Ready? OK.

My husband and I like to joke that if I were a car, I'd be a scratch and dented FIAT but with well-worn baseball glove leather interior. You know, the kind of car you're certain has driven around more than a few times with an open bottle of Montepulciano in the cupholder and a few drips on the dash? But then you saddle up inside and you're transported to an olive grove ching-chingin' Sicilian seaside with George Clooney. Like Salute! 

But allow me to explain those dents... I'm pretty sure growing up I was field research for Mean Girls. It mostly started in middle school but really hit its stride in high. Week 2 or 3 of freshman year to be exact. Some may say I brought it upon myself. I mean, I went and did the thing that invites more teenage eyeballs and ridicule than you can wag a neon-paint-chipped finger at -- as an incoming freshman, I started dating a JUNIOR. [Open mouth slap and GASP!]

My fashion preference for the heart-on-my-sleeve model done got me in the biggest trouble yet.

I went to my first big junior party. Had a LOVELY G-rated-Young Life-D.A.R.E. student time. Then at the end of the evening, I rounded it out waiting on the front stoop for my mother to pick me up (recall I was fourteen) and enjoyed cherry-topping the affair with -- wait for it -- a MAGICAL under-the-stars first kiss with my beau. I was over the moon like a Disney theme-song-singing lovebird. Then it happened.

I came to school the next day like any other, ready to slay whatever new Spanish or advanced geometry my teachers had to serve up. As I mentioned, it was only a few weeks into the new school year for this pre-InstaTwitBookTube generation, so they were drool-mouth STARVED for some hot gossip to naw at. I had NO idea I'd soon be cast the leading role as SlimJim, the girl who just got b!tch-slapped. Please excuse my French but the expletives best convey the undue treachery.  

So there I was, head held high, shoulders back, and runway model stompin' the hallways like the confident girl I was born to be. Then it all unraveled in an instant. I saw my BFF coming straight for me arm-in-arm with our mutual I'm-still-quite-comfortable-in-this-closet bestie and they looked at me. This stare I did NOT recognize. I was Vito Corleone having just betrayed the family. What's UP, guys?!? Young clueless Leah asks with a slight tug to resituate her Stussy purse slung over her new Contempo Casuals sweater vest. 

We heard what you DID, they accused me in near unison. And like a beeper page I had missed to the biggest rager of the season, I was LOST. As I proceeded to beg for a complete explanation, I learned of the rumors the elder Juniors had concocted on my behalf to ensure I'd never crash their fun again. I will spare you of the exact x-rated details and put it this way: a drunken 90's Pamela Anderson feature in a long-lost Girls Gone Wild VHS had nothing on me.  And just like that, those mean girls had stolen my innocence before I'd ever had a chance to privately gift it away for myself. 

To make matters worse, in those days, there existed nothing that resembled teenage trial court. I was never given my day or platform to defend myself. And moreover, the story was so juicy and well-corroborated by those envy-inducing leaders of the pack that NO ONE believed me. I was branded without justice. And that was that. 

In the short weeks to come, being the headstrong testa dura that I am, I converted my shame and betrayal into a drum-tight plan to take back my life. The outcome was an accelerated high school education that would get me out and on my way to college within two and half years rather than four. Summer school, independent studies, and no lunch period to get in 8 classes a day instead of 7 were the easy part. The harsher reality? I would have no second half of a Junior year myself because of it. Let alone a Senior. No prom. No Senior skip day. No pure enjoyment and pride of what it was like to be the Class of 2000 while partying like it's 1999. Not even an invitation twenty years later to the reunion with all the kids I'd grown up with. Just a quiet exit out the front door of my school on a snowy day in January. With zero fanfare I hopped into a car headed straight for a job at the restaurant where I would meet my soon-to-be husband. And the rest was history. 

1999: the last time I rolled in a girl squad

I share this VERY long-winded tale for two reasons. 

One. So many people lately have been asking me where my unfiltered confidence and general DGAF comes from that drives my authenticity. Well, outside of this current MASSIVE reminder of mortality I'm living through via breast cancer, I attribute it in many ways to the events I've just described. I learned back then that no matter how you behave in real life, people are going to say what they want about it. And I'm pretty sure that life experience shaved off the last straw on my camel holding me back from being the fullest, most unfiltered out-there-if-you-can-stand-it version of me. So, here I am world! Take it or leave it! 

And two. Since that fateful experience at 14, I had more or less sworn off women. Or at least placed a thick bulletproof shield between them and my thin skin. I've stuck through the years to a count-'em-on-one-hand girlfriends approach and it's generally served me well. Until I got sick. 

Since sharing my diagnosis on every social channel I've got, just about every woman I've ever known (or could have ever met) has reached out to me. And to my utter dumbfounded surprise, they've done nothing but lift me up to the top of a pyramid even the Navarro girls could only dream of. 

Every woman in my family was expected [I mean, duh, it's my own DNA!]. But not the rest. Not based on the most scarring robbery of my character all those years ago. 

These women. Dude. These women have done it ALL. From unexpected texts, calls, and dinner to unsolicited gifts, flowers, and CARE. Oh, let me count the ways... 

- A giftbag of goodies from one of my older sister's best high school girlfriends who drove all the way out to my inconveniently boondocks-located home to drop it on my doorstep;

- The owner of my local hair salon who offered to open it JUST FOR ME to cut my pre-chemo pixie;

- A local photographer who gifted my family free photos on a beautiful Spring day so I could memorialize our special moment before things got tough and my beauty and a smile much harder to manufacture;

- A stranger from my town who mailed me a handmade bracelet engraved with f$%! cancer on the inside to help fill me with strength without the world having to know of my struggle; and 

- More loving messages of hope, motivation, and encouragement than I could EVER have seen coming.

I think I may finally understand how those football and basketball-playing boys must have felt as we cheered for them, yelling from the top of our lungs, kicking and jumping through the air to push them to victory. It's overwhelming to feel this outpouring of love, but coming from WOMEN when all I've ever expected were MEAN GIRLS?!? 😮 I'm speechless. And needless to say, now a complete convert. I see how I erroneously used a few bad apples as my sample to form an opinion of an entire gender. My bad.  

But here's the thing, I have no hate left in my heart for those girls back in high school. That kind of toxicity may have even had something to do with my cancer, who knows. But I release them now. And I feel so free and SO FORTUNATE to have all of the beautiful, capable, strong-willed and sassy women of my life BACK in it... even if it took a reminder of death to spur it on. Believe me, I'll never expect the worst again, I swear. It is for ALL YOU GIRLS now that I fight, so thank you for cheering me on. And thank you, ladies, for lifting me up. I'm not lonely at the top. 📣💓