8 Years Old

Being eight was all about my dad’s house—but really, the family house. My dad’s entire side of the family lived there: cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents— you name it. The place was constantly buzzing with life. Summers were a highlight, spent in the backyard pool playing endless rounds of Marco Polo with my boy cousins (because, of course, the cousins my age had to be boys). When we weren’t splashing around, we were glued to the TV, watching WWE matches I pretended to care about to fit in.

Beyond the chaos, this was also the year I started curating my own taste in music, diving into One Direction’s discography and endlessly replaying Somebody That I Used to Know. Family, pools, and heartbreak anthems—what more could an eight-year-old ask for?