For now, though, I’m trying my best to push that feeling away. “August is not autumn,” or so I was told by a marketing email I received earlier last week. And you know what? They have a point.

It’s 8:30pm now and the last light of day is still hanging above Seattle, pale blue and pearlescent. I remind myself that I don’t know how many more days of rain-free lounging I have left this year, so I bring a mug of chamomile tea and East of Eden up to my rooftop deck with the intention of reading in the twilight until I can barely see the words on the page.

I love this book. The story and characters are so captivating that I find myself thinking about them throughout the day. But here I am, only a few sentences in and I can feel my gaze being pulled away from the book in my lap. I can’t help it. The sunset is begging for my full attention.

Like beholding a mural of my favorite colors—pink, yellow, and orange—on the world’s largest and tallest canvas, I am mesmerized, moved, and inspired all at once. I send my silent apologies to Steinbeck and close the book.

I put my feet up on the sun-worn coffee table, reach for my tea, and bring the warm mug to my lips as the steam rises and curls before me. For the next few moments, I don’t want to do anything but sink into these bench cushions and admire the artwork above as it shifts and changes colors before my eyes. I’ve always loved this time of day the most—when the drowsiness of late afternoon gives way to the mysticism of the night.

Slow and steady now, daylight takes its final bow and a curtain of indigo falls over the city, deepening with every passing minute. Tiny ribbons of whispy clouds and stars begin to appear in its folds. Candle flames dance in the newness of the night. And though I can’t see them, my neighbors are chatting and laughing loudly. I imagine them gathered on their rooftops, the darkness offering them a sense of seclusion and privacy in a city neighborhood overcrowded with townhomes.

I look out at the view beyond my own little haven. Lights glow on the buildings down the street. A plane blinks across the night sky as it descends into the city. All at once, the solar-powered fairy lights around my balcony railing flicker on before me, and it hits me just how much magic I could have missed if I hadn’t allowed summer to linger in my heart a little longer.

This summer has been confusing. I think a part of me has been waiting for it to end since it started. I had all these plans that didn’t work out. I traveled and then let the travel exhaustion take over so that I didn’t want to leave the house on the weekends…and then I felt guilty for not making the most of Seattle’s beautiful summer weather. I was beginning to think I was failing summer and summer was failing me.

But this right here is the epitome of the season to me—a starry evening sky, the sound of people laughing into the night, the earthy scent of citronella, and the slightest tinge of sea salt floating in on a cool coastal breeze.

I don’t know what gave me the impression that summer has to be filled with perfect plans and a checked off bucket list. I guess we could get into the social media-ness of it all, or the fact that nice weather is so short-lived in the PNW. But honestly, I think it was just a me thing. I set all these expectations for a season that just needed me to be present and grateful for what it has to offer.

Summer, like every other season of the year, is for collecting memories that mean something to me. It’s about saying Yes to last-minute dinner plans with a friend even when I’m tired, and signing up for a pilates and matcha event at my yoga studio. It’s meeting other Seattle Substackers and finding inspiration to write again. And making new friends. It’s finding the most amusing portable campfire at the grocery store and making smores on a Monday night. And barbecuing for the hell of it on a Tuesday night. Sometimes it’s having no plans at all. It’s staying up late playing video games with my husband and then sleeping in on Saturday, allowing ourselves to enjoy a slow morning at home with all the windows open before the heat rolls in.

And tonight, summer is a cup of tea, a moment to myself, and watching the sun set over my favorite place I’ve ever lived.

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here’s to the sunsets & evening skies of summer 2026

I started writing this before our sunsets turned extra orange from the wildfire smoke. My heart is with all of those affected by the fires, especially now as they face having to rebuild and recover. I have donated directly to Spokane’s fire relief fund, which you can learn more about here. For a longer list of resources and ways you can help, see here. <3

If you were to ask me the same question five years ago, I would’ve said I don’t know. There’s not a whole lot to like. My hair is dull and thin. I no longer recognize myself when I look in the mirror, and it isn’t just because of my hair.

Ask me the same question today and I’m happy to share that my answer is neither self-deprecating nor has it anything to do with the way I look. But I don’t really know how I got here. The journey to total self love and acceptance seems to never end, and lately I’ve been pondering how much loving the way you look plays into loving yourself as a whole. For a while now, it’s felt like everywhere I turn, the world is telling me that the two are very closely linked, and that I’ll never be satisfied with myself because of it. And I’m tired.

This is who I am. Take it or leave it.

A couple months ago, my best friend and I were taking the ferry from Seattle to Bainbridge Island. It was a misty Friday morning but we had the best seats on the boat, right in front of the back window looking out onto the water. The ferry ride was only thirty minutes, but our conversation during the trip left me with a lot to think about.

Something we were discussing was the many ways women have been conditioned to feel insecure about our bodies when it comes to everything from the size of our clothing to the rates at which we age (IKR, heavy stuff for 9am lmao). I’m sure every woman reading this has her own story of feeling physically inadequate in one way or another over the course of her life. Even if there are certain aspects we don’t think we care about, we’re subjected to hearing about it so much that our supposed shortcomings often become internalized. Or at least, that’s what happens to me.

I’m talking about the fact that I’ve never considered getting botox but I’m exposed to it so much through social media and word of mouth that I’m slowly starting to believe that in ten years, I won’t look as good as my friends that do get it. And maybe that’s true, but does that also mean I won’t be as happy as them?

I’ve also been working out consistently for a year now and I’m proud of my progress. But there’s a part of me that gets disappointed every time I remember that my arms will never be as thin as my coworker’s who got her arm fat siphoned out and injected into her butt. This is also something I would never consider doing. But I do sometimes wonder if I’ll ever love my body as much as she (possibly) loves hers now when I see her posts online. And follow-up question, does she even love her body more now post-surgery?

