There was a time when one of the worst things you could be called was basic.

It was almost embarrassing to admit you liked the same things as everyone else. Pumpkin spice lattes, romance novels, pink, flowers, skincare, Taylor Swift, bows, ballet flats, beach reads, Sunday resets. If enough women loved it, suddenly it became something to roll your eyes at.

At some point, we started believing that the key to being interesting was being different.

But being like every other girl was never the problem.

The problem was never that we liked the same things. The problem was that we started treating femininity as something to outgrow instead of something to celebrate.

Looking back, I don’t think most of us consciously believed that. I think we simply absorbed the message that anything loved predominantly by women was somehow less valuable. If girls liked it, it was considered shallow. If boys liked it, it was culture.

The older I get, the more I realize that I am, in so many ways, a collection of the women I’ve admired throughout my life.

A friend taught me how to layer jewelry. My mom taught me that making your bed changes the entire feel of a room. Someone introduced me to linen in the summer. Someone else convinced me to wear sunscreen every day. I’ve borrowed recipes, book recommendations, little rituals, and ways of making ordinary days feel a little more beautiful.

None of those things took away from who I am.

I recently came across a comment that said, “I am literally made up of bits and pieces of every woman I’ve ever loved or admired.” I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

Because isn’t that exactly what womanhood has always looked like?

Women have always shared pieces of themselves with one another. A favourite recipe. A signature perfume. A styling tip. A book that changed them. A tradition worth keeping. We watch each other, learn from each other, and carry little pieces of the women who shaped us.

That’s not a lack of originality. It’s community.

And yet, we’ve been taught that if enough women love something, it somehow becomes less meaningful. I don’t believe that anymore.

Maybe thousands of women love fresh flowers because they really do brighten a room. Maybe ballet flats came back because they’re timeless. Maybe romance novels are popular because they make people feel hopeful.

Joy doesn’t lose its value because it’s shared. If anything, I think that’s what makes it beautiful.

So no, I don’t mind if my Pinterest boards look like everyone else’s or if my bookshelf holds the same novels everyone is recommending.

I’m not trying to win a prize for being the most original woman in the room. I’m trying to build a life that feels like mine. And if pieces of that life were inspired by women who came before me, then I think that’s something worth celebrating rather than hiding.

Because the truth is, I don’t want to be different simply for the sake of being different.

I want to be like the women who recommend books to their friends, buy flowers on a Tuesday, host dinners just because, and find beauty in ordinary moments.

If that makes me like every other girl, I’m more than okay with it.

Sometimes it simply means collecting the best pieces of the women who inspired you, carrying them with gratitude, and leaving behind a few beautiful pieces of your own for someone else to discover one day.

Love, Laura