That’s not even to be eco-friendly or anti-fast fashion, which I’m am both, but to say I love an opportunity for a good story too much to not sacrifice a little convenience for the plot.

I just watched a reel of a sketch titled,

“That friend that can’t just shop at a normal store,” and I cried laughing because I am that friend.

I’ll link the reel here, but basically it’s the POV of a friend talking to another friend who is explaining where they got all their furniture, handbags and random trinkets. Every explanation is a short, silly story. These ones got me:

+ “Facebook marketpla-!”

+ “I got this rug on Craigslist… it smelled so bad when I got it”

+ “I met this 87 year old potter”

+ “I saw this on the side of the highway, I made my Uber driver STOP!”

+ “I actually manifested this one”

At first I was just laughing because I know this is me to my friends. But then I began reminiscing on all the little stories behind some of my things, and realized how magical it is to fill my space with numerous little memories.

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Here are a few of my favorite finds and their stories:

This little blue pillar I found on the sidewalk outside my apartment building that I use as a plant stand.

I made a mental note of it on the sidewalk when I left to walk Donna one morning. Then on the way back I was looking at it closer when my neighbors joined me and we started chatting, trying to figure out what it was.

If I’m remembering correctly, someone found another part for it in a trash bin that had a cologne logo on it. From there we were able to search online and find out it used to be a cologne display in the mall.

We stood there for a bit more talking, throwing around ideas of what I could use it for, and landed on a plant stand.

Those neighbors lived in my building and ended up becoming my building family. We helped with each other’s dogs, shared dinners and leftovers, I took their first baby’s newborn photos when they got back from the hospital and they even brought me groceries when I was super sick and couldn’t get out of bed.

My cool plant stand reminds me of that day and I love that I have this memory of street shopping with them.

My favorite mug I bought from a potter I met in France

During my month long stay in Saint-Foy-La-Grande, France, the gal I housesat for introduced me to her dear friend, Jo, who happens to own the local pottery shop.

It became a ritual to stop by after hours and sip a cup of tea at the studio while she cleaned up after one of her classes. She never let me help, though I tried tirelessly.

Our friendship felt years old though only a few weeks had passed. We clocked hours of deep conversation and belly laughs spread out between the bar in the town square’s patio, a dinner party at her home, the dressing rooms at the shop just outside of town and, my personal favorite, her pottery shop studio surrounded by her and her student’s work.

Jo is extremely talented, so buying one of her mugs was a must for me. Now that I’m back in the States, making a cup of tea brings back all the good times spent in that studio and has me dreaming of the next time I get to visit.

My Doc Marten Platform Mary Janes I manifested at the GoodWill in Sherman Oaks

I am a collector of Doc Martens. Well, I feel that’s becoming more recent history than currently in this moment, but the obsession is cyclical. Anyway, I’ve built my collection up to around 8 pairs of Docs starting when I was 16.

Since they came back into style, I’ve almost exclusively bought platform shoes. Doc Marten’s platform Mary Janes had been high on my list for about 4 years.

“Aimee, 4 years is a long time to want something, you could just buy it at that point.” Yeah, and you’re very correct. But I always knew I was going to be able to thrift them for some reason. So I just waited.

One day I was dropping off some wedding film for a client at the only film lab I really love, 35M Pro, in Sherman Oaks. There’s a really good Goodwill right up the street that I’d always stop at when I did a film drop. This day I had a pressing feeling:

Today is the day I thrift the Mary Janes.

Goodwill’s 6 parking spaces were always full, so I turned into the parking lot next door, thinking this hunch was highly unlikely. Unwilling to find out if the Mary Janes were in fact waiting for me, I meandered through the clothing and decor areas first. Finally, I approached the shoe section - the only place I’d not yet pillaged.

Right there on the end cap were a pair of near perfect condition platform Mary Jane Doc Martens in size 6. I couldn’t believe it so I called my sister, laughing that my manifesting had worked.

Now every time I wear them I’m reminded that my intuition is that girllllll, which I couldn’t do if I’d been boring and bought them online.

My queen size bed frame I found leaning up against a tree while I happen to be in an empty U-haul

Right around the time I was moving from my studio into my one bedroom apartment in Los Angeles, my sister was doing interior design for a client of hers. She’d finished collecting all the furniture and decor she bought for the room and needed help unloading and returning the U-haul.

On our way back to return the truck, we passed by the exact metal bed frame I’d been looking at buying online, but had been holding off on just in case. I literally asked my sister to pull over to see if it would fit my bed, and of course, it did. We dropped it off at my apartment on the way to return the truck.

What on earth are the odds of finding the literal bed frame I wanted in the correct size leaning against a tree on the street I happen to be driving down in an empty U-haul. I gifted it back to the streets when I left for Europe, but I love when that story comes up.

My Doc Marten’s boot rug I made at a tufting workshop outside LA

Honestly I can’t remember how I found this workshop; it was probably something Emily saw on Instagram and shared with me. I’d just moved into my studio and was in need of decor, so for my birthday, we attended a rug tufting workshop and it’s one of my favorite pieces I have.

The studio was a mid sized room with long tables arranged parallel to one another, skeins of yarn in every color lined the walls. Each table held around six canvases pinned to 4x3 wooden frames, tufting guns and all the other supplies needed to make a small rug.

Emily and I picked a station and spent the next 4 hours crafting our little rugs - my Doc boot and mini Bic lighter I made for practice, and her free-handed face reminiscent of her acrylic art paintings.

Feifei, the studio owner and one of the cutest, kindest human beings ever, walked us through the whole process. She gently reminded us way more than once to hold the tufting gun straight, to spread out our stitches a bit or sheer off a bit more yarn. Having kept up with her since 2022, it’s so exciting to watch her business grow and include other experiences, like jewelry making and stained glass workshops.

People often ask me where I bought my Doc Boot and mini Bic lighter rugs, and I love getting to talk about the whole process and evening spent at Softland Studios.

My kitchen table from Facebook Marketplace

I spent months searching for the perfect kitchen table for my little breakfast nook. I had pretty much every marketplace listing within a 5 mile radius memorized, and had passed may promising contenders on the sidewalk. But none of them were exactly what I wanted, so I kept up the search.

There were a few options on Amazon that I really loved, but the price tag was a little steep, and I don’t love supporting billionaires so I keep my Amazon shopping to a minimum. I figured I’d waited a while, why not wait a while longer.

Then this glorious chrome table popped up on marketplace. After a quick negotiation, the seller and I had a pick-up time arranged for the very next day.

I walked up the tall narrow staircase to this gal’s apartment to collect the piece I’d long been awaiting. Along the way, we chatted about her upcoming move to New York, my upcoming creative shoot and, randomly, God. I can’t remember how the conversation landed there, but it kept us standing behind my car long after I’d loaded it with the table, dissecting our mutual experience of deconstructing Christianity.

We exchanged numbers and social media handles, wishing we’d met sooner. One and a half years later, through DMs and TikTok comments, we’ve kept up with each other. How cool that buying my kitchen table led to an expected friendship.

So,

There are so many items I’ve collected over time that are tagged with random tales from whoever or however I came across them. In a world where anything can be delivered to my front door, I’m so glad I get to look around at my things and know how many adventures went into curating so many of them.

Hi! Thank you so much for reading my work. I’ve received a lot of love lately, and it genuinely keeps me motivated to publish more. A really, really helpful [and free!] way to support my Substack is by engaging with my articles - Substack sees likes and comments as evidence people are enjoying my writing, and will push my work to new audiences. I appreciate you all! xo

Recently, I’ve been practicing showing up - the scary kind of showing up that feels like you’re making a fool of yourself in front of everybody, but if you were alone you’d probably laugh to yourself about whatever ridiculous thing you just did.

It’s really exhausting and scary, actually. I find myself having moments of panic, like what if everyone around does secretly wish I’d just shut up. So much so that I’ve debated reverting back to a more filtered, polished me when I’m around people, so I can catch my breath from the fear of judgement for a second.

“Why do I keep doing it, then?” I keep asking myself.

Because the freedom of getting to enter a room however I choose feels so good.

I just spent 6.5 months saying, “no one here knows me, and I’m leaving tomorrow anyway.”

Completely alone and in a foreign country, I had the freedom to be whoever I wanted. I could be the quiet gal if I was feeling tired, I could be loud if I was having a good time, I could be wildly encouraging and maybe too emotional to a complete stranger, I could be wise beyond my years for 1.5 hours on the train. Anything, I could be anything and it didn’t matter.

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For the first time, no one had any context of who I was. And with the difference in cultures, I was lost on how I assumed others were perceiving me. I couldn’t tell what they considered too quiet or loud or emotional. It made me realize how often I operate on how I think other people expect me to show up.

When I was unable to follow the pretend script I’d written about Perfect Aimee, I was absolutely shocked when no one cared or even seemed to notice.

Then blossomed a wild idea.. What if I just started showing up as.. me? As weird me? As dramatic me? As bold me? As emotional me? However I felt in the moment, what if I just allowed myself to be her.

Here’s what I found:

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The following conversations are simply a small, great example of what it felt like for me today after I posted a story on Instagram asking for business connections, and was faced with how unserious most men take me.

