Category: My Story

The Girl Hidden Beneath The Layers

I let her down.

I let myself down.

I neglected her.

I silenced her.

I hid her away and refused to let her out.

She’s confused. She doesn’t understand why.

Why can’t I be seen?

What’s so wrong with me?

Why am I not allowed to become?

She wants to speak.

She wants to be free.

I resented the world that made me feel like I had to hide her.

The way she was — it didn’t seem acceptable.

She was emotional. Jumpy. Easily excitable. A little skittish.

Were those really such terrible things?

She was sensitive, empathetic, introverted, and quiet.

These are not threatening traits.

So why was she treated like prey?

I know now — my mind was trying to protect us.

It thought staying small would keep us safe.

It wanted us to be accepted. Approved. Included.

But in doing so, it buried her too deep.

And she grew scared.

Anxious.

Untrusting.

My mind told her she was dangerous.

That letting her out would risk everything.

That she would embarrass us.

And others seemed to agree.

They liked us better quiet. Composed. “Easy.”

The Woman Pushing Through the Layers

But she’s still here.

That frightened little girl beneath the layers — I still feel her.

She’s still a little unsure, but she’s beginning to trust me again.

She’s slowly, carefully stepping into the light.

She’s starting to believe she’s no longer a risk.

That maybe… she’s okay just as she is.

And together, our hearts hurt a little less.

Still, I carry the guilt.

Guilt that I didn’t accept her.

That I believed others wouldn’t either.

Sometimes, it feels like I wasted the first half of my life.

All that time spent hiding.

People-pleasing.

Performing.

Now, I want to make it up to her.

But I can’t go back in time.

And I’m no longer that girl.

I’m a woman now.

And being a woman, I’m not “supposed” to act like a teenager.

So how do I carry both — the girl and the woman — at once?

Where Do We Go From Here?

How do you make peace with the younger version of yourself?

Can we ever truly reclaim the time we lost?

Are we allowed to play, to dream, to be a little wild — even now — just to give her what we once denied?

Maybe we need a new phrase.

Something for those of us who are too old for “YOLO”…

But still crave that same hall pass to let the inner girl shine.

Maybe this is what becoming looks like —

Not erasing the past,

But embracing all the layers of who we were and who we are still becoming.

✨ Have you ever felt like you buried a part of yourself?

✨ What would you say to the younger you, if you could?

❓Is there a new word or phrase we can use instead of YOLO? Something for the middle-aged?

Share with me in the comments or send me a message — I’d love to hear your story.

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Getting Bullied Wearing Wigs

Growing up with alopecia felt like a battle I could never escape.

It was something I tried so desperately to hide — but everyone could tell.

The wigs I wore as a child looked artificial. There was no denying I had one on.

At school, kids teased me. They’d mock the way my hair parted — “Why does your hair grow in a circle like that? Are you wearing a wig?”

All I could manage was a soft “no,” shaking my head.

Because the truth was unbearable.

I couldn’t accept my own diagnosis, let alone let others know.

They’d think I was gross.

They wouldn’t want to be my friend.

They’d hate me.

So, I told myself: My best chance at belonging is if no one ever finds out.

I just wanted to be normal.

I remember one time, a soccer ball was deliberately kicked at my head — an attempt to knock my wig out of place and “prove” their suspicions.

When it happened, I calmly walked to my gym teacher and asked to go to the bathroom. I didn’t look him in the eye — I was too embarrassed. But he knew. He let me go.

I rushed into the stall and fixed my hairline as quickly as I could. Then I walked back into the gym like nothing happened. I didn’t face anyone. I didn’t say a word.

I just kept pretending I was normal. That my hair was real. That I belonged.

There was another time — a cruel game made up at school. The goal was to expose whether the latest rumor about someone was true.

For me, the rumor was that I wore a wig.

The game was this: one person pulled another’s hair until they yelled “ouch!” — the idea being if you didn’t feel it, it must not be real.

I had no choice. I played along. I screamed “ouch!” at what I guessed was the right moment, even though I didn’t feel a thing.

But I knew the truth.

I hadn’t fooled them.

The giggles after the soccer ball, the whispers in the hallway — they knew.

