Olivia: an archive

Reflections from my childhood bedroom.

From a very young age, I always considered my bedroom a sacred space.

If you’ve ever had the pleasure of being invited into one of my bedrooms over the years, you know this. It’s almost like a shrine to myself—pictures, trinkets, obsessions, memories plastered everywhere the eye can track.

My parents always let my bedroom be whatever I wanted it to be. If I wanted to tape One Direction posters on my wall, so be it. If I wanted to stick those glow in the dark stars on my ceiling, have at it girlfriend. If I wanted to paint it teal, teal it would be.

This was one of the biggest privileges of my childhood, no matter how painful I can imagine it was for them. My room was a certified disaster zone 99% of the time from Kindergarten all the way through Covid, until I finally got my shit together and decided it make it a place where a grown woman sleeps, not a 13 year old.

Although it may look different, the ghost of rooms past still lingers. It was once pink with a huge canopy over my head and a castle-shaped toy box in the corner. It was once teal with a painted record player, giant fuzzy chair from PB Teen (don’t be jealous), and peeling paint from ripping and re-taping posters all along the walls. I had a twin daybed until I was like, 21. It is now white with tasteful hangings, a full-sized bed that only touches one wall, and artwork, but memorabilia of my childhood still lingers.

I was feeling nostalgic on Friday night when I returned home for Easter. I keep boxes and boxes of things from elementary, middle, and high school, but only dare peek inside a few times a year. I have an issue with throwing things away, because I think that they will matter to me someday. This is why I have a photo of Tate McRae from a Rhode package I bought on my mantle in my current apartment, which as a whole has manifested into one giant bedroom basically since it’s all mine and I can do whatever I want with it.

I keep every card I’ve ever been given. I love cards and think they are the most personal gift someone could give. It’s also almost too easy. I keep all of my childhood ones in a huge box under my bed:

I have cards from when my parents brought me home from the hospital in there. I have cards from every birthday until I moved out. I have letters my high school boyfriend wrote me, including this piece of paper he handed me during class one day because we were in some sort of fight (shocker!):

I have my first byline—in the Fairfield Warde High School student newspaper—where I showcased nothing but journalistic integrity by interviewing two of my close friends at the time.

Here you can find my passed drivers test, my keycard from summer fashion school, my pin from when I was initiated into the sorority I was in for six months, and tickets to the 1989 Tour:

I have dead corsages from dances past. I have prom invitations. I have GovBall wristbands. I have really awkward senior photos that I hate. I have my varsity certificate from volleyball (in case any of you forgot). I have Apple products of all shapes and sizes that I desperately wanted to use but they wouldn’t turn on.

Will my children and grandchildren receive moldy corsages and the original iPod Shuffle as heirlooms? Only if they wish. I will have to part with these items some day, which is very sad. Especially since as I get older, I’m only collecting more and more. The pen from a restaurant I had an amazing time at. The Tate McRae card from my Rhode package. Chanel perfume samples from Saks from a piece I wrote. The foam fingers from the Knicks—these are all prized possessions I’m staring at as I write this. Here’s a fun little game of eye-spy:

I took a lot of things back with me from my trip for some odd reason. A scarf and a coverup from my cursed closet, some socks. The thing I’m most excited about is a portrait my babysitter drew of me when I was little. I hung it up in my living room, further cementing my home as a shrine to myself:

Speaking of shrines, I am not religious. But my family does observe easter for the basket/brunch of it all. Every year, my parents, sister, and I celebrate it with our dear friend Ally, who this year, showed up with her Wirkin (Walmart Birkin). She is one of the lucky few whose actually arrived before the Hermes cease and desist did, and I almost keeled over in jealousy. It even came with the scarf and the charm.

This week’s purchases include new bras from Cou Cou (I influenced myself from the last letter), and these Justine Clenquet earrings from SSENSE (tariffs ‘n all). I also am now a proud owner of the Sandy Liang Beats—does this get me indoctrinated as an official Sandy Girl? I want a seat at the show. With my headphones Salomon’s, earrings, and Heaven collab top. There is no good way to take a photo to show off your headphones, and here is proof:

It’s finally warming up in the city. I got my stuff back from the dry cleaner. I have a new cashmere sweater that is butter yellow. I feel equipped for the season for the first time in—well, the first time. I can’t wait to forget what the whipping wind feels like and wish for it to return once the sweltering heat moves in. It won’t be long.