For nearly a year now, I have been researching, planning, networking and consulting about my newest dream of opening a boutique hotel in Europe. I have had meetings with architects, nearly visited a property I’m interested in abroad, have spoken with my lawyer [shout out Morgan, you’re amazing and inspiring], written a very rough draft of my pitch for investors, met with hotel experts, both in Europe [where I just solo traveled for 6.5 months] and in Tulsa [after being home only 2 weeks], applied to multiple positions at hotels across the country… like I’m dead serious about this project.

So when I finally feel ready to let the public in on what I want to do with my life, I open the door just barely: asking for contacts my online friends might have.

Immediately, two men are in my DMs - neither want to help my business, they just want to be in it. At face value, these DMs are simple and nice. Just subtly shooting their shot - no harm, no foul.

Until you pause to consider my perspective: my genuine business efforts are more likely to be considered as a chance for you to shoot your shot than they are to be considered as a serious business inquiry.

Because the reality is, I wouldn’t be writing this if I were a man.

I’ve just lost some of you, I felt it. But hear me out.

The first guy says,

“What are you interested in within the industry?” he sent.

Followed by, “I have a contact”

I reply, “I’m trying to learn as much as I can basically. I wanna go back to Europe and open my own boutique hotel, but I currently have zero experience in the field lmao”

This is someone who has made obvious advances that have gone unmet multiple times, so I already know the tone of how this next part goes.

“Oooooooooooh fun” he replies.

“Do you know where in Europe?” then,

“Let me know if you want a business partner :)” and finally,

“🙋‍♂️”

There it is.

I roll my eyes and reply, “Not sure yet! Still in the beginning phases of the process and building my network.” Then it reads: Seen 32 Min Ago

So my brows crease.. and I type, “Wait do I not get the contact if you’re not my partner hahaha 😂” because I have to keep it light and not offend them even though I currently am offended. And I also want the contact?

“😂” he says.

“My friend is an executive for _____ x ” he sent.

I was waiting for him to ask for an email so he can make the introduction, just like all of the women who reached out to me today did without hesitation.

“Oh no way that’s sick” I reply. I have no idea what else to say.

“And he is so so lovely. I met him through _______ at ______ x” he says. I can’t tell if the x at the end is a typo or intentional.

I haven’t responded because all I want to say is, “cool, what’s his email?” because you can save the backstory.

I’m being a bitch - says my mind right now.

But seriously. Do you want to share your contact you reached out to me to say you had, or no?

That might sound harsh, and I understand that. But this is where I’d love if we considered my point of view for a minute.

Here’s how I feel: This whole interaction negates how serious I am about this project. It is really weird to me that a man with zero details of my business plan, zero inquiry about my process/ where I’m at so far and zero ambition to work in the hotel industry prior to this interaction, is all of the sudden asking to be a partner in this project I’m working really hard on. It’s frustrating he reaches out to me with the promise of a business contact, only to play with it in my face. That’s not a business proposal, that’s a waste of my time and is insulting to all the time, energy and resources I’ve invested over the last year.

It is obvious to me and to you that this was never meant to be a real business proposal in the first place. “It’s not that serious” you might be thinking. But, it is. And it’s time we start considering the implications of the things men offer women, and stop acting like their ploy for attention/ affection/ connection dismisses what they’re effectively communicating to us. I ask that we recognize packaging interest as empty offer of “support” is a fucked up way of trying to get our attention. It’s especially inconsiderate when it pertains to fields women have historically been barred from, like entrepreneurship for example.

It is difficult enough to gain momentum as a single woman with a big fat dream in a field I have no experience in. Fighting to be seen as legitimate is hard enough without the noise of men’s tone-deaf advances in the mix.

I can’t help but think this is mental gymnastics men don’t have to deal with when someone offers them a business contact. And am annoyed at the thought of being criticized for the way I chose to balance a man’s feelings who has no interest in considering mine.

I think it’s best if I just don’t respond.

Which brings me to the next example:

“Currently seeking connections in the hotel industry - if you know of anyone or are in the industry yourself, I’d love to connect!” my post reads.

And a guy responds “same actually”

This is actually the second time I’ve received this DM from him. The first time being to my story that said “My new moon ritual this month is just harmonizing with Olivia Dean.” I was serious about that.

I say “is that ur fav line?” because I meant that, and not in a flirty way.

“I think we’re just on the same wave length ya know?? Ha” he replies.

I ignore it.

Half an hour later he follows up with “But I am genuinely interested in the hotel contacts. Tell me about it if we see each other at the coffee shop soon.” which, I clearly see as an innocent, completely noncommittal invite to hangout.

But here’s the other side of the same coin: you just asked me to hand over my networking contacts that I’m working to get from my established relationships online, without even thinking about how that might land with me. I can’t imagine him asking some guy on Instagram to share their business contacts with him, who could be their potential future competitor?

I know, I know that sounds like a stretch because that’s not what he means at all. He’s just finding a way to meet up at the coffee shop - that’s what he’s getting at, he doesn’t actually want to talk serious business. BINGO, and that’s what is so frustrating. When it’s between two men, it’s actually business. And with me, it’s merely prospect.

I’d love for men to realize their impact is not the same as their intention. I simply want to move forward in my business, and a majority of the men willing to interact with me aren’t even considering my efforts to be anything but an invite to shoot their shot - and not even in an intentional or straightforward way.

Men need to be okay with two things being true at once: you’re not being evil, you’re simply reaching out to someone you’re interested in, AND it’s really fucking annoying to interject yourself into a woman’s life without any real consideration for her perspective, especially when it comes to topics that men have blocked women from participating in for centuries.

At no point have men needed women to get where they want to go in business because that success was designed for men, by men. Historically, women have depended on men in every facet of life, but especially in business and entrepreneurship because men have had hundreds of years to get ahead of women and now hold the resources we need because of that. [can’t help but recognize the parallels between this point and how it applies to white people in respects to racism/ POC]

As someone who has de-centered men’s opinions from my life, it’s time to start giving how I feel some damn validity lmao. The reason this might sound radical is not because I’m a man-hating lunatic who can’t appreciate being hit on; it’s because we have normalized a world in which women must constantly navigate advances wherever and whenever men want to make them, as if it’s not belittling and frustrating.

I am not a man-hater - in fact I’m ready to meet a hottie and fall in love any day now. I wrote this with careful consideration, making it known that I understand the innocence behind both these interactions and can see why this has been so normalized. But I have a different point of view that I’d like to present as valuable because two things can be true at once.

You’re just shooting your shot. And I’m just pissed I have to sort through this nonsense to find genuine interest in my business plans.

Men who are unwilling to consider our perspectives make very selfish decisions when it comes to how they interact with us. And my GOD it’s exhausting to be expected to be polite about it all the time.

I’ve also spoken with multiple women about this article prior to posting it. They all related with it and encouraged me to move forward with publishing - just so you know I’m not the only one with this perspective.

Perhaps, instead of piggybacking off my invite to DM me with valuable information as a way to connect, create the opportunity yourself. I know that reaching out to someone you’re unsure how they feel about you is scary - I do it all the time - but if you’re seriously interested, then take interest seriously. Anything else is expecting a woman to shoulder the emotional labor of dealing with your nonsense, and I think we’re nearing the end of our rope when it comes to dealing with it kindly.

“I’d love to grab coffee with you sometime if you’re available, I’m free next week on Tuesday if you’re interested.” Then, if you’re actually interested in my business ventures, bring it up then. “I saw you’re interested in the hotel industry, me too! Tell me about it, maybe we have helpful information for each other.”

Honestly the first conversation started off great with specific, intentional questions. It just lost me when I realized they were bait under the guise of taking me seriously.

There’s nothing wrong with shooting your shot, but actually consider the person you’re approaching, please.

Also, if you’re reading this and have any connections in the hotel industry, I’d love to connect :-)

The clock reads 06:37, and I’m immediately so upset.

I’m supposed to be 37 minutes deep into my favorite yoga class right now. Instead, I’m angrily staring at the orange ‘tap to snooze’ button stretching across my lock screen.

Before bed, I laid out my outfit like a school girl eagerly anticipating the first day of class and double checked my phone volume was on loud. How this alarm went off in complete silence is confusing. And devastating.

Back in November 2025, I spent some time in my hometown between selling everything in LA and backpacking through Europe for 6.5 months. It was an emotionally challenging transition into the unknown that I was determined to extract any meaningful experience from.

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In previous difficult phases of my life, yoga has been a practice that ties me back into my body, inviting me to be present in the most physical and mental way. Arriving on my mat was one of the first places I allowed myself to show up imperfectly, accept that every practice isn’t going to be my best and focus intently on exactly what my body needs in the moment it needs it.

As someone who grew up in the church, this felt groundbreaking. Suddenly, putting myself first felt sacred, not sinful. I watched that lesson slowly bleed into how I viewed my life and where I began giving myself permission it be imperfect, do what felt like my current version of ‘best’ and tune into my intuition.

My world was transformed. Not because yoga is the answer to life, but because of how it encouraged me to dive as deep inside myself as I wanted, with no judgement on how long it took or what it looked like when I got there.

Yoga is a very intimate practice for me. As a survivor of sexual assault, my relationship with my physical body remains complicated. When I began exploring yoga, it was in tandem with very intense therapy sessions that unpacked a lot of how I’d been conditioned through my 1.5 years of abuse at age 19. Therapy helped my brain regain control of my perceptions and beliefs, and yoga gave me the physical opportunity to own my own body again.

It was the first time that the vulnerable positions my body was in was under my control and served no one else but me. I felt powerful for the first time in 8 years; many shavasanas were spent silently sobbing on my mat as relief flooded my muscles.

