I feel like the “horse girl” archetype is pretty solidified in our cultural zeitgeist. We all knew or know a horse girl; perhaps we even know grown women who remain somewhat horsey, with their ballet flats, plaid scarves and heavy-on-the-gum smiles. There has been some acknowledgement of dragon girls too, little girls obsessed with dragons, mood rings, and fantasy worlds, who usually have a necklace with some kind of orb-adjacent item embedded inside. But increasingly, I’m discovering other women who used to be a different kind of girl—the gloomy, dramatic girls who weren’t obsessed with horses or dragons, but instead derived their rich inner fantasies from germ-ridden Victorian tenements and workhouses.
I was (and probably still am) one of those girls. This is my story.
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