On the way to Bainbride Island, I watched the rain come down over the Sound as I told my friend that my mom is the reason I didn’t wear tank tops for years.

One day in my early teens, my mom and I were watching TV when she pointed at the newscaster and said, “Look at her arms. I wish I had her arms.” I genuinely was so confused. What do you mean you wish you had her arms? You already have arms?

“But my arms are flabby and fat. Hers are so slim.”

It was the first time I’d heard that arms could be fat. But honest to God I could not tell the difference between the newswoman’s arms and my mom’s. I didn’t know how to respond. If only I’d known how much my mom was at war with herself then. If only there had been someone in her corner to tell her that skipping dinner was wrong, over-exercising and under-eating wouldn’t make her feel better about herself, and that she would lose twenty pounds and still hate her arms. But I was only a girl. I was barely beginning to learn just how cruel the world is to women’s bodies. I rolled my eyes and said she was being weird.

But it wasn’t much longer until those types of statements were rolling off my tongue too. And I was tiny. I was 98 pounds when I went off to college. As I got older, I knew I was still petite but my body was constantly changing. And the sad truth is: I didn’t like what was happening to it. I didn’t like this process called aging and the slower metabolism that came with it.

Then about six years ago, I was having lunch with my parents in their house. My dad had just come back from the gym. He said something about his arms feeling sore. My mom leaned over and pinched him. “Your arms are so lean,” she said. Then she looked over at me, paused for a second and said, “You have my arms.”

Immediately, I lost my appetite. Suddenly, everything she had ever said about her arms over the past decade were about mine now too.

As I briefly recounted this experience to my friend, I made a vow to never say anything bad about my body in front of my future child. If a child is in my future, I hope they never feel ashamed of their body like I did in that moment when my mom said that to me.

I’ve come a long way since that cursed lunch with my parents. I’m much nicer to myself. I lift weights to get stronger not smaller. But only now am I realizing that maybe the reason I’ve struggled to love myself unconditionally for so long is because somewhere along the way, I conflated disliking my appearance with disliking myself.

Where did I learn this from? It’s not like I was ever told that I need to look a certain way in order to love myself. But I was also never taught to love myself period. The concept of loving yourself didn’t exist in my household, but hating the way you look did.

Upon reflection, it feels a litle unfair to blame my mom entirely for passing on her body negativity to me when the real problem is everything she’s ever consumed in life to make her believe that she needed to look a certain way to be happy with herself. She wasn’t born with the idea that she needed to be thin in order to be worthy of self love. And neither was I.

Yet every day I see ties being made between appearance and aspects of self love. The ads are everywhere. They always have been. It’s just now that our lives are so integrated with our phones and unlimited internet access, the voices are truly inescapable. Become your Best Self by following this workout plan and losing ten pounds. Be more confident after getting this cosmetic procedure. Fitness influencers are telling me I can work out every day for a year but I’ll still look “soft” if I don’t start following their nutrition plan and take their sponsored supplements. Just use my code HotGirlWalk42069 at checkout!

I feel like the toxic early 2010s mantra that “nothing tastes as good as skinny feels” has been repackaged as TikToks claiming to promote self care but are really just further pushing the narrative that Good Looks are the Ultimate Goal.

There was a viral trend going around earlier this year on IG and TikTok that went something like, “Would you rather be crying on the beach under a cover up or in a bikini.” I still don’t know what this means. Is the crying part exclusive to the cover up? Or is it a cheeky way of saying Being hot won’t cure your depression? Either way, all of the clips of the girl in said bikini show her looking happy, skinny, and unbothered. So the only message I am getting is: Who cares if you’re sad? At least you’ll be hot. And based on that alone, you should be happy. Therefore, not hot = not happy.

And this is just one small corner of the internet. I don’t even want to go on BeautyTok to find examples of some of the TikToks I’ve seen in support of fillers and Botox. Nobody should be altering their appearance based solely on an internet stranger’s story of how their life drastically changed for the better once they made certain cosmetic adjustments. Especially if they are also shouting out a specific business or product. I feel for my 22-year-old cousins who are spending what little money they have on weird anti-aging products and devices because some influencer on TikTok told them they NEED it.

Which brings me back to: I’m tired. I’m tired of the endless implications that I’ll love myself more once I look 25 again and am toned and also hairless and also have a nice ass and a pointy chin and high cheekbones and no wrinkles and effortlessly puckered up lips and the trendiest clothes and an erewhon smoothie that will magically balance my hormones and give me silky smooth skin and also make my hair shinier somehow.

How do we tell our friends and mothers and sisters that we don’t need to look our best in order to be worthy of “living our best life?” How do we learn to make confident decisions for our bodies based on what makes us feel good and not what the ads/influencers/marketing agencies want us to do?

I feel like every time I want to buy something beauty-related—whether it’s a piece of clothing or makeup or a skincare product—I have to stop and ask myself if this is truly something I want or if I’m just being persuaded into thinking there’s yet another thing “wrong” with me that can be “fixed” by this product.

Maybe self love in this day and age requires a small amount of resistance and the courage to question the beauty norms we’re seeing on social media. I need the voice in my head telling me to love myself because I’m kind, compassionate, and authentic to fight back against the external voices telling me I’ll love myself a little bit more when I look a certain way.

So if you were to ask me today what I like most about myself, it isn’t my hair or my pilates abs or my arms. It’s that I notice things.

I notice everything around me. The flower growing out of the crack in the sidewalk. A conversation between two people clearly on a first date next to me at the coffee shop. The dad I pass every day on my afternoon walk with his baby strapped to his chest. I like that when I’m having a bad day or feeling down, I can turn to these little things to find peace, clarity, and sometimes even a story to tell. Take a look at any of my other essays and you’ll see what I mean.