After one practice in February 2024, I wrote in my journal:

“I’m here. I’ll always speak up first. I will always make room for me. I will acknowledge every hurt, every frustration, every pain. With me, I can be expansive. I can be it all.

I’m 19 years old, laying in a yoga studio in 2024. And I am healing. I am 19 years old, laying in a yoga studio in 2024, surrounded by complete strangers and I have never felt more supported by the ground. I am 19 years old, laying in a yoga studio in 2024. And I feel held for the first time. I am 27 years old, laying in a yoga studio in 2024. And I am still alive.

I just genuinely love myself. And all of the versions of me I’ve been. I’ll make it my life’s work to make sure each of them is cared for.

I am 27 years old, laying in a yoga studio in 2024. And every single thing I’ve been through has led me to this moment. And I’m still choosing to show up for myself. I am so damn proud of me.”

It was now 2025 with my whole life an uncharted path in front of me, and I sought that same grounding experience upon my arrival in Tulsa after leaving LA. So I began the search for a yoga class.

The thing is, LA has a tendency to spoil you without you even being aware. LA movie theatres hit different, dozens of incomparable restaurants line the streets, any shop you could want exists anywhere you want it and pretty much all yoga studios harbor top-of-the-line instructors.

I hopped on ClassPass in Tulsa to try out a few studios. After my first few classes, I couldn’t help but feel like a spoiled brat who was devastated I’m not getting a pony for my birthday - the practices just weren’t what I had in LA.

While it didn’t make me dislike Tulsa, it did make me miss California.

Then I went to Open Eye Yoga Studio’s 6am sunrise class.

The room was dark and large. The supply room was heavily armed with blankets and eye covers and blocks and ropes - anything you could need for a good practice. Crystals hung from the ceiling and sat in the corners of the room with candles. The music was soft and leaned more toward meditation than pump-up jams. And everyone who attended was just as serious about shavasana as I was.

It was the metaphorical pony of my dreams.

My only hesitation was the instructor was a man. I’d only attended a singular class that had a male instructor, and it was great. But yoga being what it is to me, I’ve always felt more comfortable with women leading the class. A male instructor, usually the only person in the room with their eyes open, telling female attendees in spandex how to move their bodies and checking their form - it’s a lot of power to trust with a stranger. I decided to go and simply observe how I felt - I could always decide to try a different class next time.

I am so thankful I stayed curious instead of scared. Within the first 15 minutes of meeting me, the instructor made it apparent he understood the delicate situation. A majority of the practice his eyes were on the floor, occasionally glancing up to check our form and offer verbal corrections. He would walk to whatever side of the mat our heads were on during the more compromising poses.

After class he would ask for feedback, giving us the opportunity to raise concerns or even just request different flows. These little things showed us he cared about creating an environment that catered to our comfort and goals with our practice. Always respectful, always encouraging and genuine.

One day I told him about my solo travel plans, mentioning my nervousness about the unknown. He responded with something he’d recently told his college-age daughter:

“It’s not an adventure if you know how it ends.” Which stuck with me.

My entire year ahead was completely unknown. I’d just sold everything I owned but my dog and my cat, and was about to head off of on an international solo trip without an itinerary. But at least I knew where I’d be twice a week at 6am for 75 minutes for the next 2 months.

Before I left on my trip, my instructor gifted me a journal and a pen to bring with me. He, not even knowing I’m a writer, encouraged me to journal about my journey, saying I’m going to want to look back and remember the details. It was a teary goodbye after that last class. I remember leaving thinking, wow, what an insanely thoughtful and intentional gift to receive, and thanking the universe that magic like this exists in my world.

So now, laying in my bed at 06:37, I’m pissed I accidentally slept through my first sunrise class after 6.5 transformational months abroad. With the next phase of life etched completely in the unknown once again, at least I know where I’ll be twice a week at 6am for 75 minutes for however long Tulsa keeps me.

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I took a trip to my middle yesterday, and when I peeled back the flap that keeps it shut, I peered in at all my fear. They gasped from the sudden exposure to the light I let in.

‘I’m sorry,’ I thought, but I didn’t say it. I couldn’t fully face them like that.

I tell everyone to be brave. I show everyone how, too, I’m told. Everyone is wowed by my ability.

But I’m actually a big, big coward. I just keep putting it off showing it until tomorrow.

I don’t face my fear, I eat them. I swallow them whole right down to my middle, the way I used to tell myself I fed them to god. But if I examine them, I can find the ones I flung down there in high school. God never took them. They’re still there, waiting for whatever end you’re supposed to deliver them to.

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My body is on my final flight home, but I cannot find myself here in seat 29L.

My eyes stare out my window through a coating of someone else’s forehead grease - clearly they were into the view, I think, or maybe they were asleep, unaware of it at all.

But I notice the veins of Charolette. Sand colored plots of land dotted with a perfect grid of new trees. Tan roads stark against the deep green terrain they cut through. Houses huddled together as if in fear of being swallowed by the vast fields around them. Pockets of water that deepen in color toward their middle. I see the sky as it slowly melts into horizon, muddied by the smog and clouds masking the seam between blue and land.

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My mind wanders.

I think my feet are still walking alongside thousands in an unexpected parade celebration in York. They’re being sucked into the ocean floor with every tide that pulls the waves back out to sea in Cadíz. They’re still on their tip toes in the hostel shower in Edinburgh because I forgot my shower shoes.

My arms are still busy tossing my nieces and nephew into the air, twirling them around the room, squeezing them tight. In Bath they’re balancing my camera on one side while I switch out lenses with the other in front of an apartment built in 1800. They’re growing tired of carrying all the groceries from the store up the street in Blackheath. They’re waving down the bus in Salisbury so we don’t miss it this time.

My hands are still fumbling in my bag for my train ticket to show the agent patiently waiting with their scanner. They’re still playing the piano at the station, the bar, the house I’m housesitting. They’re texting a thread of live updates to my best friend after I embarrassed myself in front of the hottest man I’m sat next to on my way back to London. They’re pressing the shutter on my camera, documenting life in Germany then Scotland then France then Italy.

My back is aching under the straps of my big pack. It’s sticking to the seat in the unrelenting heat of the tube in Paris. It’s pressed to the trunk of the tree I’ve found while anticipating particularly scary news in Frome. It’s sunburned on the areas difficult to reach with sunscreen on my own. It’s reminding me we’re almost 30 now.

My legs carry me up 405 steps to the Citadel in Belgium, then pause to take in the view. They’re getting itchy from the grass field we found to watercolor in in St-Foy-La-Grande. They’re sore from the 27,000 steps they took while walking and talking to a stranger in Cambridge. Or from doing backflips off rocks on the beach in North Berwick. Or from dancing in the living room with my favorite 75lb dog, Bodhi.

I, myself, am wrapped up in a million conversations. I’m laughing about a misunderstanding caused by differing cultural norms in Thirsk. I’m crying with a new mom in Frome. I’m learning all about my hosts life growing up attending Wimbledon regularly in Esher. I’m using Google Translate to chat with a woman in a laundromat in Oostend. I’m supporting a small business owner in Paris and St Foy and Shrewsbury and Frome. I’m cheering on a football team I don’t know anything about with a group of friends who adopted me in East Moseley. I’m raging about women’s rights with other women in every city.

The sudden jerk of the plane landing in my hometown sends me forward in seat L of row 29. My hands are folded in my lap, arms propped against the hard plastic armrests. My feet push my legs back into my seat until my back touches the vertical spine of the chair. I’m sitting next to a stranger who has no idea I’m about to hug Donna for the first time in 6.5 months.

This trip has transformed and moved and changed and molded me. Everything has shifted. I’m unable to identify what “everything” is, but I anticipate the lengthy process of noticing it as I slowly arrive to the present.

Stay tuned. Xo

Passing by houses shielded by the line of trees that reach out toward the train I’m on as we wiz past. My window like a cinema screen as moments of people’s lives, framed by branches, play out to my amusement.

A mother squatting by the edge of her garden, one hand on the back of her toddler while the other points around to the different herbs and vegetables she’s planted. She looks enthusiastically between a plant and her son who wears a red and white striped long sleeve and a diaper; her face telling just as much of a story as the words I can see her mouthing.

And then it cuts to leaves again, until I pass another house in a neighborhood this time.

A man sits in the shade of the umbrella that sprouts from the middle of his porch table, the lawn surrounding him perfectly maintained and green. He’s facing the train, and for that split second I wonder if he sees me. I think about how often we’re viewed in a moment that feels so private being a spectacle goes unnoticed entirely.

Each train station we pause in is swimming with more and more people. Some are in a rush. Some clearly frequent this route. Some travel alone and others in groups of either friends or family, I can’t make out for sure. Each actors in today’s movie, each with storylines just as complex as my own.

The trees break to show me a man on a walk. I wonder if it’s music that plays in his headphones or the sound to whatever he’s viewing on his phone.

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I watched a spider spin a web on the bodice of my dress at the Mall in London today. I lay reclined with my elbows propping up my torso as the tiny black spider scrambled his way over the ruching of the fabric. A near invisible thread of web subtly marking his path. ‘How funny, I must be like a playground for this little guy,’ I thought.

But spinning a web is more than play, I realized. It’s a homemaking.

