarrassed. 

“Of course,” she said, smiling gently, “Let’s go upstairs.”

Taryn was one of the best things that happened to me in college. She chose me, and after enduring some of the most brutal years in high school, constantly feeling rejected by guys, being chosen by someone felt really good.

We walked up the stairs to her bedroom.

"Here," she said, handing me a pair of black stiletto heels. "Try these on."

I slipped off my flats and wedged her pumps onto my size-seven feet with the help of my pointer finger. I twirled in front of the mirror—they fit perfectly.

"Thanks," I said, smiling. "I feel a lot better now."

I carefully paced myself as we made our way downstairs, trying not to trip and make things more awkward than they already felt. When we walked back into the kitchen, I searched for Kierstyn and Rachel, always my source of comfort. Even in a room full of girls, I felt anxious–and the guys hadn’t even arrived yet.

Before I knew what was happening, the girls suddenly broke out into song:

“Here’s to sister Emily, to sister Emily, to sister Emily. Here’s to sister Emily, WHO’S WITH. US. TONIGHT! She’s happy, she’s jolly, she’s fucked up by golly. So DRINK, mother-fucker, DRINK, mother-fucker, DRINK, mother-fucker, DRINK!”

Emily climbed onto a kitchen chair, raised a fifth of tequila to her lips, and chugged as the crowd cheered her on. She downed it for a full 10 seconds before pulling the bottle away from her lips and throwing her hands in the air.

"Woooooo!" the crowd of girls screamed.

I was mortified.

Just as I was about to put my escape plan into action, someone handed me a shot of New Amsterdam Vodka in the flavor peach.

"Here," they said, "take this."

I glanced over at Kierstyn and Rachel for a nod of approval. They were holding shots, too, so I figured it was fine.

"Okay," I said, taking a deep breath. "One... two... three..."

I threw back the shot of vodka and immediately wanted to vomit. Someone handed me a red Solo cup filled with orange juice, and I gulped it down as fast as I could, desperate to wash away the burning taste of vodka clinging to the back of my throat.

As the night wore on, people handed me more shots until I beat them to it, and started taking them on my own. Gulp by gulp, my social anxiety faded. Suddenly, my flared jeans didn’t seem so bad. My hair wasn’t so red anymore—it looked brown, almost the shade of Madeline’s from high school. I didn’t feel so chubby in the mirror. And by golly, I was funny. Really funny.

That night, I made out with the first guy of my college career. His name was Ted, a senior on the rugby team. He had a reddish-colored beard and seemed into me. By the end of the night, my friends had to peel me away from him as we piled into the back of our designated driver’s Honda CRV.

When we got back to our dorm, I threw up until 3 AM. Kierstyn sat beside me on the bathroom floor while Rachel held my hair as I puked into the toilet. We’d only known each other for a few weeks by that point, but I knew they loved me—and I loved them back.

I dry heaved into the toilet, trying to get the last bits of mucusy-vodka out of my mouth.

“One, two, three…” I moaned, lifting my head off the toilet seat.

“…I LOVE COLLEGE!!” I declared, collapsing back down.

We all burst into laughter. Afterward, Kierstyn and Rachel tucked me into bed, and as soon as my head hit the pillow, I was out.

The next morning, I was so hungover I couldn’t get out of bed until 3 PM. I ordered fast food and spent the entire day binge-watching The Vampire Diaries, hating myself for acting like such an idiot the night before. Why had I worn that stupid outfit? Taken so many shots? Puked the whole night? And made out with a random guy from the rugby team? Okay, he was kind of cute—but that was beside the point. I needed to change my whole life. My whole persona. It had to be done. Again. 

The next day, I told myself I’d start going to the campus gym and lose weight. I’d hit the mall for a whole new wardrobe, buy some going-out tops that didn’t make me look like I was in my fifties about to go into the office. I’d only go to parties when absolutely necessary to avoid embarrassing myself any further and I would lay low and focus on improving myself. 

Yeah, that was it. Good plan, I thought.

Of course, I knew I was being hard on myself—I wanted the best. Had always wanted the best. And that was the thing about having the best: it didn’t come without sacrifice. Something had to give. So if I wasn’t hard on myself, if I wasn’t constantly analyzing every move and mistake, making sure I fell into line, who else would? How else could I possibly become the best?

Even now, somewhere between Boulder, Colorado and Lincoln, Nebraska, I wonder to myself, Do I still really believe that? So dumb. This incessant nagging and analyzing has followed me all through high school and college. And now, across the country; to the middle of nowhere by the looks of it. I stare out the window. Still five hours to go. And nothing but vast, open fields–a sea of nothingness. Not the best at all.

Suddenly, my phone lights up and my heart drops. It’s a text from Jackson. I grab my phone and open it immediately. 

Jackson:
Hey! I'm around. Haha, no way you're going to be in Lincoln tonight?

I smile and respond quickly, making plans to spend the evening together. The last time I saw Jackson, I was standing in my doorway in my apartment in Florence, Italy. I told him I’d see him later. Yet somehow, our schedules never aligned and I always regretted it.

Italy had been my escape, my one-way ticket out of Sonoma State. By the beginning of our sophomore year of college, I was eager to leave, not because I wasn’t happy—I was. I was enjoying my classes, had made amazing friendships, and Kierstyn, Becky, and Rachel and I had just moved into our new sophomore dorm. But deep down, I wanted more. Always wanted more.

One day, a letter arrived in my mailbox—the letter that held the fate of my junior year of college. I knew that if the answer was yes, I’d be moving halfway across the world to a country I had never been to before. With trembling hands and a racing heart, I ripped open the envelope and read the first few lines, holding my breath.

Please. Please. Please.