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USA250 Journal Project
Personal Chronicle: July 4, 2025 – July 5, 2026
A gift for reflection. A record of now. A story for what’s next.
✍️ Who am I?
I’m Madison Whitmore. Maddie.
Eighteen. Cheer captain. Early decision to Emory.
My mom says I’ve always been “a joy.” My teachers say I’m “a leader.”
My Instagram says I glow. My Notes app says I’m falling apart.
I’m the girl who smiles in every yearbook photo and gets asked to “say a few words” at school events.
I’m the girl who checks her reflection three times before walking into a room.
I’m the girl who’s been told she has a bright future—so long as she doesn’t make any messes along the way.
And now? I’m the girl with a secret that won’t stay quiet.
Who am I?
I’m someone who’s been good for so long, I forgot what I wanted.
I’m someone who writes letters to a child I might not keep.
I’m not a mistake.
I’m not a warning.
I’m still becoming.
✍️ How did I get here?
I got here by doing everything right.
By checking every box.
By smiling when I didn’t want to, and staying quiet when I should’ve screamed.
I got here by loving Carter, and trusting that meant we’d figure things out together.
By ignoring how small I’ve felt in conversations where my voice was never the headline.
I got here one week before graduation.
With a test I didn’t study for.
Two lines that changed the script.
I haven’t told my parents.
I haven’t told Tinsley.
I did tell the nurse in the school office.
She didn’t flinch. That helped.
How did I get here?
By letting people decide for me long before there was anything to decide.
By performing perfection so well, I forgot I was acting.
What has life taught me?
That choice is heavier than it looks.
That silence is a decision.
And that maybe breaking the script is the only way to write something true.
Date: July 10, 2025
Entry Title: Before the World Knew
Only three people know. Me, him, and the nurse who held my hand while I stared at the second pink line like it had the nerve to be that clear.
I haven’t told my parents yet. Greg and Elizabeth Whitmore, pillars of the community. They hosted a fundraiser in our backyard last week and my mom kept saying, “We raised futures.” I kept wondering what she’d say about mine.
His name is Ethan. He’s everything they said to look for—respectful, driven, headed to Princeton this fall. When I told him, he froze, like someone had unplugged his voice. Then he said, “We’ll figure it out.”
But I don’t know what “we” looks like when he’s three states away building a dream while I’m here, becoming a mother.
I’m not angry. I’m… floating.
I wrote this week about the quiet between texts. The ache of wanting him to really see me, not just promise to call.
I didn’t expect to feel this alone while still being loved.
I felt most like myself when I stood in front of the mirror and placed my hand on my belly like a question mark.
I think the story I’m starting to tell is about the space between love and responsibility—and the girl who’s trying to grow into both without breaking.
Family, Friends & Associates
Greg Whitmore – Father.
Elizabeth Whitmore – Mother.
Ethan Hayes – Boyfriend.
Tinsley Carrington – Friend.