I know that no matter what age I am or how much I weigh or how wrinkly I am, I will never let the details go unnoticed. And I love that.

What do you love most about yourself?

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TLDR; Can I just think I’m pretty the way i am and be happy even if I would prettier without the fine lines because removing the fine lines won’t change who I am and that’s what’s actually important???

Hi there—I know this isn’t my usual cutesy post, but just needed to write this for me. However you decide to age or whatever physical aesthetic you are reaching for, pls just take care of yourself and don’t forget to nurture your inner wellness and beauty too. ❀

Actual cutesy things I’ve been loving lately:

• Being my husband’s personal book shopper :) He used to never read but I recommended Intermezzo to him and it took ~6 months but he finally finished it and loved it! So I got him Project Hail Mary after we saw the movie and he’s been reading it every night. He might even finish it in less than 6 months lol. My next read for him is Homeseeking by Karissa Chen.

• NBA Playoffs — The drama, the intensity, the rivalries. I love it.

• Mocktails — I quit drinking 5 months ago and life has felt so free ever since. I feel like I have a post in me about it. Maybe. TBD :)

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My husband looks over the menu while I stare out the small window next to us. My chin rests in the palm of my hand as I gaze longingly at the city at twilight. A neon sign for a deli across the street is flickering like the trees fluttering in the wind.

Earlier in the day, New York had been the epitome of spring. Cherry blossoms shining bubblegum pink in the sun, tulips of every color and variety lining the streets and brightening windowsills. But now the sky was darkening with the promise of night and rain and goodbyes. I smooth the delicate fabric of my floral-printed skirt. It would be a long and cold walk back to the hotel.

As I turn back to face the dimly lit room around me it slowly dawns on me how warm the restaurant is, in every sense of the word. Hanging orange lamps illuminate an old fashioned bar with a No Smoking sign still tacked to it. Pizza ovens are firing behind a low wall to the right of our table. The booths are my favorite kind—tall backs that offer just the right amount of privacy for conversation without being so tall that you can’t see over them. And at the front of the restaurant is a single large window that looks out onto the street, commanding my attention like a hanging picture in a gallery. I let my eyes linger a moment on the artwork that is the city itself and start feeling silly for being such a drama queen that I somehow missed all of this.

My husband reaches across the table for my hand as if he can read my mind and asks what apps and I want. I glance down at the menu too, suddenly feeling very hungry and eager to join him in discussion. We agree that everything sounds good. Somehow I get the feeling this is going to be my favorite meal of our trip despite being the simplest.

After ordering fried calimari and two personal-sized pizzas (pepperoni and mushroom for me, meat lovers for him), I get up to wash the subway off my hands. I wait in line for the bathroom next to another girl in a skirt. We exchange laughs about how the weather has betrayed us and I consider my spirits officially lifted. Nothing sets the tone of a good night quite like a pleasant bathroom convo with a girl you’ll never see again.

Back at the table the food is, as expected, divine. Perfectly breaded calimari is served with warm marinara sauce. The pizza is cracker thin, crispy not soggy, with just the right amount of cheese and toppings. All thoughts of packing and the shitty middle seat I’ll be stuck in for six hours tomorrow are effectively forgotten. My husband and I nod in unison at each other as we eat our first slices in happy silence. It is that good.

I pick up another slice, delighting in the fact that my premonitions about this meal were correct. The music seems to be getting louder… or no, I’m just now realizing that I know the song that’s playing... And it isn’t a pop song of today or a classic you always hear like “Don’t Stop Believin’.” It’s…

My eyes light up and I gasp, “I used to play this song with my dad and Carissa!”

“Runaway Train.” A 1990s ballad by Soul Asylum that my dad, late sister, and I used to play when we had our own band during my middle school years. My sister was our drummer, I played bass, and my dad was lead guitarist and vocals (although he never actually sang into the mic).

Hearing the song here of all places, I feel oddly reunited with my pre-teen self and the sense of wonder I used to have for the world. I remember the freedom of longboarding down our street with a bottle of Hubert’s Lemonade in my hand, the wind blowing through my hair, my sister following me on a scooter. I remember how it felt to search for signs in the night sky, longing to make a wish on a shooting star.

How could it be, that while I’m already feeling emotional about leaving New York and overwhelmed by my love for this city and the man sitting across from me, this song that I haven’t heard in over a decade, that I forgot I knew all the words to and the chord progressions and the rhythm, would come to me now over the speakers in the middle of the most comforting meal of our trip.

But some mysteries don’t need answers. It doesn’t matter if this song is on the restaurant playlist and gets played 20x a month. It’s playing right now in this particular moment, and it feels like it’s meant for me.

My husband and I spend the rest of dinner reminsicing about music from our childhood and our childhoods in general. His was so different from mine. Since he lived in Hong Kong until he was 9, most of his favorite music and movies are in Cantonese. We trade stories of our treasured memories—some old, some new—until every plate on our table is empty.

As we wait for the check, I send a text to my parents in our group chat with a picture of the pizza and a note about hearing That Song. My husband pays the bill and we exit our cozy haven for the wide open city. I know it’s cold but it doesn’t feel like it. The wind and the cars speeding by and the subway beneath the sidewalk are just the city’s current pulling us uptown for one last walk to the hotel.

My phone buzzes. I quickly read one text from my dad about our old band, and another from my mom hinting we should go get cheesecake.

Immediately, I show my mom’s text to my husband and we have to laugh because we almost forgot about our silly little tradition. It’s a bit tourist trappy and overpiced, but the first time I ever visited New York it was my mom’s birthday and she made the biggest deal about getting her hands on Junior’s cheesecake. In fact, she bought a whole cake of it, not just a slice. Now every time either one of us are in NYC, we have to get it (a slice, not the whole thing) and send a pic.

