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Twenty years. Two decades since we were awkward teenagers in low-rise jeans and body glitter, singing Usher at the top of our lungs and thinking a Smirnoff Double Black (with a splash of grenadine) counted as dinner. When I walked into my twenty-year high school reunion last weekend, it wasn’t just nostalgia that hit me, but a deep, bone-level gratitude for the women who’ve known me since I was a kid.
The ones who remember the version of me before TV, before Instagram,…
