I girlbossed too close to the sun!
AGAIN!
We made it to February. Honestly, January was complete bullshit. I’m legitimately laughing at how naive I was a few weeks ago when I optimistically droned on about New Year’s Resolutions and how clear- headed I felt looking at 2025 as if it was some miraculous kaleidoscope of dreams. L O FUCKING L. More like a shit-filled pew pew, amiright?! Matter of fact, allow me to get some bleach blonde stripey highlights and chop my hair into an asymmetrical pixie cut because I’d like to speak to a manager. January is over and I’d like a fucking refund.
Throughout January, I coped with the stress of the world with my usual go-tos of bed rotting and Orangetheory with an extra large side of junk food and alcohol. To escape the chaos of Los Angeles, I finished the month by indulging in a five-day trip to Chicago where I treated my body like a trash can. Another beer? SURE! Another margarita? NATURALLY! Portillos? WHEN IN ROME! Cut to last night when I arrived at LAX massively inflamed, exhausted, and crying (I’m not kidding, actually weeping) about how ugly I had become. I was fully convinced I needed to sell plasma or foot pics or something to fund a very dire $10,000 lower bleph surgery. I needed a fake tan asap and by the way why was my hair being so fucking STUPID?! I spent my flight scrolling through photos of me from the week prior the way I imagine old people look at faded photo albums, thinking Oh, I was so cute there. Back when I was happy...
So rather than book an urgent appointment with my therapist like a normal person, I sprung into action and spent my flight (this was yesterday, mind you) creating a HOT GIRL GLOW UP GUIDE. After all, I’ve done lots of hot girl research in my day. It would be a breeze to snap back to my pre-Chicago, pre-January, pre-holiday, pre-honeymoon, pre-wedding self. I like wellness, and I’m a Leo so primping is a real hobby of mine. I’d drink lots of water, take several supplements I probably don’t need and definitely can’t afford, wake up at 6:15 am to grunt my way through some humiliating Youtube pilates and punish myself into being my hottest self by teaching the TikTok algorithm that all I wanted, all I CRAVED was content about how to be hotter. I didn’t need to learn how to make boundaries or spot a narcissist or enjoy some ASMR for my neuro-spicy brain. NO! I needed a gorgeous girl with long shiny hair and immaculately manicured almond-shaped nails (“one coat Ballet Slipper one coat Bubble Bath”) to smirk her flawlessly filled, glossed lips at me and hook me by saying some pseudo-inspirational-but-actually-horribly-rude phrase like “Ding ding ding! Class is in session you ugly bitch! Raise your hand if you’re present!”
I recently listened to an episode of the Mel Robbins Podcast, which is my newest obsession. Mel is my current cult leader, and I adore her. I want her to be my mommy and braid my hair and get a little too drunk on sauvignon blanc with me at an expensive but light lunch. I want her to tell me where she got her glasses and make me think that going on an early mostly flat walk with her sipping homemade matcha lattes was my idea. I want her to tell me I’m doing absolutely great, but give me tough love when I’m not showing up for myself. In my ugliest hour, I NEED MEL.
Now a quick but important side note: I’ve always said that I’m extremely susceptible to cults. I’m genuinely shocked that I’ve lived in LA nearly 7 years and haven’t joined one yet by accident. The second I’m promised things like “community” and “guidance” and “clarity”, I’m in. Add on the promise of career success and mental/physical fitness, and I’ve given up my life savings. (I like to say it’s not fully my fault because I’m a millennial, but that would be a lie. I think I’m just severely fucked up!) So there I was last night, back in LA, listening to the Mel Robbins Podcast worshipping at the altar of queen Mel hoping she’d gently bully me into snapping my ass back in gear when she blew my twisted little mind. She said that when Terry Crews was working as a janitor during his pivot from football to animation, he decided to mop the floor as if he was being paid a million dollars to do it. This new self-imposed mantra changed his entire outlook and work ethic, allowing him to be in the driver’s seat of his own life, subsequently rising to the occasion and killing it in Hollywood.
WOW. I mean WOW. Airpods in, my mouth was agape as I air-wrapped my hair with total disregard for what the back looked like. That didn’t matter. I was CHANGED. What would my life look like if I pretended I was being paid 1M to do things that were like, really hard? In my quest to take the control back, I gave myself a self-care to-do list of things I genuinely enjoyed (walk 7k-10k steps, drink water, read before bed M-F, to name a few) and made it the background of my phone, labeled: HOT GIRL RESET PLAN: DO IT AS IF YOU WERE BEING PAID 1M TO DO IT.
MEL WOULD BE SO PROUD!!!
So why did I feel so icky and nervous that my coworker would see my cheugy, aggressive list on my phone at work today? And why was the voice reading my list to me in my head so judgmental and mean? I didn’t hear that voice before my wedding when I felt my best— I just heard my own encouraging voice, so what the fuck was going on? Then I got on TikTok and...well. I saw a video that blew my twisted little mind (again). A young, aspirational content creator with a cute cherry-red Sézane sweater and a blonde blowout looked stressed, rubbing her delicately freckled face in frustration as she revealed her opinion that Mel Robbins, my girl, my mommy, my cult leader, was, in fact, simply repackaging the girl boss hustle culture of the 2010s in a hip, fauxtivational font. And me and all the other chubby, bullied kids turned anxious/depressive wellness girlies (who mere years ago were rooting for the cancellation of Rachel Hollis) were falling for it!
*Insert Vertigo theme here*
I turned the creator’s argument over in my head. I hated to admit it, but she was right. The last time I bullied myself this badly was during the days of Sophia Amoruso and The Wing. I cringe when I recall the journals I’d buy with a motivational quote scrawled on the cover in a swirly, Pinterest-approved font thinking they’d fix me, only for them to collect dust on a bookshelf, filled with blank pages for years to come. Fuck this. It’s time to take the control back. Again.
So I’m gonna change my cell phone background, delete the scary list, and return to my Finch app, which feels safe. And I’m gonna try putting down the Mel Robbins podcast in favor of a funny podcast that makes me feel happy so I can rewire my brain from girl boss to girl, whatever that means. The voice in our head shouldn’t be anyone’s but our own, or maybe our parents or grandparents or the voice you came up with for your dead cat if that feels good. Other than that? I’m not interested in to-do lists that feel like punishment lists or worshipping at the altar of honestly anyone but maybe Lady Gaga. I’m into gratitude lists and doing things because they feel good, not because I’m a loser if I don’t get to them all. As I emerge from my Mel-induced haze, I’m realizing that we show up for ourselves every time we make the choice that’s best for us, and that’s going to look different depending on the day.
Gentle reminders: The sky won’t fall if we don’t eat 200g of protein all the time, we will still feel pretty without $500 worth of supplements, and we will absolutely feel better almost immediately if we get some rest, drink some water, and okay fine, maybe apply some self-tanner. Now let’s have a kind, gentle February, and hit snooze if we have to.
Love
Hannah
PS. Don’t tell Mel!