If you’ve ever asked one too many questions, accidentally caused chaos just by existing, or been told you were “a lot” before you even hit double digits — welcome. You, Ramona, and I have a lot in common.
I’ve been thinking lately about the fictional girls who helped raise me. The girls from books and shows who didn’t know me, but knew me. The ones who made me feel seen long before I knew how to say what I needed.
This gang of misfits, mischief-makers, and miracle-workers includes Anne Shirley, Ramona Quimby, Velma Dinkley, Punky Brewster, and Jo March — each of them with a little slice of my soul and a whole lot of my childhood spirit. They were a little wild, a little misunderstood, and absolutely allergic to being boring. So, basically, my people.
Anne Shirley
Anne Shirley (of Anne of Green Gables) was the patron saint of poetic children who felt everything too much and named things because it made life more beautiful. She taught me that imagination isn’t extra — it’s essential.
When I was little, I’d walk the fields near our farm like I was in a storybook, gathering wildflowers as if I were curating a secret garden just for myself. I’d make a bouquet to keep on my dresser, carefully shaking each flower upside down to evict any ants that might be living inside — though occasionally, one or two still made it through.
Queen Anne’s lace, blue cornflowers, bright orange tiger lilies — all woven together in my hands like the grandest of bridal bouquets. One summer, I found what I thought was the most glorious Queen Anne’s lace ever grown. It was large, delicate, and full of the tiniest white petals. I plunged my face right into it, deep breath, full Anne Shirley energy, and then brought it home triumphantly with my bouquet of peonies.
That’s when the swelling started.
Turns out, I had lovingly face-planted into hogweed — the evil and poisonous twin of Queen Anne. It was massive, majestic, and apparently malicious. Within hours, my face began to blister in the most dramatic and painful way imaginable. It felt like my skin had staged a protest. I looked like I had been struck down with an ailment so graphic, it could only be referred to obliquely in polite society. I resembled someone mid-recovery from an affliction best described in 19th-century medical journals as “botanical hysteria” or “meadow boil” that required laudanum and an extended convalescence by the sea.
Anne would’ve called it a “tragic yet inspiring” ordeal and probably written a chapter about it with words like ghastly, romantic, and heroically unfortunate. It hurt like heck, but there was something wildly poetic about the whole thing. If you’re going to suffer, at least let it be over something beautiful.
Ramona Quimby
Ramona Quimby showed me that being misunderstood doesn’t mean you’re wrong. She had big feelings in a world that wanted her to shrink, and I saw myself in that. She stomped when she was mad, asked questions when things didn’t make sense, and made messes simply by existing with too much spirit in a space that preferred quiet compliance.
In fourth grade, my family moved mid-year, and I landed in the classroom of a teacher who was about as warm as a freezer door. She was strict, unsmiling, and made it painfully clear that questions — any questions — were not welcome.
I didn’t know the routines, the inside jokes, or even what subject we were supposed to be working on half the time. But when I raised my hand to ask? I got reprimanded. Hard. Publicly. In front of everyone.
Her classroom had rules, but they weren’t posted on a bulletin board. They were etched in the air and covered at the beginning of the year: Don’t talk. Don’t take up space. Don’t need anything. Her unspoken motto was that children were to be seen and not heard — and preferably not seen either.
I got the message quickly.
I spent the rest of that year feeling dumb, like a burden. I second-guessed every instinct I had, like my voice had gone from a bright spark to something barely visible. I lost track of all the progress I’d made at my last school. And somewhere along the way, I started to believe that maybe I was too much. Maybe curiosity really was a bad thing.
By the time I got to fifth grade, that voice — the one that used to ask, notice, wonder — was gone. I kept my head down. I said nothing unless absolutely necessary. But Ramona? Ramona would’ve spoken up anyway. She would’ve asked the question, probably knocked over her pencil box in the process, and burst into tears halfway through — but she wouldn’t have let shame shut her down. She would’ve survived it. Loudly.
Ramona reminded me that being curious isn’t a flaw — it’s a sign you’re paying attention. She taught me that being “too much” often just means you’re alive in a world that expects you to be smaller. She made me believe that asking why, needing clarity, taking up space — those things don’t make you a problem. They make you real.
Even now, when I hesitate before raising my hand in a meeting or speaking up in a group, I try to channel that brave little girl in rain boots. Ramona didn’t always get it right, but she never disappeared.
And I’m learning — slowly, stubbornly — how not to disappear either.
Velma Dinkley
Velma Dinkley is the glue in the chaos. The one who figures it out while everyone else is either chasing Scooby snacks or being chased by a guy in a rubber mask. She’s the one muttering, “Jinkies,” while collecting evidence, keeping a mental checklist, and quietly saving the day.
And listen — I never lost my glasses like Velma did in every episode, but I’ve definitely lived the rest of that storyline. I’ve sat on them, dropped them, popped the lenses out, and snapped the earpieces off in some truly impressive ways. I’ve patched them with tape, super glue, and once, some string. And I still wore them because there was no backup, and I am as blind as a bat.
But it’s more than the glasses.
I’ve always had her brain. Organizing people, untangling information, connecting dots — it’s like second nature. I love a good mystery, whether it’s a missing sock, a logistical nightmare, or why the printer says it’s offline when it’s definitely not. Why is this not working? Where did that go? What is the plan, and why does no one else seem to have one?