So our trip isn’t over just yet. We let the current take us up and across town to Junior’s. We sit at the counter and order 2 slices of cheesecake and 2 cups of chamomile tea. I send the pic to my mom with a devious hehehe.

If it were up to my husband and I, we would sit at the bar counter at every restaurant. We like being extra close and the fact that we don’t have to talk across a table. We can speak in our normal, quiet voices and people watch and talk about sports and Elden Ring and books and work and whatever else while the rest of the room slides out of focus.

But I can see the scene of us sitting there like through a viewfinder. Side by side, scraping away at the last bits of cheesecake on our plates. Pouring more hot water into our teacups. Playoffs basketball commentary murmering on the tiny TV above our heads. No one sitting next to us, no one paying attention to us. It’s just us in our own little world that happens to be new york for one more night. Time has slowed, even in the city that never sleeps. It might be 9pm or past midnight, I can’t tell. Perhaps we’ll ask for the check soon, perhaps we’ll stay here forever as the screen fades to black.

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Hello! Hope my Substack friends are having a nice spring so far! This time of year in Seattle is so beautiful and while New York will always be my dream city, I’m very much enjoying time at home in the PNW too!

Just a quick update: I created an Instagram for my book reviews, which you can find here if you’re interested! :)

Thx for reading and for all of the support as always <333

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Today would have been her 30th birthday, and it’s also my Substack’s first.

I am not new to the idea of writing for fun. In the gloriously carefree days that were the early 2010s, I was the proud owner of a Tumblr blog where I not only posted pictures of my hair that sometimes went viral (lol), I also wrote short prose pieces more adjacent to journal entries (that got 0-4 likes).

Still, those mostly unread posts were the whole reason I had a Tumblr. They were my escape from the dingy college apartment I shared with three other girls in the most boring college town suburb. They allowed me to give into my daydreams and ignore the mounting pressures from homework, grades, and my dwindling bank account (I once called my sister crying because my debit card declined at the Taco Bell drivethru for an order that was barely $11).

But in my tiny bedroom barely wide enough for a twin size bed, I would stay up late writing to nourish my soul like Carrie Bradshaw with a Vogue magazine.

I didn’t care that my writing mattered to no one but me. I didn’t care that I had class at 8am the next morning. Or that I still hadn’t completed my homework because my Organic Chem textbook remained buried beneath a stack of novels.

I just wanted to write.

I wanted to write so much I switched majors from Pre-Med to English halfway through my college career. And for those last two years, I was kind of living the dream. I had a new boyfriend. I got an internship as a marketing copywriter. I was treating my sister to Taco Bell party packs. I never had to balance electrons again or (fail to) neutralize a chemical reaction. Best of all, I was writing all the time—for grades, work, and for fun.

As a student, I fell in love with the process of writing and crafting arguments. As a writer, I grew in my ability to articulate my thoughts and the way I felt about the world and my experiences. I was starting to find my voice and a style of personal writing that felt most like Me.

But then right before I graduated, my sister passed away due to a sudden infection and overnight, I no longer knew who I was or how to write about anything other than her.

Words became a new kind of escape for me. I immersed myself in a world where she still existed, had dialogue and actions. I could recreate the universe where we were back in our childhood home, listening to Rihanna and sitting on the bathroom counter doing our makeup together before school. I could go back and hear all her secrets again for the first time. I could reverse the years until we were small again, keep her safe from ever growing up and getting hurt.

At first it was cathartic. Later, it enabled my addiction to grief. If you’ve ever experienced life-shattering grief you know what I mean. At some point, you realize all that’s left of who or what you’ve lost is the pain of their absence. So you cling to it. The hurt becomes oddly familiar, almost comforting.

Eventually, I gave up writing altogether. Not because I didn’t want to anymore but because I tried to write about something—anything—other than grief, and admitted: I couldn’t. I reread my old blog pieces and labeled them all Stupid, Insignificant, Pointless. I accepted that I suck at writing if I’m not trauma-dumping all over the page. I closed my tumblr account. I didn’t write again for a very long time.

February 5, 2025 — I woke up to a snow-covered Seattle even though the forecast had doubted it would stick. I pulled the curtains back and in a split second the day’s mood went from funereal to like, Second Christmas. I carried on with my annual solemn birthday celebration for my sister (calling in sick and getting donuts), but this time it wasn’t so sad. Slushy snow crunched and splashed beneath my rubber boots as my husband and I walked to the donut shop. I couldn’t stop smiling because of it. I felt like a little kid.

I got a half dozen donut holes because they were her favorite, but there was no lump in my throat as I swallowed the sugary cake. No tears falling silently down my face. Instead, the coffee was hot. The donuts were sweet. My kitchen was warm and cozy. I thought about how much my sister would’ve loved this.

The snow melted quickly in the winter sun, but it was still the best day. I took the bus to my favorite bookstore. I treated myself to lunch at a Mexican restaurant. Then sat on a bench next to the canal, breathing in the crisp air and letting the sun’s soft rays rest gently on my face. A lone kayaker was paddling across the glassy smooth water. It had been so long since I’d spent a day by myself. I felt braver and more confident than I’d had in years. I wanted to hold onto it—the knowledge that I could be strong and happy on a day when I normally just sit on the couch, watch Harry Potter, and cry.

My sister was the bravest, most radiant person I’ve ever known, and I needed to honor her in a way that truly reflected her spirit. I needed to be brave too. So I came home and created this Substack. I wrote one last letter about her and then decided I wouldn’t write another one again.

It doesn’t mean I’m completely healed or that I’ve “moved on” from my grief, but I have found a way to grow with it, and every piece I write reminds me that I am capable of that. I can live a life full of love and joy, even if a huge part of my heart will always be missing.

So what I’ve learned so far after a year on Substack is this:

• The moments that stay with me are the ones where I feel genuinely connected to other people. The most “aesthetically trendy” restaurant in the world won’t make me feel anything if I’m not also surrounded by love and genuine conversation.