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Silently memorizing how palms feel with the tips of her fingers while she listens to an old story from college. Her head rising and falling with sleepy breaths of the chest she leans against. She sends the best middle-of-the-night texts to wake up to. Messages that can only be written by the girl who honors being so intimately known. Her attention feels like a vast audience; nothing goes unnoticed.

She knows the art of a well timed inside joke and can make grocery shopping feel like a game at the state fair. Notes in her neat handwriting wait to be discovered on napkins at the bottom of lunchboxes. She prides herself on knowing which friends can be trusted with helping plan the surprise party and which ones are invited last-minute to avoid spoiling it. She has frustrations, phone numbers, coworker’s names, preferences and favorites memorized.

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Days become easier and nights become safer when she’s there. Devastations are gently cradled in her arms. Anxieties she ushers softly to the side, making room for understanding as she settles in nearer, legs draped across laps to listen closely. Thoughtfulness takes on a new dimension entirely.

Family members say things like, “she’s a keeper, you know that right?” when she’s around. She pretends she didn’t hear them, but she squeezes the hand she’s loosely holding anyway because she hopes it’s true.

I miss being the one to say “I love you more.” Or “longer.” Or “most.” I miss surprising someone with how capable I am at seeing them fully. And showing them all the ways I choose to choose them, even so.

Traces of her live in my friendships, there’s evidence in how she cares for me. And though I don’t dream of being in love again, I miss the piece of me that exists when I am.

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I really cherish hearing from you in the comments. I want to know, what’s your favorite part about you when you’re in love?

Sometime in the early 2000s, angel hair pasta sticks to the walls of Grandmother’s pot on the black electric stovetop in her brown kitchen. Butter solidified in tiny droplets along the sides. Thick brown carpet cradles my seat bones in the next room over. I lean against the white couch flecked with tan as Tom and Jerry dance across the television screen. Her TV is one of those big, stand alone pieces of machinery that takes at least three people to move. Its screen is 3x the size of the one we have at home.

Out of thin air a white ceramic bowl appears in my hands, though if you look close enough you’ll see my Grandmother’s fingerprints on the silver of the fork tangled in my pasta. She’s already on her way back to the kitchen to offer me a Dr. Pepper, too. Of course, I’ll say yes enthusiastically.

This version of myself, a child sitting in my Grandmother’s familiar living room, is who I return to when overwhelm embeds itself in my chest. When decision fatigue finds my ecosystem particularly fragile, I make noodles. Then I’m there again, in some fold of time, with Grandmother on her way back with a cold can of soda in hand.

I picture the landscape paintings and the wooden clock hanging on the white textured walls. The cold bricks of the fireplace dig into my always-barefoot feet as I repeatedly jump off them while the adults sit discussing something I’m not particularly interested in. The roller catch on the cabinet door gives way to reveal where the Barbies are stashed when I tug on it hard enough. I carefully navigate the backyard to avoid the pokey parts in the grass. The iron-legged stool seats let out a whoosh of air when I sit down at the kitchen counter. My late Papaw’s voice rings out from their landline’s answering machine and I recite every word along with him. My mouth burns from the Hot Tamales Grandmother always, always keeps in a big glass jar on the hutch by the table. And I take a bite of her world class buttered noodles.

When I open my eyes I’m sitting on a stranger’s couch somewhere in Europe. The bowl in my hands unfamiliar, and the view out the window, foreign. But the taste in my mouth softens the sharp edges of everything that demands my attention, and I let my memories hold me for a while.

Thank you, Grandmother, for creating such magic out of simplicity. Selfishly, I’m thankful you did it with so few ingredients, too :-)

If Summer is a woman in love with herself, what are Spring, Fall and Winter?

Inspiration hit immediately and I ran to grab my computer, thoughts already turning in my head. This is what I wrote:

Spring.

Spring is a woman on the cusp of mastering that song on piano. It’s the deep breath she takes right before the “TS” [trouble spot] her instructor marked above the hardest part of the piece on her sheet music. It’s the dialog rambling in her head while her fingers fly across keys with precision, urging her to remember that one note while her audience remains none the wiser.

Spring is that one note. The one that ushers in Summer when it’s finally played correctly and on time with the rest.

Fall.

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Of course I had butterflies for this boy. I’d made up my mind that I was going to marry him from the moment he moved in across the street when we were six years old. There exists a long receipt of Textfree texts, FaceBook comments and random tweets from our teenage years that support this claim.

“It’s just, I never had butterflies for you,” he admitted, nearly 4.5 years, a ring, a wedding dress, a venue and a photographer in.

When I tell people this story, they’re mortified. They go immediately to comfort me, even though this was four years ago, because who wouldn’t be absolutely crushed by the betrayal. It’s all I can do to fend off their awkward pats and hand holds - I’m not much of a hugger when it comes to things like this.

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But I’m so fucking glad he said that to me. What most people interpret as a brutal execution, I understand as a mercy shot. I was put out of a misery I wasn’t even aware of - a relationship with someone who knew how he felt and still thought his uncertainty dressed up as real love was enough of a life for me. He didn’t mind if I lived tethered to someone whose stomach went dead when thinking about me.

In one sentence, he eliminated any dream of returning to him. Every fond memory I held of us over the 19 years we’d been in each other’s lives now had a thick, oily film over it, so I couldn’t exactly examine it and walk away knowing fully what I was looking at. Everything felt like a question mark.

I recently read a Substack by Lindsay Hall, where she talks about how stumbling upon her boyfriend’s ChatGPT uncovered his innermost thoughts about her; the most notable was “I’m just not proud of her.” That was her mercy shot, though it took her awhile to bleed out fully.

At the end of the article she writes a lengthy, what I’d consider unnecessary, explanation on how she knows she was wrong for reading his chat and that he isn’t really a villain and that they just weren’t meant for each other in the end. And, frankly, it pissed me off to read. I saw the conditioning women are taught - defend the person who hurt you most because you’re able to value their humanity when they don’t give a shit about yours. Their wrongs are never enough to negate the potential we know exists if they would just x, y or z.

I know this because the first thing I said to my ex after he ended things was, “I’m so sorry, this must be so hard for you.” I saw him, practicing vulnerability, finally letting his inner conflict out to see the light of day, and knew how difficult that was for him. My world was falling apart at no fault of my own, my dreams actively disintegrating in front of me, and there I was cradling his feelings like a baby bird fallen from its nest. Like I always had done.

The comments Lindsay pinned make me wonder if she sees her violating his privacy as the unforgivable sin, not her boyfriend’s complete disregard for her as a person. So, I left the following comment on her post:

Patriarchy is the system to which I refer here. The long established social, economical and relational system that structures the success of women on their proximity to man. Until very, very recent history, the understanding being a man was to have a wife, he need only to choose which one. Her means of survival, of livelihood balancing on whether or not she pleased him enough to keep around. A system that thrives whether or not you, personally, love your wife. This institution is beginning to crumble, but we are still a generation raised by women who knew little choice, who live in a country with policy still playing catch up with the side effects.

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My relationship ending wasn’t so much of a break up as it was a complete revelation of how little he considered me - and that’s what pisses me off the most.

I don’t doubt that he loved me in whatever limited capacity he was able to. My support carried him through unbelievable hardship, my love gave him a soft place to land, my celebration enhanced his achievements, my grace was as deep as the God I was told to serve. He had no reason not to love me. But his love was selfish and insatiable.

My wedding dress, I still have though not on purpose. I’d had this dress saved long before he filled the groom slot in my wedding fantasy. It was a fantasy in and of itself, the price tag being what it was. But, by some cruel design of the gods, I found that very dress, altered down from an XXL to a 00, at a bridal resale shop 10 minutes from where I lived in Los Angeles. For less than half the price no less. It was so perfect I bought it without my mom even being there to witness.

My ring, maybe the thing I’m most upset about. A thoughtfully crafted, unique double banded ring with a 1.5 carat marquise cut diamond at its center. Hidden beneath the behemoth of a stone were more little stones - a hidden halo it’s called. I remember climbing into the car after leaving Israel Diamond thinking, “wow, so this is how ring shopping feels.”

He let me pick out a dress, reading his credit card details over the phone to the gal at the store who zipped me up. He toured venues in Oklahoma, scanning the rooms for me with his phone while I sat excitedly in California on FaceTime. He took me ring shopping, standing at my side as I explained every detail of the ring I’d designed over my years of working in the wedding industry. He let me believe it was finally my turn, knowing he never even had butterflies for me.

Everybody knew he was going to break up with me before I did. He’d told my parents the Sunday before I flew in to Oklahoma on Friday, that he wouldn’t be proceeding with the official proposal. He’d told my close friend, who happens to be his sister-in-law thanks to my introduction of her to his brother, a full two weeks before I landed.

I called my mom on that Wednesday, saying, “I don’t know mom, I just feel like he’s not going to ever actually do it. I don’t feel like he’s going to propose.” This unfounded, unsettling feeling was what I was referencing in my above comment to Lindsay. The way our intuition knows without any concrete evidence that something is off.

I had no reason to think this. He’d only ever packaged his doubt in phrases like “I see you as the mother of my children” and “I can picture myself down on one knee.”

He called my mom that Wednesday, too, informing her that never mind, the whole thing was back on. He was going to marry me.

And that’s just it. He would have done it, had my mom not told him he wasn’t saying shit to me until he told me he’d decided he was out, first. It took the threat of “you tell her or I will” that finally made my say in my own future an actual factor for him. And he backed out again.