If you’re not helping build the ghost trap or at least holding the flashlight, I will quietly reassign your responsibilities and finish the job myself.
And let’s not forget — when things got scary, everyone jumped into Velma’s arms. Daphne, Shaggy, Scooby — didn’t matter. They all knew who the safe one was. The stable one. The one who didn’t scream, but solved.
The older I get, the more I realize what Velma was actually teaching me: That you can be the one holding it all together, even when you’re literally taped together yourself. That being competent doesn’t mean you’re invincible. That you can be sharp and a little scattered. Exhausted and still essential.
You can be the one everyone relies on — and still sometimes wish someone else would step in and handle it, just once.
But we show up.
Glasses slightly crooked.
Plans slightly over-organized.
Mind racing ahead to the next five steps.
Velma never needed a spotlight.
She just needed the mystery to be solved.
Same.
Punky Brewster
Punky Brewster is the reason I ever thought I could be joyful and weird at the same time.
She didn’t match, and she didn’t care. She turned “making do” into an art form — coloring outside every line, mismatching on purpose, and laughing the whole way through. Punky was lovingly irreverent — never cruel, never cynical, just full of sass, spark, and an unshakable refusal to play by anyone else’s rules.
We didn’t have a lot growing up, so my fashion choices were built out of whatever I could thrift, find on clearance, or creatively repurpose from the corners of the house. I couldn’t afford what was trending, but that didn’t stop me from having a look.
There was the full-blown flannel phase, where I dressed like a lumberjack who really wanted to be in a grunge band. Then came the very committed oversized vest-over-T-shirt era, which made me look like an extra in Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure. And let’s not forget the Jackie O/Mad Men moment, when I wore vintage polyester dresses and swing coats like I had just come from a secretarial pool in 1963.
It didn’t make sense to anyone else — but it made perfect sense to me. I looked ridiculous, sure. But I felt creative. I was making something out of nothing — and that felt like power. (Punky Power?) Punky showed me that joy isn’t passive — it’s defiant.
She taught me that you can be a little weird, a little loud, a little too much, and still be full of love and goodness. You don’t need the perfect outfit, the perfect house, or the perfect circumstances to live boldly. You just need your own spin, your own spark, and a refusal to let hard things take away your color.
She reminded me — and still does — that you don’t have to fit in to belong. You can be the misfit, the loud one, the walking exclamation point — and still be exactly what the world needs. Not in spite of your oddness but because of it.
Jo March
Jo March has always felt like my kindred spirit — the literary big sister I didn’t know I needed when I first met her in Little Women.
She wasn’t graceful or proper or especially likable in the ways girls were told to be. She was passionate and messy and full of ideas. Jo didn’t just want to write — she had to. That urgency, that ache to get the words out before they burn a hole in your insides? I know that feeling.
She taught me that the page is a place where you can be fierce and fragile at the same time. Where your voice matters even if no one else claps for it. She taught me that women who feel deeply and speak loudly are often misunderstood — but that doesn’t make them wrong. It just makes them ahead of their time.
There were times growing up when I didn’t know who I was exactly — but I knew I was someone who wrote.
Writing was how I untangled my thoughts.
It was how I fought back.
It was how I found a version of myself that made sense when the rest of life didn’t.
Jo gave me permission to hold a pen like it was both sword and salve.
She’s the reason I chase words when they come whispering in the middle of the night. She’s the reason I journal even when it feels like I have nothing coherent to say. She’s the reason I try to write it all down — not for the audience, but for the clarity and the memories.
Because Jo taught me that writing is survival. And sometimes the only way to be understood is to first understand yourself. And that’s what I’m still doing — one sentence at a time.
So, What Am I Learning Now?
I’m learning that the parts of me I used to second-guess — the imagination that ran a little too wild, the curiosity that got me labeled a handful, the endless questions that made teachers sigh, the optimism that never quite went away — those weren’t flaws. They were early signs of who I really was.
The world told me to tone it down. Be quieter. Be smaller. Be easier to manage. But Anne, Ramona, Velma, Punky, and Jo? They never asked that of me.
They were loud and messy and tender and fierce. They taught me how to live from the inside out. They made it okay to be complicated. To take up space. To care a lot.
What I know now is that those “too much” qualities — the ones that made me feel like I didn’t quite fit — are actually the best parts of me. The most me parts. And they’ve been there all along, waiting for me to come back to them. Not just to remember who I was — but to recognize that I never really left.
Growing up doesn’t mean outgrowing them.
It means growing into them.
So to Anne (with an “e”), Ramona, Velma, Punky, and Jo:
Thanks for the blueprint — for the wild, scrappy, brilliant map back to myself. You taught me that strength and softness can live in the same heart — and that I don’t need permission to take up space. I didn’t just grow up with you — I grew because of you.
Rachel L. Richard is a small-town farm girl turned suburbanite, a delightfully irreverent optimist, Mrs & Mama, floppy dog ear scratcher, lifelong learner, channel surfer, wanderer, believer, occasional creative, out-of-practice musician, cupcake addict, book devourer, and lover of all people.
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