• On the other hand, I’ve found poetry in ordinary moments no matter where they take place. A funny converation while waiting in a long line. The way my husband fills up my water bottle any time he sees it’s nearly empty. When my favorite pastry doesn’t sell out at the French bakery. These are the little memories I want to put into words and keep close to me forever.

• Most of my writing happens in my head. When I’m falling asleep at night or walking around my neighborhood, the crucial parts of my pieces and the sentences I’m having trouble getting just right always come to me when I’m not forcing the words onto a screen.

• The best part about writing is the rewriting. Let the first draft be ugly. Let it be everything you want to say, unfiltered. Just get everything off your chest. Then go back and make it pretty. Give it personality. Play with the words and syntax. Don’t be afraid to chop out bits and pieces you’re attached to if they don’t quite fit. Sooner or later, those pieces will become the star of a new draft, and you’ll be so glad you saved it for then.

• The more I write, the more fun it gets. When I first started this substack, it was like learning a new language. I had 30 Untitled drafts with like 1 sentence max written in each. I published some messy and boring posts but they were necessary because you simply cannot get better at writing if you don’t write. And I hope a year or so from now, I’ll be able to look back and see how much I’ve grown and improved since writing this very post.

• Lastly, she may no longer physically exist in the world I’m writing about, but my sister is never far from it. She’s in every crescent moon and good weather day when the forecast predicted otherwise. She’s with me when plans change for the better. When there are happy coincidences that can’t be explained. In the everyday moments that feel like magic. I don’t need to mention her to know she’s in everything I write.

For a year now, this little publication has been my therapy, creative outlet, a source of inspiration and so much more. It started with one simple goal: to not write about my grief as much as I can help it. And it’s grown into a small collection of personal essays that I’m not 100% embarrassed about. Maybe.

It was always the plan to do this even if my work never surpassed 0-4 likes, but I’ve been very lucky to find the most supportive community here. So thank you for whatever time you’ve spent reading the notes I’ve scribbled in the margins of my life so far. It’s a mystery to me any time someone subscribes to my Substack. I kid you not, sometimes I get likes on my essays, and my first thought is But Why. So thank you thank you thank you for stopping by, and for every like and comment and restack and all of the support!! I cannot express enough how much it means to me.

& I am very excited to see what stories I will be telling this year :-)

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Thank you so much for reading Notes from Hannah.

Your likes and comments on my posts already mean so much, but if you would like to further support my work, you can do so here! <3

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Apparently, I wanted to live in a romcom and be 25 forever.

But I’m in my thirties now. Married. Working a boring job. Living on a quiet street in a quiet city. I’ve settled into a life built mostly on routine. And I love it. I do. I love waking up early, doing my job, working out. I eat the same rotation of healthy meals every week that my husband cooks with love. Every night is capped off with a book, tea, and fruit for dessert. No matter how monotonous it sounds, I would never choose to be twenty years old again.

Still, sometimes I wonder when everything got so quiet. What happened to the girl who lived for the dive bar crawl at the end of the annual Christmas party, who would gladly throw down a shot of Jameson under the twinkling lights of a disco ball. Did I leave her by the pool tables still singing, “All I Want for Christmas Is You” with her friends? Like a forgotten sweater on a cold park bench, it’s hard to pinpoint exactly when I lost her. But now that she’s gone forever I sometimes wish I could have her back.

The thing is, I do have friends that still live this loudly at 32. And I don’t fit in with them anymore. I read Substack articles written by attractive people who stay out all night, then go to work and then straight to another event. And I wish I were that interesting, too. But I’d rather just stay home.

I take breaks from writing because I don’t think I have anything going on in life that people would want to read about. I start to question my ability to tell stories because the stories I want to tell aren’t happening to me anymore.

But I spent my 32nd birthday doing my favorite ordinary and uninteresting things, and I couldn’t wait to put the simple beauty of it into words.

I was in New York with my husband. I didn’t book any fancy restaurants that demand you dress up. I didn’t go to any clubs or cocktail lounges or whatever. Instead, we got brunch. The waitress put a birthday candle in my bowl of strawberries and cream and that was all I needed to feel special. I bought Toni Morrison’s Playing in the Dark: Whiteness and the Literary Imagination from Three Lives & Co. We snacked on the tiniest, most delectable vanilla cake with earl grey frosting. Then warmed up with some tea in the afternoon. We wandered down every picturesque street and explored every neighborhood garden that we could find. It wasn’t all that different from how we spend our weekends in Seattle.

With thirty minutes to spare before our dinner reservation, we took a break in Washington Square Park. In a little alcove off the main path we sat on a bench together in companionable silence. A giant rat was scurrying in the bushes next to us. Cars were honking in the distance. A teenage girl on a nearby bench was arguing loudly on the phone with her mom, cutting through the hum of the city’s soundscape with her shrill cries. And I had never felt more in love with my unglamorous life. In fact, I even found the girl’s crash out oddly inspiring. I wonder what it’s like to live that unapologetically without sparing a single thought to anyone else’s assumptions about yourself.

For dinner, we ate the most incredible meal at Fedora: buttery pierogies with chantarelle mushrooms, a bright Waldorf salad, spicy sausage on a bed of eggplant and peppers, spaghetti with clams, and creamy polenta topped with popcorn. It was a nice restaurant but not pretentious, exactly what I had in mind for my birthday dinner.

We lost track of the time and realized halfway through dessert that the jazz show we had tickets to was starting in 8 minutes. My foot started jittering uncontrollably because I hate being late to things. But before I knew it, we were running across the street, laughing off the buzz of one glass of red wine and chocolate-coated rice pudding. The cold night air was soothing on my flushed face. We took our seats just as the pianist appeared from behind what I thought was the closet door next to me. Smelling of cigarettes and towering over our table he smiled at us and said, Hey thanks for coming! and a moment later, he was at the front of the room playing some of the most effortlessly moving music I’d ever heard live.