People usually say things like “well thank god it was before the wedding!” and “thankfully you hadn’t announced it on Instagram yet!” And I think that’s all well-meaning bullshit.

I’m supposed to somehow be grateful this coward ended things when he did as if my most pressing concern would be what the public thought. Never mind learning that the one person in my life I’d dedicated my entire being to had spun a whimsical world of promise and dedication for me to live in while he decided whether or not he even liked me enough to let me know it was a sham.

How little he must have thought of me to steal away my world of potential because he was too selfish to let it go. Lording over my life like that. Choosing his version of fairytale for me. What fairytale doesn’t even have butterflies?

I make jokes every now and then about how marriage almost stole this incredible life from me. I do it not because I’m a bitter woman scorned by an ex-lover to the point of no return, but because my story is one of millions. I do it so women who bear that unsettled feeling Lindsay and I both had, might take it more seriously - hard evidence present or no. I do it to showcase the magic I’ve created with my own life’s potential all on my own, and warn how easily I could have lost it by letting someone else hold it so entirely in his hands.

I do it because I want women to value themselves just as greatly as they do the men in their lives. Not as a “fuck you” to men, but as a “you are worth it” to women, though many have been led to believe those are the same thing.

This is where I could insert the red flags I ignored and start off on my own lengthy, unnecessary explanation of how I wasn’t perfect, either. But I do not believe women need to be perfect for their autonomy to be inherently valuable, so I don’t feel obliged to indulge those who are going to question me regardless of my record.

Luck, the universe, god, whatever you want to call it handed me back my life’s potential and gave me another chance at creating something powerful with it. Never again will I undervalue what I hold. I will create something extraordinary, and there will be butterflies. Lots of them.

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Essentially, I’d realized that when I initially started art journaling, it was for the love of completing something. The only people who knew about them were those who’d had the chance to hold them in their hands. They weren’t a big deal, just something I created during the previous year I’d spent abroad. Total creative freedom. Art made from whatever supplies I happened upon.

Then I posted about them online, and people really loved them. Pages were saved as inspo, people asked what supplies I used and the anticipation for what I’d post next grew. I’m so grateful that people like them and find them inspiring, but I didn’t realize how any sort of audience would shift the relationship I had to them personally.

I’ve been avoiding journaling completely because every time I look at that black book I think of how I’m going to have to showcase it. I started leaving blank pages between my journal entries to keep the art vs. word balance similar to my other journals. Soon that became so overwhelming that I found myself over a month behind in even writing my daily entries. I’m sad to think of the details I’ve forgotten in my daily entries while trying to catch up.

But when I explained this predicament to a new friend as we sipped lemonade in St. Émilion, France, she said something that snapped me right out of it: you don’t have to receive what people say about your journals - good or bad.

Wow. That really struck me. It’s so simple, but offered the perfect solution. I can simply create and showcase without needing to open a dialog about it. It’s not that I don’t appreciate your appreciation - it’s just I don’t have to create with that in mind. Whether it’s good or bad, I can just let it exist. I’m sure I’ll be applying that to other aspects of life as well.

So, after all that, here’s my next art journal update:

The House:

I won’t bury the lead here - this is obviously my favorite entry. I spent about 13 hours creating this spread. When I started, I had no idea what I wanted to do. The window came first, and then the ideas kept tumbling from there. This was not only a practice of creativity, but of intuition as well.

When I felt my brain saying “okay, time for a walk” or “hop over to the other page and work there for a while” I listened. There were plenty of times I wished to muscle through and keep trying to come up with my next idea, but I tried my best not to let those feelings of frustration last. Instead, I tuned into what my intuition was nudging me to do. Each time I went for a walk or switched pages, I’d have a breakthrough and could continue working without using brute determination.

I made a reel about the process if you’d like to check it out.

Sunny Days Ahead:

I was feeling really bored of the confines of the pages and had an epiphany that pages don’t have to maintain their rectangular shape. Thus, I cut it up to look like a sun!

I used my beloved acrylic paint pens I bought for 5 Euro at Flying Tiger [which they don’t sell anymore] and my Winsor & Newton watercolor set I’ve had for 10 years. For the background page I used an assortment of washi tape.

I enjoy this one.

Shadows:

For this entry, I used colored pencils to outline the shadow of a plant I held up while FaceTiming a friend back home. I had high hopes for this one, but was super disappointed how it was turning out until I used the Sharpie. Adding the ink is what saved it, and now I quite like it.

Sketch Club:

I had the honor of attending a sketch night in Frome, England twice while doing a house stay there in February. Frome is extremely unique in that it’s full of independent artists and creatives, weaving a tight community that supports it’s member’s shops, projects and events.

All over town there are billboards full of flyers advertising all sorts of events - from group meditations and community group walks, to sketch club nights like the one I attended.

The first night I went, I pulled the prompt to “draw a room or object upside down.” I went with the first thing I saw, which was a crown. Pretty fitting given we were at The Crown Inn lol. The man next to me was working on a sign painting book for a course he was looking forward to attending and was so kind to let me borrow one of the fonts from the book for the lettering on my page.

I was surprised that not a single woman was in attendance that first night. Even so, I left having had great conversation with 4 lovely men, who each shared their creative endeavors and stories with me. We exchanged contact information to stay in touch until I come back - which I fully plan on doing. I thanked them for letting me join their group.

The second time I attended sketch club, I was able to meet Toby’s partner, who started the club together with Toby back in September. There were some new [to me] faces, and we all spent the evening laughing, Googling the origin of our names and coming up with a detailed psychological-thriller movie plot I won’t spoil here.. just in case we want to produce it someday.

Here’s a reel I made about the first night.

Cambridge Antiques:

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A few people have let me know how insane that is, calling me brave and courageous. Saying they couldn’t imagine doing what I’m doing. Living how I’m living. And that’s fair, honestly.

Me four years ago would balk at the thought of living in the unknown like I do now. Because that courage wasn’t handed to me, and bravery wasn’t simply installed in my bones at birth - I practiced.

I started small with trivial things. Trying out a new flavor of a snack I purchased regularly, for example. At Trader Joe’s I always bought the flavorless seaweed snacks, but had been so curious about the teriyaki flavor for weeks. The fear I’d dislike them and have wasted money on a snack I didn’t enjoy kept me reaching for the non-flavored packets each time.

It became a TJ’s ritual; stand back a few feet so people not caught in a flavor dilemma could shop while I looked back and forth between the hand-written tags while I held court in my head before deciding, once again, it just wasn’t worth the risk and going flavorless.

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Then one day, standing a distance back from the shelf with my grocery basket in hand I asked myself, “am I really going to ponder this question every single time and never have the umph to actually find out?” Sure I might hate it, but it’s a snack and I knew I could handle the fallout if I did. So I chose the teriyaki flavor.

Courage and bravery are rooted in self-trust. The more you know yourself and trust your limits, the more confidently you can assess what you’re willing to wager. You can gradually stretch the boundaries of what you can handle if things do go differently than what you’d hoped. But you cannot start with the decisions you’re too scared to make.

Inconsequential. That’s how a lot of my self-trust and self-love practice felt at first. Small, tiny choices. The babiest of steps. And now I’m halfway up the Mt. Everest of loving and trusting my intuition that loomed over me when I stared at it from basecamp wondering how I’d ever get up there. I’ve made progress inches at a time and now have the courage and bravery to show for it.

A thousand tiny decisions became the foundation that supported more lofty choices. You see the house; I see the thousands of bricks I laid one at a time over years of construction. Some people might be born with a finished foundation, giving them a bit of a head start. But if you’re reading this thinking, “man I wish I could do that,” then you already have the blueprint.

That is to say: you’re just as capable of bravery and courage as I am. I’m not a superhero, I’m just fully dedicated to becoming.

And I did not accomplish this through force or shame or comparing myself to others or jumping straight into the deep end. I grew through sheer curiosity.

What if I like the teriyaki flavor? What if by leaving my beautiful life in LA I uncover a new type of splendor that ushers in my next dream? What if I don’t plan anything and believe the universe for a miracle?

I’ve trusted myself with a thousand decisions varying in size and gravity; if there’s anyone I’d choose to handle an unknown outcome, it’s me.

So while I don’t know where Monday will bring me, I’ll be in the most capable hands to figure it out when I get there.

I’ll be the first to fully believe it.

Anything you wish to do,

I’ll consider you’ve already achieved it.

I’ll be there at the grand opening,

The launch, the premiere, the show.

My face a figment in the crowd,

Bearing witness to how you’ve grown.

In my world your dream has happened.

In my mind it’s already real.

So know it’s done and all come true,

No matter how you feel.

Xo,

Aim

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This year feels different - heavier. This year we watched as the most powerful man on Earth’s name was mentioned in the Epstein files more than one million times with allegations I wish I could say were unimaginable against him, and not one single thing has been done about it. I see they told you every detail and you still did not listen.

I’m glad I’m typing because if not I would surely be yelling. If that were the case, I know you would not listen.

You shouldn’t yell, it negates your whole argument. Women shouldn’t be so emotional, it weakens the points they’re trying to make. Women and girls are being raped and no one is doing anything about it despite how softly we whisper. How politely we present our suffering.

Rape is not quiet. Rape is not polite. Rape screams “you are nothing” until he cums and you’re free.

I laid there knowing there was nothing on Earth I could do to stop it. Not this time, or the next time or the next time.

“If you really don’t want to, just push me off you then,” he said.

