The Girl with the Yellow Barrette

When was the last time you felt fully you—goofy, unfiltered, untamed?

There’s a version of me that’s still thirteen years old, living in a basement dorm room, whispering jokes through a yellow barrette. She’s unfiltered, ridiculous, and free. I was reminded of her again last week at a dinner party with strangers.

The event was called Dine Wilder, a pop-up dinner for women I didn’t know, hosted by a brilliant woman named Emily Shimwell—in a butcher shop, of all places (Two Rivers Meats). I was instantly intrigued when a friend tagged me in a Facebook post: a candlelit long table tucked into an obscure location, with a dress code described as wild elegance. Clearly, they know I’m a romantic.

I knew exactly what to wear—a safari-chic wrap dress handed down from my sister-in-law. And I surprised myself by not feeling the usual anxiety I get before solo events. Sure, I had a few judgy thoughts: my hair wasn’t doing me any favors, and my winter boots didn’t quite match the summer season. I also wondered if the women would be kind—that old school-days fear was bubbling up. But the thoughts passed without much grip. I got dressed and hopped in my Prius.

Emily greeted me at the door like an old friend and handed me a glass of wine. I accepted, even though I knew better. Alcohol and I have been on rocky terms for a while. One glass and I’m guaranteed a bad sleep and a worse morning. But alas—live, learn, regret, repeat.

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The room was something out of a dream. A massive mural of bison stretched across one wall, watching over three beautifully set long tables. It felt like a warm nod to my Yukon roots. I thought of my stepdad, who once took my husband bison hunting in minus 30°C weather, sleeping in a wall tent.

Emily seated me with three women I’d never met. None of us knew, in that moment, that we were all fitness instructors of some kind. Me, hot pilates and barre. That wouldn’t come up until hours later, as we were walking out the door. What we did for a living didn’t matter. We were more interested in how we felt—about life, about ourselves, about the evening’s theme: the untamed self.

(FYI: one of the women grew up in the Yukon, and we lit up. There’s a strong northern bias that kicks in when two northerners meet elsewhere. She could’ve been a serial killer and I still would’ve said, “OMG YOU’RE FROM THE YUKON? ME TOO!”)

The guest speaker, Robyn Savage, opened the evening with a guided reflection. She invited us to close our eyes and remember a time we felt fully ourselves. A time we felt untamed, unfiltered, authentic.

Robyn Savage, Dine Wilder. Photo credit: Gabriela Le Photography, 2025.

My mind didn’t go to adulthood or any shiny achievement. It shot straight to a basement dorm window in Grade 9. My best friend and I had tied housecoat belts to a laundry basket and lowered it out a second-story window to retrieve a pizza from a very confused delivery guy, flicking the light on and off like a ship-to-shore signal.

Later that night, we sat in her room eating that pizza. I picked up a yellow barrette and started doing a ridiculous puppet voice, talking through it like a tiny plastic ventriloquist. We lost it. Pee-your-pants laughter. That kind of full-bodied, throat-knotting, stomach-shaking laugh that transforms you.

---

“…there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world...”

-Mary Oliver, The Journey.

---

I remember being so free in that moment and feeling: this is me. It wasn’t the performative me –just the raw, silly me, totally connected, present, un-self-conscious and in communion with a dear friend.

After the reflection, Robyn spoke about the natural self versus the perceived self. The natural self is the raw essence; the version that makes people laugh with hair clips. The perceived self is the good daughter, wife, mother, teacher, and the one we curate to earn love, safety, belonging.

I was compelled to make a video about it. In it, I explain how I once believed that being a “go-with-the-flow” kind of person made me admirable. I praised myself for my adaptability and my easy-going nature. Little did I know that what I thought was self-less-ness was self-abandonment in disguise. Our opinions, our preferences, our edges is the thing that defines us. That’s our unique imprint on the world.

If you're curious, check it out the video:

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That night, Robyn gave us permission to walk away from any conversation that didn’t feel good. No explanation needed. Just leave.

I didn’t walk away from any conversation that night. Instead, I walked toward something.

At our table, we started with small talk. The kind that fades fast. I asked where everyone was from. We all gave polite answers. Mild smiles.

Then I shifted the question:
“What image came to mind during the reflection?”

Silence. And then I offered mine. The yellow barrette.

The moment I said “boarding school,” something changed. Eyes lit up with curiosity. “What was that like?” someone asked.

I told them: It felt like going to university at thirteen. Co-ed: so yes, boys! And adventure! We snuck out our windows and walked miles to Smitty’s, a 24 hour open restaurant with unlimited thermos’s of coffee that they didn’t seem to mind serving to teenagers. It was wild. It was fun. And it was lonely.

A kind of loneliness I didn’t fully recognize until much later. We didn’t have our parents but only Deans who took care of us. Now, realizing those Deans were only in their 20s—kids trying to raise kids

The word – lonely – cracked something open at the table. One woman shared about her parent’s divorce and growing up in a big empty house, with a dad who was always out with his girlfriends. We both knew that quiet.

I mentioned I’d done therapy around loneliness. That didn’t open a floodgate—it opened a gentle stream. Another woman shared her own teenage trauma. She, too, was doing the work.

We talked about Complex PTSD. Triggers. Nervous system regulation. One woman asked how I deal with disassociation. I shared a technique to separate the past from the present. She recognized it. “You must have a good therapist,” she said.

Two women had children with autism. They connected instantly, talking about how learning to regulate their kids had taught them to regulate themselves. I was witnessing human connection at its most simple, and its most profound.

I didn’t feel that icky overshare hangover I sometimes get when I’ve said too much. This wasn’t a trauma dump. It was four strangers meeting each other in the middle of something raw and human. It was quite lovely.

At some point, garlic-butter candles arrived. Yes, literal burning candles made of garlic butter. You dip your knife into the flame and spread the softened butter-wax on bread. Ours went out twice, but the idea was brilliant.

We talked. We laughed. We shared things we don’t usually say to people we just met. And that’s often what happens when you show up from your heart. When you let the barrette-puppet part of you take a seat at the table.

Sometimes, a little garlic butter and a weird memory are all it takes to bring her back.

That night, I remembered what Mary Oliver once wrote in The Journey:

“…there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world...”

I think I heard that voice at the table. I’ll keep following it.

Question for the comments: When was the last time you felt fully you—goofy, unfiltered, untamed? What moment or memory brings that version of you back?

If this story stirred something in you, share this with someone who needs to remember their yellow barrette moment. Or tag a friend who brings out your wild, unfiltered self.

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