Still, I kept showing up. I kept going to events, hanging out with friends, attending school, doing everything I could to prove that I was “just like everyone else.”

I denied the teasing, denied the questions, prayed someone would change the subject when it came up.

Because if they found out, I would be a freak.

And I just wanted to be accepted. Understood. Liked.

What It Took to Finally Tell Someone

It wasn’t until years later, through therapy, that I started confronting the pain I had pushed down for so long.

Therapy forced me to speak about things I had buried — and in doing so, I started using my voice again.

I became accountable for my own healing.

And healing meant speaking up.

Sometimes that meant having hard conversations with the very people who hurt me.

I found that writing things down helped. There was something therapeutic about putting pen to paper. It gave me clarity — and courage.

When I had to say those words out loud, I read from the page. It kept me grounded. It helped me get through it without freezing up, softening the truth, or losing my train of thought.

Reading from a letter meant I didn’t have to make eye contact. I didn’t have to read their expressions. I just had to get through it — my truth, uninterrupted.

Some people had no words in response but appreciated the honesty.

Others were thankful to understand me better, and respectfully asked for time to process.

That was enough.

Because once I said it — I could breathe again.

And little by little, the things that once triggered me… stopped happening.

And if they did happen again?

I had the right to speak up.

I could say gently, “Hey — that actually hurts me. Can you not do that?”

That’s what healing looks like.

That’s what reclaiming your power feels like.

Learning to Speak Up

Over time, I started saying how I felt more often. I started saying “no” when something didn’t feel right.

I spoke up when I disagreed, voiced my opinions, even chatted with strangers.

And eventually, I found myself sharing about my alopecia — for the first time — with someone new.

It was a hairdresser. I knew they’d figure it out anyway. But instead of hiding, I chose honesty.

What followed blew me away.

They shared stories of other clients with alopecia. They told me about their journeys, what worked for them, how they coped.

I offered my own tips — advice I wish I had known sooner.

And I left the salon inspired. Energized. I imagined another girl hearing those same tips I’d just shared. I imagined her feeling a little more hopeful.

And that’s when it hit me:

My pain, shared honestly, could actually help someone else heal too.

Why I’m Writing This

I still struggle with words.

I still stumble when I speak, still feel guilt for expressing myself.

But this blog has become my safe space.

My outlet.

My voice.

If you’ve read this far — thank you. Truly.

You’ve given me the gift of being heard.

For the recovering hearts,

Jenna

If this story resonates with you or someone you know, I’d love to hear from you. 💌 Drop a comment, share your story, or send a message — let’s create a space where we feel seen. 🫶🏻

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What It Felt Like to Be Misunderstood with ADHD

Before Diagnosis

The worst part was not knowing I had ADHD — and hating myself for feeling broken while everyone else seemed fine.

I couldn’t understand why most interactions felt foggy. Why I struggled to remember simple tasks or conversations I just had. It felt like a handicap of the mind.

You feel compassion for those who live with visible disabilities, and yet you can’t imagine living like that. But when your disability is invisible — and your body is “healthy,” your genetics “good,” your appearance “normal” — the failure feels like a personal defect. A disappointment. Someone you wish you weren’t.

Every day was exhausting. Every day I struggled. Every day was more proof that I was inadequate and incapable, while everyone around me seemed to be handed the missing pieces they needed to feel whole — confidence, competence, connection.

Knowing that my brain worked differently filled me with dread every time I had to speak to someone.

“They’re going to see how empty I am. How broken I am.”

When nearly every interaction makes you feel foolish, you start avoiding them. The conversations get fewer. The people get more distant. And then the thoughts kick in:

“Everyone hates me.”

“No one likes me.”

“I’m weird. I’m broken.”

So the next conversation becomes high-stakes. You tell yourself this one has to go well. But the nerves kick in. Maybe I mix up facts. Maybe I stutter. Maybe I forget what I was saying halfway through the sentence.

And once again, I “fail.”

Each interaction became confirmation that I was defective — and that people were right to keep their distance. My confidence shattered. My mental health deteriorated. I began to fear speaking at all. Social anxiety took over. I isolated myself.

One of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life was to keep walking into spaces where I felt humiliated — workplaces, social circles, family gatherings — knowing I would likely screw up again. But I kept going. I kept trying. And I kept being hurt.