“So what are you saying? That I’m raping you?” he asked.

“Shut the fuck up you have no idea what you’re talking about,” he stated.

“I love you to the moon,” he threatened.

Did you know that women who have miscarriages in Texas have been arrested for “abuse of a corpse.” They say she tried to flush the miscarriage down the toilet. That’s all he would let me do. Should I be in jail?

But, honestly, thank god I miscarried because I lived in Oklahoma and would have had no choice in carrying the baby. A permanent reminder, the ultimate sacrifice - as if I had anything left. Must you now control my body once he’s done using it?

Be very grateful I am only typing because if not I would surely be yelling.

Usually, I like to give the 1 in 3 women, those who whisper their agony, a positive message. Something that let’s them know they’re not alone and encourages them with all the positive I’ve created in my life since I was raped. But this year all I can think of is this: Start Yelling.

They did not listen when we were quiet. They do not listen when we are loud. So let’s try being so loud they can no longer ignore us.

And to the rest of the world: for God’s sake, listen.

I briefly introduced the idea of creative exchanges in my post about solo travel tips, but this will be an in-depth how to on how I research, create an email pitch, book, document and deliver creative exchanges with hotels. I had no idea what I was doing when I started, so hopefully this will be helpful to you if you’re unsure where to start, too :-)

As someone working with a $1,667/month budget while solo traveling, I’ve been finding creative ways to stretch that cash moneyyyy. I’d seen people on TikTok chatting about how they created content for hotels in exchange for accommodations and it piqued my interest. The only thing is, I’m not an influencer with a big audience - I wasn’t really interested in the “everyone must stay at this hotel I stayed at in Paris!” type of thing. But, tapping into my skills as a photojournalist, I realized I still have a lot of value to offer hotels and venues in need of assets for websites and social media.

What To Prepare:

I actually began prepping for these types of collaborations last year while back in Los Angeles. I went through my wedding photography galleries in search of any images that featured hotels and venues - I already had some establishing shots I’d document for my couples to have of the places they got married. I’d never worked exclusively for a hotel before, but throughout my 8 years of wedding photography, I could pull together enough photos to showcase my capabilities [here’s what that portfolio looked like]. If you don’t have anything like this, start at home. Photograph your own apartment, friend’s houses, the local coffee shop - anything to get great interior shots of a space.

I also included some examples of reels I’d shot and edited for Instagram; again, these weren’t hotel specific, but they showed that I’m capable of shooting and editing content for social media.

Now that I’ve done a few exchanges, I’m able to send those galleries and pitching is a bit easier, but I was still able to book with what I’d originally scraped together. So if you’ve never done a creative collaboration before, no need to stress over having the perfect portfolio.

Here’s The Process:

+ Pull up the place I’m looking to visit on Google Maps and search “bed and breakfast” or “boutique hotel” - I’ve found working with smaller, less corporate stays has given me more creative freedom and are way more personable/ fun.

+ Click through places until I find one I’m interested in and check out the existing photos - is it cute? Would it draw in more potential clients if included in my portfolio? Do they need better photos?

+ Check their social media - if they post regularly, that’s a great sign that they’ll be interested in new, professional content. Sometimes they want to update a listing, sometimes they just want something for their feed. Either way, I’m able to offer them something valuable

+ Find their email and reach out - I’ll talk about email pitching in a second

+ Wait to hear back - best if you don’t hold your breath hahahah

I reach out to about 15+ hotels per location usually. Most I don’t hear back from, a few say they don’t do collaborations, some offer me discounted stays and others are thrilled to have me. Don’t be discouraged if you don’t hear back at all. My email went dead silent after I pitched to about 20 hotels in Paris - sometimes the city just wants you to pay to be there, and that’s okay lmao.

The Email Pitch:

At the start I was so concerned with how the email would be received that it took me forever to put together a pitch. Once I took the pressure off of feeling like I need to convince them to work with me, I started just having fun with it and casting my net as far and wide as I can - in the end, you only need one yes per city [depending on how long you’re staying].

I’ve approached this a few different ways.

The first time I started pitching, I was so scared no one would take me seriously that I framed it as “an opportunity to collaborate with Aimee Dianne Photography.” I was so scared people would think I’m “just an influencer” looking for a free stay that I impersonated my “assistant” to sound more established and it FLOPPED. I don’t think I ever heard back when using this approach lol.

Another approach I took was more middle ground and listed out their needs. I’d include information that showed I’d done my research with a “I noticed your Instagram highlights feature your rooms, but the last photo updates were from 2023. I’d love to help refresh that content in a way that reflects how inviting the space still is” - this still didn’t generate a lot of responses. I will say this type of research is still beneficial for you to know as it can help you find places that might be more open to collaborations. Every city is going to be different since there are many factors that go into getting a “yes,” so I’m not all out on this approach - I think it could work for some establishments.

The pitch I’ve booked 100% of my exchanges with has been a very personal approach. Here’s an example of one I was booked from:

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Safety -

Safety will always be my main concern, especially as a single, 29 year old woman wandering through foreign countries alone. First, I want to say not everyone is out to get you. And walking around afraid, timid and scared will only compromise your safety further. The best way to stay relaxed is to do your research before you travel.

Things I look up prior to entering a new country:

+ Areas/ neighborhoods to avoid - this is important when looking for lodging. Any tourist attraction is likely to be in a safer place, but not every hotel or bed and breakfast is.

+ Local transport schedules - you never want to be stranded somewhere because you’re out past the time local transport runs. Some buses and trains slow down at night, meaning a bus that runs every 10 minutes during the day may switch to once every hour during off-peak times. Stations are usually places you want to avoid hanging out in for long periods of time at night. Familiarize yourself with local transport times to avoid being in a compromising situation.

+ Is it safe to walk alone at night [for women especially]- a lot of places, like Paris and Amsterdam, might surprise you with how safe they are to walk through at night. Best practices, like sticking to populated and well lit streets, should always be exercised. But don’t miss out on a beautiful stroll under the stars because you’re afraid to be alone at night! Walking through Paris and witnessing the nightlife there was one of my favorite things to do.

Okay, so now that you’ve familiarized yourself with where you’re traveling, the next step once you’re there is to just be aware of your surroundings. The goal is simple: don’t be the easiest target in the vicinity. Pick-pockets and people looking to rob you are looking for the simplest, least expecting person to approach. Being aware makes their job harder and they’ll move on to someone else. That’s honestly 95% of it.

Things I do to stay aware of my surroundings:

+ I don’t sit on my phone during travel days - especially when I have all my belongings strapped to me. That’s the easiest way to be a target. Now, I’m not saying constantly have your head on a swivel, but don’t be so glued to scrolling that you’re not aware of the environment you’re in - that’s an invitation for unwanted attention.

+ I make conversation with the people around me - well, this one is also because I enjoy talking to people lol, but even just a simple smile, hello, or short “I love your jacket!” can make someone nearby less likely to target you because other’s have eyes on you as well. It creates a tiny net of community around you that boosts safety. People are more likely to help and watch out for you after you’ve had any sort of friendly interaction with them.

+ When I have all my stuff on me, I stick to walls in stations and corners in trains [if I’m standing] - I honestly mostly do this to keep my bag out of people’s way because I’m aware I’m taking up 3x the space I normally do. But it gives me a good vantage point to see who and what all is around me. It also helps ward off pick-pocketing, which is honestly the biggest “safety” treat you’re going to encounter.

Other smart things to do:

+ Always have a way to charge your phone - it’s your lifeline

+ Do not post where you are in real time - this is a difficult one. I’m constantly making content for Instagram and TikTok, but I’m often in a location for long enough that posting where I’m at would compromise my safety. I never post content that gives away my location until I’ve left. It’s annoying and requires more planning on my end, but there are freaks on the internet, and not all of them are the funny kind like me.

+ If someone is making you uncomfortable, don’t be afraid to acknowledge them - there are caveats to this and reading the situation will let you know in what capacity to do this. But sometimes if someone is staring at me, I’ll hold eye contact [in a non-accusatory way! Some people are just curious lol] for a little longer than normal or smile to let them know I’m aware of their attention. That can make people uncomfortable enough to reconsider. Obviously, that can also have the opposite effect, so use your discernment.

+ All my valuables are unreachable to passers-by - Using bags with internal pockets that zip deflects a pick-pockets ability to snatch your wallet. For my backpack, I use a carabiner to hold the external pocket’s zips together.

+ If I can’t afford it to be stolen, it comes with me to the bathroom - there are times I trust a stranger to watch my laptop while I run to the restroom at a coffee shop, but my hard drive is coming with me. Laptops are much easier to replace than my life’s work.

I’m sure I’ll think of more safety tips, I’ll be sure to link them here when I do.

Housesitting -

I’ve housesat for three different families so far and I’ve loved every second. Not only do I get to explore a town like a local, I also don’t have to pay for lodging. The website I use is TrustedHousesitters.com, and I can’t recommend them enough. The annual fee is $100, but if you break it down for the 27 days I’ve not had to pay for a hotel, it’s very worth it. And if you’re interested, you can use my link to get 25% off. [not an ad, just a resource I highly recommend]

Here’s how it works:

+ sign-up and do a background check

+ create a profile that features who you are, your experience with pets and pet/house sitting references [I used friends that I’d dog/ house sat for]

+ explore listings made by people in need of sitters and read reviews left by previous sitters

+ apply to whichever listing suits what you’re looking for

+ interview with the people and accept the stay if you’re picked!

