Send us a text

Remember when your stomach would flip over one smile from your crush? When sitting next to them at lunch felt like winning the lottery? Before heartbreak had a name, those seemingly tiny feelings were actually enormous – they felt like the whole world.

In this deeply nostalgic journey through childhood crushes, I'm rewinding to those pure, awkward, beautiful first feelings that shaped how we learned to connect. From my childhood best friend with cochlear implants who became my first crush at age six, to the complicated dance of being a tomboy who secretly wanted the boys I played soccer with to see me as more than "one of them." Those early connections taught us something profound about vulnerability – that even asking "want to borrow my crayon?" requires putting your heart on the line.

Celebrity crushes offered a different kind of emotional outlet. Remember plastering your walls with Dream Street posters? Or feeling betrayed when your Disney Channel crush (Ryan Merriman from Smart House, anyone?) suddenly appeared as a villain in a teen drama years later? These parasocial relationships weren't just childish obsessions – they were safe spaces to explore feelings before risking them in real life. And those yearbooks with tiny hearts drawn around certain photos? They weren't just about romance – they were about possibility, about learning we're capable of hope even when nothing's happening yet.

Whether you were a Jesse's girl too or had your own unique path through childhood infatuation, this episode celebrates the soft hearts and big dreams that came before complicated adult relationships. These formative experiences taught us how to hope, imagine, and connect – lessons that stay with us long after the yearbooks close and the posters come down. Take a moment to remember someone you once adored, even if it was only in your head, and honor how those feelings helped shape who you are today.

Send us a text

Have you ever loved something so deeply it became part of your identity? That moment when passion transforms into purpose, creating a space where you truly belong? For me, it was soccer. From age three, standing as a goalkeeper became more than a position—it was who I was. The last line of defense. The protector. Every save ignited something in me nothing else could touch.

But what happens when that defining passion disappears? After a devastating knee injury ended my soccer career, I faced the emptiness that follows losing your anchor. The smell of dirt, the sound of cleats digging into grass, the weight of the goalkeeper gloves—all suddenly memories rather than daily realities. This episode explores that disorienting space between who we were and who we're becoming when our first love is taken away.

The journey through loss reveals something profound: the things we love don't leave us empty—they leave us marked. Soccer taught me to be brave under pressure, to protect what matters, to stand tall when everything feels overwhelming. These lessons didn't disappear with my ability to play. They became integrated into who I am beyond the field. Perhaps your passion was music, art, dance, or something entirely different. Whatever shaped you has left fingerprints that remain, even when the activity itself becomes part of your past.

If you're struggling with losing something that once defined you, or wondering who you are outside your passion, this episode is for you. Share your story of identity and loss in the comments, or let me know what first love shaped you. Subscribe to Just Breathe Confessionals for more conversations about finding ourselves in both joy and heartbreak.

Send us a text

Memory plays tricks on us all, but for those who've experienced trauma, it can feel like flipping through a photo album with half the pictures torn out. That's how I'd describe my childhood memories of Santa Rosa, California – fragmented snapshots rather than a coherent narrative.

When I first tried recording this episode, I described places: houses, parks, streets. But as my boyfriend pointed out, I wasn't actually explaining my childhood – just its geography. This simple observation cracked something open for me. The truth is, I don't remember much about growing up, and it took trauma therapy to help me understand why. My brain protected me by tucking away experiences deemed too difficult, leaving me with random fragments: making orange juice popsicles with my best friend, the ticking sound of the Perfection game, flying down the street on my bike with wind in my hair.

For years, I felt frustrated by these gaps. How could I tell my story without all the chapters? But I've come to realize these fragments aren't deficiencies – they're evidence of my brain doing exactly what it needed to do to get me through. Despite the missing pieces, certain memories of Santa Rosa bring unexpected warmth: playing soccer in the park, Friday nights at Bradley Video Store, skating at the Snoopy ice rink. These aren't just places but moments where I felt truly alive.

If your childhood memories feel scattered and incomplete like mine, you're not broken. Your brain was doing its job. You're allowed to hold onto the safe moments and let the rest stay tucked away until you're ready – or maybe forever. We don't need complete memories to honor our past or understand our present. Sometimes, the fragments are enough. Listen now, and remember to just breathe.