Chapter 2: First Loss of Self

Attention can feel like love, but sometimes it’s the beginning of losing yourself.

When the star basketball player noticed me, everything inside me shifted. For a girl who had always felt invisible, suddenly being seen felt like magic. I wasn’t just Tamra anymore—I was the girl he chose. The one he called. The one he wanted.

Before him, I was the one always laughing. I had more guy friends than girl friends, mostly because I always had alcohol on me. People liked me when I had something to give, and I let myself believe that meant they liked me. Any attention felt like good attention. Still, I had two true friends—the kind you sneak out with, pile into a car with no plan, and somehow make the best memories. But even those nights began to fade once he came into the picture.

I started skipping the things that once grounded me and chasing every party he was invited to. My calendar became his calendar. They weren’t my real friends—I knew that. The girls were nice enough, but they weren’t going to pick up the phone to ask how I was doing. The boys noticed me only when I had something to offer.

With him, the highs were blinding. The basketball games, the concerts, the late-night parties—it all felt larger than life. When he looked my way in a crowded gym, it was like the whole place froze. That kind of attention felt like oxygen, and I inhaled it until I couldn’t breathe without it.

But there was another story happening underneath. In high school I became bulimic. It started as a way to control my weight, but quickly it became more than that—it was a way to have some control in a life that felt like it belonged to everyone else. It was private, secret, and laced with shame, but it was mine. And that battle followed me for years, shaping how I saw myself and what I thought I deserved.

By day, I was the girl crying in biology class. Always. Everyone knew it. I had lost myself so completely that the thought of walking away from him terrified me. If I left, I believed I’d be alone.

The only place I felt steady was in the kitchen. My parents owned restaurants, and I loved being back there, watching food come together. It was my safe place—the one spot where I felt good, where I felt like I belonged. My parents and grandparents were my first teachers, and I learned just by watching. Everyone in my family could cook, and meals weren’t just food—they were a way of showing love. My mom always made sure we had a big meal on the table, no matter how hard the day had been. I still have her recipes, pages smudged and worn, and when I read them now, they feel like a novel of my life.

That’s the thing about first love—it’s intoxicating, but it can also be dangerous. For me, it taught me how fragile I had become when I tied my worth to someone else’s attention, and how much of myself I was willing to give away just to keep it.

The star player was only the beginning. Because once I left high school behind, the world opened wider—and not always in good ways. College was waiting. The parties were louder, the faces were new, and the wounds cut deeper. And one night at Sigma Chi, standing against that wall, I learned just how cruel the world could be—and how much more of myself I was about to lose.