I’ve been listening to jazz since I was 15, but this was my first ever show. It was a dream come true to hear the music I love so much in person, to be part of the applause after a musician’s solo that I always hear in the recordings.

When the show ended, I told my husband I didn’t want to leave. He said, “Let’s stay then.” And immediately, we bought tickets to the next show: a guitar, bass, and drums trio that I’m so thankful we didn’t miss.

That night, I stood on the subway platform holding onto my husband’s arm. I leaned into him in a half hug feeling happy and sleepy as I listened to the trains taking people to different parts of the city—the sound of metal clanging on metal, the rush of wind crescendoing in the tunnel before a train comes into view.

And I thought: No, I’m not in my hot and messy twenties anymore. It’s been years since I’ve replayed a minor interaction with a confusing guy over and over in my mind. I don’t need to get drunk to have a good time anymore. To be honest, I don’t even really enjoy drinking anymore. I don’t have a super impressive job. And sometimes I get anxious over stupid things like what to do if I’m on the bus and I pull the wire to request a stop but it doesn’t trigger the alert…

But I’m in my favorite city with my favorite person. And when we get back to our own city in a few days, we’ll spend our Friday nights drinking hot apple cider and playing video games side by side in a cozy house with our names on the deed. Next weekend, I have plans with one of my best friends and I can’t wait to tell her all about this trip and catch up. In just a few months, my sister-in-law’s baby will be born; by the end of the year, I’ll be an aunt.

I’m living the life I want to be living, focusing on taking care of myself, and spending my time and energy on the things that I love and the relationships that matter to me.

How could I have ever forgotten that my life at the present, with all its beautifully ordinary moments, is the most romantic it’s ever been.

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Ordinary things I’ve been loving lately:

• Birdwatching. I am officially at the age where seeing a new-to-me bird species = a very good day.

• Mocha lattes. Who knew they were so easy to make. This weekend, we’re going to buy candy canes to make them pepperminty.

• Hollow Knight Silksong. I freaking love this game. It’s so cute and so hard and I can’t stop playing.

• Ginger + lemon + honey. Every morning I mix them in a cup of hot water and drink it while I cozy up on the couch before work. It’s essentially a virgin hot toddy and is so warm and comforting on these chilly PNW mornings.

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Thanks for reading! Hope you’re having the merriest & brightest December so far.

It was a cold night in late October but they went for a walk with the dog anyway. Strong winds made it difficult to put one foot in front of the other. They huddled together, slowly making their way down the quiet street. Leaves swirled all around them. Dust was getting in their eyes. Several branches littered the ground and my dad was afraid another might come crashing down on his 8-month pregnant wife.

They returned home just in time. The rain-splattered windows rattled as they lit candles, preparing for a blackout. The wind was howling. My dad put the kettle on to make tea. And my mom, too exhausted from the short walk, sank herself down onto the bed hard, momentarily forgetting that I was sleeping delicately within her womb. Like a sudden crack of thunder, her water broke.

And 9 hours later, into the world I arrived. A whole month early, and just 2 days before Halloween.

As you can imagine, this is my favorite time of the year. The cold October air and visions of storm clouds on the horizon awaken something within my soul. I feel more confident and in tune with what I want and what I no longer want to waste energy on. It’s like a mini rebirth as I prepare to turn another year older. I’ve always felt so lucky that my birthday coincides with this magical season. I crave everything it has to offer—the pumpkin drinks, the kitschy decorations, the general feeling of mysticism in the air.

So to get into the spirit, here’s a short compilation of all the things I’ve been enjoying this month as I count down the days till my favorite holiday, Scorpio season, and my 32nd birthday!!!

Carmilla, Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, edited by Carmen Maria Machado

If you haven’t read this one yet, I highly recommend it—but only the version edited by Machado whose commentary throughout the novella adds layers to the story and otherwise one-dimensional characters. I am about 2/3 of the way finished with this one and it’s been an easy read full of suspense and some gorgeous illustrations. It’s said to be the original vampire story that inspired Dracula and has everything from gothic castles, horse-drawn carriages, and nightmarish visions, to an intoxicating friendship between the two main characters…

The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde

I’m familiar with this famous tale but have never read it all the way through. I just started Dorian a couple weeks ago so I’m not too far into it but already I’m mesmerized by the prose. Every page is dripping with decadence. I’ve been immediately pulled into this story and I can’t wait to see the ugliness behind it all. (Also, how pretty is my edition of the book!!!)

American Gothic Tales, Joyce Carol Oates

This is an anthology that I purchased for a class I took in college called “The Uncanny.” The theme was all things eerie in literature. To this day, it’s one of the classes that’s stuck with me the most. There are a ton of good stories in this book including:

• “The Black Cat” — Edgar Allan Poe

• “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” — Washington Irving

• “The Yellow Wallpaper” — Charlotte Perkins Gilman

• “A Rose for Emily” — William Faulkner

• “Death in the Woods” — Sherwood Anderson

• “Cat in Glass” — Nancy Etchemendy

Instead of watching scary movies, I like to have a marathon of all the Halloween episodes from my favorite sitcoms. Sometimes I’ll cycle through them as I’m doing other things like cooking dinner on a slow Friday night while my husband’s out playing soccer or just tidying up the living room. It also feels kind of nostalgic because back in the day when there was only cable T.V., they used to do this sort of thing on several channels. Last year, I took the time to jot down all the Halloween episode numbers of my favorite shows so I thought I’d share them in case you’re in the mood for some festive, light-hearted comedies!

