What happens when one is stuck in the “who am I?” years? I couldn’t even pursue the question, because my identity was clear: caretaker, student, bag of anxiety. I had to stay strong, lest my mother call me too dramatic. In bed, after desperately studying trig while listening to Fumbling Towards Ecstasy on repeat, I’d picture a figure to comfort me: a woman, with shining dark hair pulled back in a sleek low bun, with long trailing skirts. A Beth March that lived. An aspect of my own personality, some form of softness I needed but could not ask for.

Walking from my dorm to Blockbuster Video, I paused in front of the small Catholic church/student center. Should I become a nun? My great-aunt was a nun and she seemed to be doing alright. Clearly I was unlovable, so why not? Because I was taking a film class, I went to Blockbuster a lot, so this internal conversation happened a few times a week.

Like many girls my age, I dabbled in Wicca in high school. My parents weren’t particularly religious, and I considered myself an atheist in middle school. But it was hard to deny the appeal of the Goddess. American culture is unkind to teen girls.