I love Trusted Housesitters because I know the people I’m chatting with are verified and safe, plus I get to cuddle with pets while I’m away from my own. They make it easy to find stays that fit what I’m looking for in terms of location, duration, types of pets, etc. There’s even a filter to ensure the place is accessible by public transport - which is super helpful as someone who is backpacking with no car lol.

A lot of you know I have zero itinerary for this trip, so I’ve also been using TrustedHousesitters to find places I want to explore as I go. Again, I cannot recommend this service enough.

Transportation -

GOOGLE MAPS IS YOUR BEST FRIEND.

When it comes to public transport, Google Maps is a friend who holds your hand from one mode to another. It provides all the information you need about departure times, delays, platforms, stops, ticketing - literally everything you need Google hands it to you on a silver platter. Also, don’t be afraid to ask someone nearby if you’re unsure; I’ve found most strangers to be absolutely lovely and helpful when I’m lost or confused.

My one qualm with Google Maps is it doesn’t often provide you with long-distance bus routes unless you specifically choose “bus” as the mode of transportation - or at least my Google Maps doesn’t.

For example, when hopping between the EU and UK, it offers lots of Eurostar train routes. The thing is, Eurostar usually runs at about $175-235 for a one way ticket whereas bus services like Flixbus and National Express run around $50. Yes, the Eurostar is hours faster than the buses [not always!], but as someone who enjoys roadtrips and uses bus rides to edit, read or write anyway, I’d rather save $125 take the bus.

Which brings me back to Flixbus and National Express - I highly recommend these services. They’re really easy to use, clean efficient and I’ve only ever had good experiences on them. They’re rarely crowded and a phenomenal budget friendly travel option.

Here’s a video I made of a recent trip I took on a Flixbus between London and Antwerp.

Creative Exchanges -

This is going to be for a more specific crowd, so if you’re a creative, lock in. Photographers: your camera is a golden ticket, use it. I’ve already written a whole Substack on what my creative exchanges look like from inquiry to delivery that I’ll link when it’s posted, but I’ll briefly introduce the idea here.

Basically, I reach out to hotels with a creative trade: a complimentary stay in exchange for both professional photography of their hotel and video for social media.

I’ll pull up whatever city I’m interested in staying on Google Maps and search for hotels to reach out to. After doing some basic research, I send off my pitch and wait for a response. Often I hear nothing back, sometimes I’m offered a discount and a few times I’ve landed an enthusiastic yes.

This has opened the door for me to stay in some really incredible spots - like this guesthouse in Bristol - while pushing me creatively outside my usual scope of photography. It’s also incredibly helpful when it comes to my budget :-)

Another area I’ve used my camera to get into is events. I wrote a Substack about a sold out live music night I was able to attend because I offered to take photos of it for the owner of the studio to use on social media. I did also have two gals I met while traveling reach out to the studio owner on my behalf, which I know is a helpful in, but offering my photography skills was what sealed my spot.

Get creative with your proposals - I’m sure there are many other areas I could expand into if I sat down and thought about it for a bit lol.

Packing -

When it comes to packing, lots is left up to preference. I’m going to share with you my preferences and acknowledge there are plenty of great options out there if you prefer something different.

My bags:

Osprey 65L backpack. Honestly, I bought this 10 years ago for my first backpacking trip and it was great then so I didn’t really give it much thought before using it again for this trip. I.. have mixed feelings. Sometimes I see people with wheels and my knees scream at me in jealousy. But then I walk by that same person on a cobblestone street and thank the heavens fighting with the road isn’t on my agenda for the day. It’s give and take.

I’m traveling with camera gear, and for that I use my ThinkTank ShapeShifter backpack [not that exact one, but it’s very similar]. It has padded nylon pockets that protect my cameras and lenses during travel days and still has plenty of room for my laptop, journal, crossword book, kindle and other electronic accessories.

Clothes:

Put together what you think you’ll need, then cut it in half lol. My first real travel day left my hips bruised from the weight of my big pack. Suddenly, that skirt and pair of shorts I brought to Europe in the dead of winter felt way less necessary.

Two months in this is what I have for winter in Europe:

+ Merino wool leggings - I run cold and wear these every. single. day.

+ 3 pants - A nice pair of jeans that can be dressed up, black pair of trousers and a pair of sweats

+ 5 tops - a cardigan, a sheer shirt as a “cute” option that doubles as a layering piece for warmth, a long sleeve white shirt, a tank top for layering and a black short sleeve fitted fancy t-shirt

+ 2 medium warmth layers - one sweatshirt and one nice sweater

+ 2 jackets - one trench coat and one light down jacket

+ A jumper - honestly this is something I could have let go of but haven’t because it’s Free People and really cute

+ 10 undies

+ 2 bras and my cakes - shop Cakes they’re the absolute best

+ A pj set for hostels - very lightweight cotton

+ 5 pairs of socks - two colorful crew socks for style, cashmere pair for warmth, two white ankle socks

+ A swimsuit

+ 3 scarves - I use these as head wraps to keep my head warm, but can also use them as cute shirts when the weather warms up

+ *the* Limited Too hat

+ 3 pairs of shoes - one tennis shoe, one loafer and one “cute” but comfy slingback flat

I don’t consider this “light” packing, really. There are other backpackers with way less. I find a lot of joy in what I wear, so having options that make me feel cute is important to me and something I’m willing to compromise on weight for.

If I were to pick absolute favorites it would be these: merino wool leggings, my light down jacket, my sweatshirt and my wide leg Free People jeans.

I’m a big thrifter and most of what I brought was thrifted. I always planned on thrifting pieces as I traveled, so I packed items I’m okay with swapping out as the weather changes or if I want to change things up a bit.

Toiletries:

This has a lot to do with where you’re traveling to, so this is written with Europe in mind.

When it comes to makeup, I ended up ditching 90% of what I brought - I made a video about what I found worth keeping, but it’s pretty much mascara, blush and brow gel at this point. If I need anything, every drugstore carries most brands you’d find in the US.

Avoid bringing full-sized products unless it’s a brand you absolutely can’t live without. For me, that’s my La Roche Posey face wash. I know my skin doesn’t do well with other brands, so this was worth bringing a full sized product in my case. You can also look up if the country you’re visiting sells your brand - in Europe that’s mostly been the case. However, La Roche Posey is insanely expensive here, so I’m glad I brought mine from home. For shampoo and body wash, I’m great with whatever, so I didn’t pack any since most hotels and convenience stores have them. For literally everything else - razors, tooth brushes/ tooth brush heads, pimple patches, deodorant, etc. - it’s sold everywhere, buy it as you go. Tampons are a hot topic because they’re rare in Asia, but I’ve seen them in every drugstore in the EU and UK.

I also did not pack a towel. In previous backpacking trips I brought one of those travel towels, but it ended up smelling weird. With housesitting and hotel stays, I’ve rarely not had access to one.

Money -

I’ve only had to take cash out of ATMs when I’ve gotten my nails done at cash only salons. Almost everywhere, even flea markets, have contactless-payment. When given the option to pay in USD or the local currency, always pick the local currency. This leaves the exchange rate up to your bank instead of a 3rd party that may charge more. I’ve used Apple Pay for 99% of everything I’ve purchased, from groceries to flowers at a market.

If you prefer having cash, something to watch out for are independent ATMs; they charge insane exchange rates [like 15%!] that will get you if you don’t know better. Combat this by Googling “what ATMs should I use in *enter city you’re visiting*” and look for ATMs owned by banks. Additionally, I use Charles Schwab for my personal account, and they reimburse all ATM fees.

Now what you all want to know but are too afraid to ask - how am I paying for my current trip? Great question, let’s get into it.

I owned and operated my photography business in Los Angeles from 2023-2025, documenting primarily weddings. In order to run my business well, I had a LOT to learn in terms of finances [that’s a whole other post in and of itself, but basically read this book and you’ll be miles ahead].

I’m very disciplined when it comes to setting aside money for taxes, savings, business expenses, etc. So over those 3 years of business, I worked my ass off and diligently set aside money every month in a high yield savings account. At the time, I had no idea what I would use it for; but it reached $10k and that is what I’m using to travel right now. I’m really proud of myself for prioritizing saving because now I’m getting to live a dream life as a result.

My goal for this trip is to travel for 6 months on that $10k. Budget wise, that’s roughly $1,667/ month or $56/day. That is tight depending on what kind of travel you’re into. But that’s where housesitting, creative exchanges and buses have been key in keeping my spending within my budget. I don’t think it would be doable without those things.

Traveling on a budget is all about balance - I want to fully experience the places I’m visiting while respecting the budget I have set. Sometimes that means cooking at home so I can spend more on museum tickets. Or forgoing a tour of a historical sight to check out a restaurant I heard is well worth the price. Plus, there are SO many ways to enjoy a city for very cheap if not for free - TikTok is a great resource for that.

Travel Insurance -

This topic can be very overwhelming during the initial stages of research. I looked into most travel insurances, including World Nomads, Faye, Seven Corners, and others, and they all had mixed reviews. One review would be someone swearing their life that this company was the best, and then the very next would be some insane story about how X company was the spawn of satan.

Absolutely over it, I basically found the cheapest one with good enough reviews to be covered in an emergency situation. Which is how I landed on Genki. I pay about $62/month for emergency coverage and my deductible is $50.

