“You are going to go to that party.”

I whisper, as if I were sharing a secret with the girl staring back at me in the mirror. The pep-talk feels like I’m preparing for the Olympics instead of a party. My laptop calls me to watch the next episode of Love is Blind. It’s tempting, but I remind myself I’ve never made memories by watching Netflix, at least not the kind that matter. I sense the blank walls of my half-furnished apartment growing tired of witnessing my binge-watching marathons. The unsettling emptiness is the push I need to leave my comfort zone.

I open my closet doors, determined to find the perfect outfit. My fingers linger on a few options. I carefully weigh the pros and cons of each before settling on a black dress; the perfect blend of comfort and style. “You are going to put on that dress.” I wrestle with the zipper, take a final twirl and lock eyes with myself in the mirror. “You are going to smile,” I command my reflection.

The mantra becomes a daily ritual. “You are going to that coffee chat.” I insist, pushing down the initial discomfort that bubbles up inside me. “You are going to that event,” I tell myself, even though the last thing I want to do is awkwardly make conversation with complete strangers for a few hours. In each situation, I discover new vulnerabilities. I picture the silence of telling a joke that doesn’t quite land or the awkwardness after accidentally oversharing. My palms grow sweaty at the thought reminding me that I no longer have the safety net of my hometown friends to confirm, “She’s just being Grace.”

The sweltering heat clings to my skin, a sensation I’ve learned to live with. I become accustomed to the Texan drawl, and I notice “y’all” is creeping into my vocabulary. Admittedly, making connections in a new city feels like working a second job. Friendships, I realize, will not form overnight. They grow day by day, requiring effort, courage, and a dash of vulnerability.

I put the final touches on my outfit, taming my rebellious flyaways with a few bobby pins. Clothing is about more than fashion; my outfit is a testament to that. I wear it like armor, a carefully crafted attempt to balance fitting in and being authentic.

I glance at my phone. I should have left five minutes ago. “Phone, wallet, keys,” I breathe, giving myself the final pat down. I grab an extra hair tie and some chapstick, just in case.

I take one last deep breath, pulling out my phone as I peer at the screen, using its camera as a makeshift mirror. Looking at my reflection, I notice something in my purse: a pair of quirky earrings I got at my hometown farmer’s market a few years ago. The colorful hoops used to be my favorites, and they feel utterly me. They don’t go perfectly with my outfit, but maybe I don’t have to be perfect tonight. I put them on with a smile. I wave a final goodbye to fear and step out the door. “You are absolutely and unquestionably going to that party.”, I promised myself. So I do.