I was bullied. I was mocked for being “weird,” “awkward,” for “never relaxing.”

People would joke:

“Why don’t you open up?”

“She’s like a cardboard cutout.”

I knew exposure therapy was supposed to help, but in a toxic environment, it only deepened the fear. The anxiety. The damage. Still, I kept showing up.

My family knew what I was going through and told me I had incredible inner strength. That even walking into those rooms was bravery.

Wearing a wig while doing it? Another kind of bravery altogether.

Wigs are… complicated. You get bad ones, okay ones, and maybe a decent one. I’ve yet to find one that looks real. They’re uncomfortable, itchy, and frustrating.

(But that’s a whole separate blog post.)

The worst part of all of it? Suppression. Bottling up emotions became a survival tactic. I had to stay on guard constantly — hide the ADHD, hide the fear, hide everything. Over time, I wasn’t just hiding the “defective” parts. I was hiding me.

And sometimes, those suppressed emotions would start to bubble up — and I’d be terrified to let them out.

What if I lose control? What if I do something I can’t take back? What if I push everyone away and end up alone forever?

So I kept the bottle sealed. I only let out enough to catch my breath… but never enough to heal.

The Vicious Cycle

It’s a vicious cycle. One that’s incredibly hard to break.

The people you surround yourself with can either help you climb out of it — or drag you deeper in.

(In another post, I’ll share stories of the people who played both roles.)

But the truth is something I’ve heard time and time again:

No one can save you but you.

And the moment you decide to change your life — for your good — everything begins to shift.

After Diagnosis

ADHD feels like you’re being pulled in ten directions at once.

Your brain is buzzing constantly. Everything feels urgent. Everything needs to be done now — all at the same time.

So you bounce from one task to another without finishing anything. You interrupt one activity to start a new one. You forget the first thing while trying to remember the third. And because you’re so afraid of forgetting something else, you just keep starting and abandoning.

It’s exhausting. No wonder we feel confused and foggy all the time.

This isn’t laziness. It’s not a character flaw. It’s neurology.

And knowing that? Understanding that my brain just works differently?

It changed everything.

It gave me permission to stop beating myself up. It gave me hope.

It gave me back me.

My brain is not broken. And neither is yours.

We are not defective. We are not failures.

We are healing.

Thank you for reading.

For the healing hearts.

Love,

Jenna

✨ If this post hit close to home, please share it with someone who might need to hear it too.

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Why I Started Wig Girl Interrupted

The Reason

There’s an ache in my heart and a shortness of breath. An unnerving feeling that I am too late. That I’m doomed to never discover myself, to never show myself, to never be understood—and worst of all, to never explain myself well enough so I can be understood. The fear that I’m stuck forever interrupted and never whole, while everyone else around me seems to have done what they needed to feel complete. 

I’ve always been better at writing. My mind is at ease and I’m able to think more clearly. No one is looking at me, judging me, changing the subject, or half-listening. Even when I want to speak—or feel like I can—when is the right time to ever bring this stuff up? I’m not going to sour the mood of a dinner party, or open up during a short visit with family. I want those moments to be happy and meaningful. 

Speaking out loud is so different. I find it hard to concentrate on what I want to say, to express how I feel, and explain my situation clearly. I worry about boring someone, jumbling multiple thoughts, or forgetting the connecting piece mid-story. It makes me feel like I’m broken. I’d rather stay quiet and suppress my emotions than risk proving that belief true.

But suppression is a killer.

I’m such an expert at it, it became my default. I’ve suppressed so much, for so long, that I’ve never fully drained the deep-rooted emotions—and I’ve never truly felt free.

Where It All Started

In Kindergarten, I was extremely quiet—and right away, my family thought there was something wrong with me. I was put through hearing tests because they believed I might be deaf. But I wasn’t. I just didn’t want to give my attention.

Of course, any strong, confident child might’ve said something cheeky in response, but me? I believed in respect. I didn’t want to say anything unkind. I hoped that being kind would show people how I wanted to be treated—how I wished the world would treat everyone.