I can now say I have my own experience with filing a claim after an emergency appointment I recently had, so I can actually give you my personal opinion on them.

A few weeks ago I found a lump in my breast, and with cancer being in my family history, I wanted to have it checked out asap even though I figured it was likely nothing. I got on Genki’s website to see if this type of appointment would be considered “emergency” since I wasn’t in an accident and didn’t an allergic reaction to something. The AI chatbot that I reluctantly spoke with stated they couldn’t guarantee it would be covered, but that I could submit a claim anyway to see. I asked what information I would need to submit for the claim and it gave me a very clear checklist of details to include along with some perimeters I’d need to adhere to in order to be considered for reimbursement.

After receiving my invoice and detailed letter of treatment from the doctor, I filled out a short claims form on their website, submitted the documents and within 24 hours was approved for reimbursement. They sent a payout link that asked for my bank account info and address, and it says I will receive payment within the next 6 days. So far, I can say my experience with them is great - quick, straightforward and easy.

Also, the lump turned out to be a cyst [multiple actually] so no cause for concern. Cysts are usually more common in women in their 40s and 50s, so it’s interesting I developed one in my 20s. My brother said I’m just “mature for my age” and that made me laugh out loud.

Phone Plan -

Last year while traveling in Barcelona and Morocco I used local SIM cards in my phone. My new iPhone doesn’t have a physical SIM, so I looked into eSIM apps. The one I downloaded Airalo, but then ended up switching my plan with Verizon to the Ultimate Unlimited plan that includes free international data roaming. Basically my phone works exactly like it does in the States by using whatever network is available around me. The plan was only $5 more a month and takes the headache out of having to download and pay for a new SIM for every country I visit. That alone would be worth way more than $5/month to me. If you have Verizon, I highly recommend this solution. The service has been great and I haven’t had to think about it once - invaluable when you’re juggling a million other moving pieces.

Okay, friends, that’s all I can think of at the moment. But that’s a great jumping off point if you’re just getting started.

Have a specific question I didn’t cover? Ask in the comments and I’ll address it in the next one :-)

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Also, I made this public so you have access to important tools that make solo travel feel more accessible because I want everyone to be able to do this! If I can do it, I promise you can too - even if it’s just for a week.

I took a lot of time and a lot of care went into creating this post. If you’re not able to be a monthly subscriber, girl I totally get it [as someone with the $56/day budget]. If you can, I’d appreciate any amount as a thank you for this post! Here’s my Venmo if you’re able to spread a lil monetary love.

LOVE YALL, chat soon.

“I’m okay,” I managed between laughs, “I’m not in danger.” I tried my best to let her know this call was not from distress, quite the opposite.

“I know,” she said, “I can tell by your smile these are happy tears.” Her smile was as big as mine, “I cannot wait to hear what you’re about to tell me” and she joined me in laughing like she always does.

I’d just come from a proper English pub, where I was bestowed the honor of being the “button girl,” a role given to whoever sits closest to the on-switch for the outdoor heater that’s on a timed cycle. When it timed out, I’d reach blindly behind me to feel for the button while trying to maintain whatever conversation I was immersed in. I always ended up turning around to find it because my arm was too short to push it without leaning backward anyways.

On the table in front of me were two bags of scampi fries, seams torn so the bag laid flat like a plate; easier for community snacking. One gal, Pip, called them “English tapas” and said, “you now it’s about to be good when they’re all laid out like that,” which earned quite a few laughs.

“I’ve just had the most magical night,” I gushed to Taylor on FaceTime, “and it’s all hitting me now so I needed to call and have my best friend be a part of it.” This sentence took 45 seconds to complete.

The hour prior, my nine new friends and I sat around a long wooden picnic table on the pub patio. They filled me in on Shrewsbury social politics, taught me English history lessons and explained their old town traditions that were so outlandish it felt like everyone was pranking me by making up the most insane story they could think of. Their holidays are like our Halloweens, but on molly.

I’d met them all an hour earlier at a sold out live music show. My new friend, Lauren, I’d met at book club managed to smuggle me in [she DMed the owner asking if I could join]. Something like 25 people ranging from 3.5 months to in their 70s gathered in a small room in the upstairs of an 18th century building. We’d all come to listen to Elin + Carys, two Welsh sisters who started a folk band together.

The windows fogged with body heat as people stripped off their winter coats, trying not to bump their neighbor’s beer from their hand. Few sat in chairs while others took up the floor or leaned against the walls. The flame from two candles bobbed behind the sisters as they switched from flute to accordion or traded one guitar for another. I stood near the doorway, the sounds of people chatting and overtired baby’s cooing flitting up the stairs and intertwining with the etherial music humming throughout the room. I pressed my eyes closed and urged myself to remember this detail.

Read more

The goal was to go grocery shopping at the big Sainsbury’s outside of town. After taking a quick glance at the map, I confidently stride 15 minutes in the wrong direction before checking it again. Laughing at myself, I decide to divert to a small place that has raving reviews about its produce. After yesterday’s buttered noodle delicacy, I’m after any sort of leafy green.

Google Maps tries to take me in via a Subway sandwich shop - so I figure the actual entrance is just around the corner. I find the correct entrance and what I’m met with is a multi-level indoor market that features everything from toilet seats to cucumbers sold by various local vendors. What a thrill, to think you’re going grocery shopping and instead find yourself trying on a vintage reversible Nike vest from the 2000’s. I would have bought it if it didn’t mean carrying it around on my back the next 5 months.

With my grocery bag stuffed with fresh veggies, I made my way through all the shops, talking to the owners in my usual way of venturing. One stop in particular had me combing through every item.

At the far end of the upper level of the market, a vendor called Easthope Studio showcases adorable handcrafted glass charms and jewelry. I think I stood in front of each display for an embarrassing amount of time taking in all the little details of glass cigarettes, egg charms, flower earrings and necklaces which incorporate ceramics that complimented the irregularly shaped glass pendants. Truly, I loved them all.

Striking up conversation with store owners is typical for me - how long have you been here? Have you always worked in your industry? How did you get here? I ask each question genuinely, offering up conversation as I appreciate the store’s inventory. Though each conversation might begin with similar questions, not every chat develops into an actual connection - or invite to a book club - like this one with Harriet, owner of Easthope Studio, did.

We talked about everything from her art to her really cute wrap dress [by Ghospell she wrote down for me] to an upcoming date she had that night to my solo travel itinerary. I told her it was so annoying finding adorable shops like hers while solo traveling because I’m constantly reassessing what I can and cannot bring with me to each location - anything new is too difficult to pack without having to let go of something I already have. This would not be an issue if I wasn’t already down to bare necessities. Also, anything fragile, like glass, that I shove into my pack begs to be destroyed on this train or the next.

I was already lamenting walking from her shop without a souvenir of sorts - to own some of her beautiful glasswork, remember our sweet interaction and memorialize my time in this quaint town I’ve come to really enjoy. But then I saw the bag charms, small with minimal fragile pieces, hanging on the wall by the register. Happily I plucked the one with a brown, tan and blue color scheme and handed it to her for checkout.

“Tomorrow I have a book club that’s meeting at a bar,” Harriet offered, “I imagine solo traveling can be lonely at times, so if you’d like to join we’d love to have you.”

She was already writing down the details of where and when before I’d accepted her invitation.

How incredibly kind. I think as solo travelers we’re meant to focus so heavily on the adventure and excitement of it all, that it’s easy to stay silent about the times where you feel the full weight of the “solo” part. To have a stranger understand that and acknowledge it out loud was so oddly refreshing.

Harriet told me of a friend who was currently solo traveling in Canada, and that she’d hoped someone would have offered him the same, which is what prompted her to extend the invite to me. It was so honest and simple, I’m not sure she realizes how touching of a perspective that is to have on the world. That she would treat me on behalf of what my friends would want for me because of the love she has for her friend; what a treasure to have discovered her kindness here.

So the next night I put on my “cute” shoes that are the least sensible and most fashionable of the three pair I own, and walked 15 minutes to Lion + Pheasant to meet with Harriet and her book club.

I was not at all shocked at how lovely every woman in attendance was. Prams were quickly shuffled aside and a chair was pulled up so I could join the circle. Introductions were made and conversation eased back to memories of high school, escapades that were a little too risky in retrospect, the trials and joys of motherhood, which character in the book was most relatable, etc.

One of my favorite things about womanhood is how familiar it feels even across the entire globe from home. It was effortless the way someone would pause a story to fill me in on the context so I’d feel a part of the conversation. No story had a single teller as they all pitched in details. I wasn’t a burden to inform; I was a woman in need of community, and theirs wasn’t too easily inconvenienced to clue a complete stranger in on backstory and foreign jargon. They invited me not just to arrive there, but to be there - my voice mixing in the discussion with ease.

For three hours, empty Coke bottles and wine glasses collected on the table next to baby bonnets, lip gloss, copies of Slag by Emma Jane Unsworth and leftovers of picked through starters. If tonight was any indication of what the past two years of monthly meetings furnish, it’s a wonder every woman hasn’t joined.

Instagram handles collected and farewells spent, the night wrapped up as we filed one by one out the front door. I said as many thanks as I could manage before splitting off down my street, giving the moon a wink in acknowledgement of her magic.

The kindness shown to me this night will far outlast those three hours spent at their monthly book club. May we all be a Harriet in someone’s story at least once in our lives.

Chat soon :-)

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Here’s a video I made about this night <3