The Comm Girls Who Raised Me

I’ve seen 13 Going on 30 enough times to quote it line for line—and not once have I watched it for the thirty-year-old boyfriend. Same goes for How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days. Matthew McConaughey is charming, sure, but I was never in it for the romance.

I was in it for the girl.

The 2000s gave us a lineup of fictional women with dream jobs and questionable love interests, and I ate up every second of it. While most people remember Jenna Rink and Andie Anderson for their romantic plotlines, I remember them for something else entirely—their careers. Their boldness. Their unapologetically pink professionalism.

Long before I knew what “public relations” even meant, I knew I wanted to be her. The girl with the magazine spread. The girl pitching ideas in a conference room. The girl with a purse full of lip gloss and a head full of storylines.

Looking back, those rom-coms weren’t just movies to me—they were blueprints. They introduced me to the world of storytelling, branding, media, and voice. And while I may not live in a Manhattan loft or wear heels to work (yet), I like to think I’ve grown into the kind of woman those girls would’ve grabbed martinis with after work.

There was something magnetic about Jenna Rink in 13 Going on 30, with her sparkly vision board and her heart-first approach to magazine publishing. She wasn’t just cool—she was kind. Creative. She made being a leader look like a mix of daydreaming and daring. Watching her redesign Poise didn’t make me want to be older—it made me want to be in the room where ideas were born.

Andie Anderson had that same fire. She was willing to fake a relationship for the sake of a headline, but it was never about the guy. It was about proving she could do more—say more. Her ambition felt real, like something you could grab onto. She didn’t wait around for someone to hand her the story she wanted to write; she chased it, chaotic and bold and completely unbothered by the rules.

And then there was Carrie Bradshaw. A little chaotic, yes, but she made a living writing about herself, and I can’t pretend that didn’t have an impact. She turned life into a narrative. She gave a voice to the little things—conversations over brunch, texts that made your heart skip, outfits that felt like armor. Before blogging was a thing, Carrie made it a thing. She taught me that being personal doesn’t mean being unprofessional—it just means being honest.

Later on came Olivia Pope. I watched Scandal without fully understanding what crisis communications even was, but I understood that this woman had power. She didn’t flinch. She walked into chaos and left it cleaner than it started, all while wearing the best coats on television. There was something so satisfying about watching a woman fix problems no one else could touch—and never ask for permission to do it.

Growing up, I didn’t know their job titles—I just knew I wanted to do whatever it was they were doing. I wanted the big presentations. The brainstorming. The speed. The trust people placed in them to make things make sense. And even though I’m not the head of crisis comms for elite politicians or running the next big media rebrand, I carry those pieces with me every single day.

In my work, I pitch ideas that blend heart and data. I write words that I hope connect. I create content that tells a story—even if it’s just a social post, a blog, or a reworked headline. I show up with iced coffee in one hand and color-coded Google Docs in the other, trying to make the work matter.

The pitch of my dreams.

These women—these fictional, fabulous, sometimes wildly unrealistic women—shaped how I see this industry. They made me fall in love with storytelling, with strategy, with the magic that happens behind the scenes.

And honestly? I think 13-year-old me would be pretty proud.