I was often forgotten, especially in moments of connection—like sitting around the dinner table. I committed to listening, to showing how much I cared. Because caring means you’re a good person, right? I always did what I was told. I never argued, never acted out. I agreed with people, even when I didn’t, hoping I’d be accepted. Liked. Loved.

I was labelled as “special” and treated differently. People spoke to me more gently, like I was fragile. And even though I was sensitive and deeply caring, I didn’t understand why I had to be handled like glass.

Then came the speech therapy, the learning challenges in school, and eventually—much later—a diagnosis at age 39: ADHD.

Repeating Kindergarten, struggling in school… it all seemed to confirm what everyone believed about me: there was something wrong. And I started to believe it too.

The Interruption

The way people took advantage of me—emotionally, relationally, even energetically—stripped me of my identity. I kept thinking, I just have to be nice. I just have to keep pleasing them. Then it will work. Right?

Who doesn’t want someone who agrees with them, supports them, says yes? I thought that was the recipe for love and happiness.

But being someone else’s shadow—always behind, always hidden—sets you up for self-erasure.

To this day, I am still healing from the interruption.

I have to learn what I like. I have to learn how to keep a conversation going, how to share myself, how to even know myself. I spent years serving others—never expressing, never opening up. People only got to know me when something they liked overlapped with something I quietly liked too.

I thought being agreeable and supportive would bring me happiness.I’ve seen multiple therapists, but one finally helped me understand what was happening. She was the one who suspected ADHD. And ironically, I started seeing her for marital issues—a whole other story that I’ll share in a future post.

The Truth Behind This Blog

This is me—getting the thoughts out. Letting the emotions breathe. Releasing the weight that’s sat on my chest for decades.

I’m writing for the ones who’ve felt forgotten. For the ones who’ve had their identity shaped by survival. For anyone who’s felt silenced, frozen, or misunderstood.

The constant interruption in my life was so severe, I couldn’t not share my story.

This is where I begin again.

For the healing hearts ❤️

With love,

Jenna

🫶 Know someone walking a similar path? Share this with them — it could be the sign they’ve been waiting for.

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🖤 Welcome to Wig Girl Interrupted

Hi, I’m Jenna — and I’m finally ready to stop hiding.

Starting this blog feels both exciting and terrifying. I’ve never done anything like this before — no personal site, no blog posts, nothing that asked me to be this visible. But after everything I’ve been through — from childhood hair loss to years of self-erasure — I know this step matters.

Sometimes the scariest things are the most important.

✨ Why I’m Here

For most of my life, I struggled to understand what was wrong with me.

I lost my hair as a child and spent years covering it with wigs, trying to blend in. I froze in conversations, avoided mirrors, and shrank myself in relationships that fed on my silence.

I was anxious. Confused. Emotionally exhausted. I didn’t have the words to explain what I was feeling — or why I felt like I was constantly fighting myself.

Then at 39, I was finally diagnosed with ADHD. That moment didn’t fix everything, but it helped me understand myself for the first time. It explained the chaos, the forgetfulness, the emotional flooding, the years of masking.

But even more than that — it helped me begin coming back to myself.

🕊 What “Wig Girl Interrupted” Means

This blog is my space to speak what was once unspoken — about identity, trauma, healing, and transformation.

The name Wig Girl Interrupted represents the pause I’ve lived in for far too long.

Interrupted by alopecia. By toxic relationships. By silence.

Now, I’m writing my way out of that interruption.

Here, I’ll talk about:

  • Life with alopecia and wigs
  • Living with ADHD (and the shame that comes with it)
  • Healing from emotional abuse
  • Rebuilding identity after years of people-pleasing
  • Finding my voice — even when it shakes

💛 If You’re Here, Thank You

If you’ve ever felt like your brain, body, or heart didn’t work the way they were “supposed” to…

If you’ve lost yourself in a relationship, a diagnosis, or the pressure to be everything for everyone…

If you’ve felt interrupted — by life, grief, shame, or silence — this blog is for you.

I don’t have all the answers. But I promise to be real.

If you’re new here, I recommend you Start Here.

Thank you for being here. I can’t wait to grow together.

With love,

Jenna

🪞 Healing is easier when we don’t do it alone. Pass this along to someone who needs to feel seen.

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