“Hart of Dixie”

• Season 1, Episode 6: The Undead & the Unsaid (this one’s not technically Halloween, but it’s still giving spooky season vibes)

• Season 2, Episode 5: Walkin’ After Midnight

• Season 3, Episode 4: Help Me Make It Through the Night

“FRIENDS”

Ok so there’s only one Halloween episode of Friends, but it’s too iconic to not include.

• Season 8, Episode 6: The One with the Halloween Party

“The Office”

• Season 2, Episode 5: Halloween

• Season 5, Episode 6: Employee Transfer

• Season 7, Episode 6: Costume Contest

• Season 8, Episode 5: Spooked

• Season 9, Episode 5: Here Comes Treble

“Brooklyn Nine-Nine”

My husband and I just finished this series last month and it’s easily the one of the best shows I’ve ever watched. Here are all the infamous Halloween Heist episodes that actually take place on Halloween.

• Season 1, Episode 6: Halloween

• Season 2, Episode 4: Halloween II

• Season 3, Episode 5: Halloween III

• Season 4, Episode 5: Halloween IV

• Season 5, Episode 4: HalloVeen

My Halloween playlist might be my favorite playlist I’ve ever made. I look forward to listening to it all year long LOL. Enjoy <333

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Closing this letter with some sprinkles of Halloween spirit from over the years!

I hope you liked this little curation of Halloweenie things. I know this isn’t what I typically post but I just felt like doing something different. And I had a lot of fun making the header banners lol. Will be back to regularly scheduled (sentimental girl) content soon :)

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I’m walking through Pike Place Market holding hands with the love of my life, and autumn is almost here.

It’s in the air, as they say. Crisp, cool, clean. I’ve missed this. I take a deep breath, drinking it in as the wind blows my hair in every direction. Anthony laughs sweetly at my feeble attempts to keep the strands out of my face.

I cling to his arm with both of mine as we weave through the crowded market. All around us, visitors to our great city are rushing to get in line somewhere, anywhere. I catch the names of famous market shops in their conversations. Piroshky Piroshky… Beecher’s… Pike Place Chowder. The First Starbucks.

We are here this morning because we thought it’d be nice to get coffee and pastries from Le Panier and eat our breakfast on the market terrace overlooking the water. I like watching the ferries carve through the bay towards Bainbridge Island, and seeing the Olympic Mountains on the horizon. But silly us, we didn’t realize the cruise ships were still in town. From the little glass door of the bakery a line extends, wrapping around the side of the building, and we stop ourselves from joining the queue.

But we are far from disappointed. We can come back any other day. One of the many wonderful things about living here is that there will always be another Sunday morning spent at Pike Place Market. And the best of those mornings take place in the quiet months to come.

Anthony is listing alternative coffee shops we could go to for breakfast, but I’m only half listening. For a moment, I’d like to just stand here and take in the first signs of fall settling over our city while the rest of the world swirls on by. The clouds are thick, like a comforter above us. Like the heavy blanket I pulled up to my chin this morning after finally sleeping without the fan. The trees are swaying, their leaves fluttering in the wind. They are still holding on for now. But soon, they will turn, painting the city anew in shades of red, orange, and gold.

And it will feel like coming home.

I still remember how Seattle first opened its arms to me in the fall. We moved here in July 2022. It was a summer of turquoise lakes and emerald green trees. Pink cocktails and vivid orange sunsets. But I was merely a long-term tourist. The city looked and felt different to me every day. A shapeshifting dreamscape that was a wonderland one day and a maze the next.

Then slowly, we started to piece together the puzzle of our new town. We found our go-to coffee shops. Lighthouse Roasters for lattes and dog sightings. Irwin’s for a regular cup of coffee and a cozy spot to read or play chess. Anthony started turning off google maps when we got close to our neighborhood. We became experts at finding street parking near Pike Place Market.

In a little French café on the corner of Pine and Post Alley, we celebrated my 29th birthday over brunch. The bubbles in my French 75 went straight to my head and I had an epiphany that our life was just beginning. We were newlyweds and it was my golden birthday, my first birthday in our new city that didn’t feel so new anymore. Rain was starting to fall outside the red-framed windows, and October had never felt more spellbinding.

It has been three years since that first fall. And now as I stand here at the start of this new season in the middle of our city’s most beloved place, it almost feels nostalgic. My heart remembers how it felt to notice for the first time, the intensity of a Seattle summer burn off and melt into the soft glow of a pacific northwest autumn.

I’m listening to Anthony name the coffee shops we could go to instead of Le Panier, but I don’t mind where we go. All I really wanted was to be out in the city on a day like this.

He gazes over my shoulder, at a red-trimmed window on Post Alley. “Oh! We could try Café Campagne?”

“Mm.. we’ve never eaten there without a reservation before but yeah let’s see.” I grab his hand and start walking.

We make our way up the cobblestone street, pass people taking pictures of the Public Market sign, and step inside the warmly lit Parisian café. From behind an old-fashioned wooden desk, the hostess checks if she has any available tables. I give Anthony’s hand a little squeeze for good luck.

A few moments pass and she reaches for a couple menus - somehow, I knew it would work out - and she leads us through a dining room full of families, lovers, friends, and lone diners at the counter sipping coffee with the morning paper.

In the back room, we take our seats. I look out the window instead of at my menu. In a few weeks, it will be a picture perfect view of quintessential Seattle.

And the city will whisper to me through the mist and rain, Welcome Home.

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I started writing this little thing for chilly Seattle last Sunday, and then we of course had a mini heat wave this week LOL. Anyways, cheers to fall. Cheers to being weirdly romantic about everything. And finding the magic in everyday moments. This is what I need right now to get through the current state of America!!!!

But something my therapist once told me that’s really stuck with me is that you have to take advantage of moments when you feel good and do something for yourself, even if it’s small. Take note of how this makes you feel, because it’ll be a good feeling, and remember that and do it again.

