There is a bench at Elmwood Middle School that I sat on almost every day as a student. I have a photo of myself there in a bright yellow shirt, surrounded by girls who were part of my everyday life. One would become one of my best friends for life.

At the time, it was just our bench. We gathered, talked, laughed, and lived through the very real highs and lows of being middle school girls.

That bench is still at Elmwood. I know because I am too.

Years later, I walk the same halls as a staff member. I've watched both of my children walk them as students. I work alongside teachers who once taught me and have watched some of those same people teach my kids. The full-circleness of it all still catches me off guard.

Elmwood has held so many versions of me. I don't think the girl in the yellow shirt imagined coming back, or that these halls would unearth a dream to support the new girls walking them.

Maybe it makes sense. I remember being one of them. Middle school is such a specific season. You are trying to figure out who you are while paying very close attention to who everyone else thinks you should be. Friendships feel enormous. Belonging feels like life or death, and one weird look in second period can ruin your entire Tuesday. You can feel completely confident one minute and question everything the next.

Working at Elmwood gave me a front-row seat to girlhood again from the other side. And I started paying attention. That led me to create Girl Talk, a group giving girls space to talk about confidence, communication, friendships, self-love, and the complicated parts of growing up that don't always fit neatly into a school day.

Over three years, I've watched girls say things they thought no one else would understand, only to see someone across the room nod. I've watched girls find their voices, encourage each other, and realize they aren't the only ones figuring something out.

Those girls changed the way I think about what girls need. We tell girls to "be confident," love themselves, and believe in themselves. Those are beautiful messages. But through Girl Talk, I realized encouragement alone isn't always enough.

Girls need tools. They need language for what they're experiencing, opportunities to make decisions and trust themselves, and safe places to get things wrong, try again, and discover who they are.

That realization became Girlhood Rising, the work I'm now building in our community for tween and teen girls. Its roots are deeply connected to Elmwood and girls who trusted me with pieces of their lives.

But I also think Girlhood Rising was shaped by the way Elmwood has loved me.

There is something incredibly special about this school. It is a community of people who care immensely and love exceptionally well. When my family was impacted by the tornado, my Elmwood family rallied around us. They showed up in a way I will never forget. You can't manufacture that kind of support. It's simply who these people are.

Everyone you meet at Elmwood is at the top of their game, and it shows. There is a reason Elmwood is an A+ school and recognized among the best in our state. But what makes it magical to me is the heart behind the excellence. These are talented people who care deeply about the kids and families walking through these doors.

I've experienced that as a student and staff member. Most importantly, I've watched my own children experience it too.

Elmwood taught me what it looks like when people don't just say they care. They show it. That lesson has found its way into everything I'm building now.

Sometimes I look at that old photo and wonder what I would tell the girl in the yellow shirt if I could sit beside her on that bench today.

I'd tell her she doesn't have to figure herself out so quickly. I'd tell her that the way she feels things deeply will matter someday. That caring so much isn't something she needs to outgrow. That her experience of growing up will one day help her make another girl feel seen.

I'd tell her she'll come back to these same hallways and find work she didn't even know she was looking for.

The bench is still there. New girls sit on it now. They talk, laugh, build friendships, and navigate the complicated parts of growing up, just like we did.

I don't know exactly who those girls will become.

But from one Elmwood girl to the next, I feel incredibly lucky to be here, cheering them on while they figure it out.