Ever since she gave me this life-changing advice, I’ve consistently noticed how good it feels to get dressed up and take myself on a date, even if it’s just to walk around and get a coffee. So on the first afternoon in a very long time that I didn’t feel like just taking a nap after work, I got off the couch, put on my makeup, got dressed, broke out my new shoes and walked myself to the cute little street I always write about with all the shops and restaurants.

And it was on this day that I realized: Everything’s going to be alright.

I started the afternoon off with some window shopping at the Scandinavian/Japandi home goods store, where I took lots of inspo pics for my house but stopped myself from spending $64 on two plates… one had a drawing of a dog on it and the other had a drawing of a cat. They reminded me of me and my husband, and I am so weak when it comes to things like that. So already, things were off to a good start, and I continued on my way feeling proud of myself for not giving in to that impulse buy.

In the next store, I got a hand drawn birthday card for one of my sweet friends back in California. Then at a trendy little boutique, I bought some earrings, and had a pleasant chat with the salesperson about its funky design. They ended up also giving me a special jewelry cleaning cloth that they swear works like magic. And in the last shop, I scored on a reasonably priced vintage men’s button-down that I thought would make the cutest dress paired with my beloved Frye Campus boots.

I walked up to the counter to pay, and a bubbly salesgirl who always happens to be working when I come here rung me up. It was that time of the afternoon when the sun starts its slow descent, drawing closer to the horizon with a hazy faint glow. A little prelude to golden hour. I gazed at the sun rays pouring in through the tall windows that reached up to the ceiling. Soft light was falling perfectly over the natural wood displays. It vaguely reminded me of Newport Beach, California, where I used to go on quiet early weekend mornings in my first years after college. I’d get a cheap cup of coffee and a doughnut and sit in my car watching the ocean waves crash and roll to the shore. If it wasn’t overcast, the sunlight hitting the sand looked a lot like this.

I turned back to Miss Bubbly and smiled. “It’s always so pretty in here.”

“Oh I know! I just love it.” She paused for a sec before adding, “Got anything fun going on the rest of the night?”

And I don’t know why, but it always makes me super happy when they ask me that. Like there’s been something so kind and pleasant about our minimal interaction thus far that makes them think, hmm in the 7 or so seconds it takes for the system to pull up the payment screen I wouldn’t mind chatting with her and I don’t think she’d mind talking with me either. Like we’re extending a mutual invitation to make this sales transaction a little more human.

“Yeah!” I responded. “I think I’m going to go grab a drink somewhere and read my book.”

Actually, I hadn’t been planning on doing that. But I did have my book in my bag (because I bring it everywhere), and somehow that just came out. Like the spirit of Leopold Bloom spoke to me from the depths of my bag and compelled me to see just how much more I could fit into this one seemingly ordinary day.

So I left the store with my cute new dress shirt and a strong desire to act on this whim. But first I walked across the street to a little coffee shop and got myself a sweet treat because Why Not.

After securing the goods, I walked up and down the street scoping out every bar for the perfect, most cozy spot. If I was going to post up somewhere and read this crazy book called Ulysses, the vibes needed to be immaculate.

And then I found it. Like Holly Golightly standing outside Tiffany & Co with her croissant, I peered into the pub window while nibbling my salted chocolate macaron admiring every inch of the space beyond the glass. The atmosphere was dark and moody. Deer heads were mounted on the walls alongside endless vintage paintings of Mount Rainier. In the back room was a row of pinball machines and a couple pool tables. It was perfect. Unassuming. Quiet but not completely empty. Like if a ski lodge and the dive bar in my hometown had a baby.

I finished my macaron, tossed the paper wrapper in the recycle bin, and stepped inside. There were only a couple of spots open at the bar, but I had my heart set on the the only booth tucked away in the bay window so I could have enough light to read my book.

Since I’m so short, I could barely see over the booth and I wondered if the bartender would even notice me over here but she immediately came to take my order. She looked very cool and intimidating with her hair piled high in a messy bun, tattooed eyebrows in pinup-style arches, and her little black leather shorts. But when she spoke, her voice was so warm and charming that I wanted to order something right away. Quickly, I glanced at the happy hour menu and ordered a 12-ounce pint of a local amber ale and some nachos.

“Soundssss good!” she said brightly as she finished scribbling my order on a paper pad and tucked the pen behind her ear. “I’ll be right back with that amber!” which she brought over just as I was bringing out my giant green book. Not even two minutes later she came back and brought a water over for me too. I thanked her and she gave me a little wink and an, “Of course, hun!” as she headed back to the bar. For the next ~45 minutes, I read my book undisturbed while the people talking at the bar and the 90s alternative rock on the speakers blended together creating the perfect background noise. The cool bartender came by once and asked if I wanted another beer but I declined and she left me to keep reading and eating my nachos without rushing me away with the check.

The afternoon light was fading and I started to notice a lot of voices coming from behind me outside so I turned to look out the window. A group of people had gathered on the patio area that was empty when I first got here. One of them broke away from the rest and walked up to the window next to the front door, switching on a light-up sign of a giant chess piece. I put two and two together just as I noticed a flier next to the illuminated King advertising for the Seattle Chess Club. Thursdays at 6pm. Tonight. Right now. Immediately, I bookmarked my page and put my book down to check Find My Friends and see if my husband was almost home from work. He happens to be quite good at chess. I’m terrible, but I still like to play with him sometimes. And even though we’ve been in Seattle for three years now and we see the fliers all over the city, we’d still never been to Chess Club.

Just as I was checking my phone, a message from him popped up wondering where I was. We always seem to be connected like that. I sent him back a picture of my table spread and the chess club setup outside, and after a few back and forth’s, he was on his way to join me for a drink and some chess.

I walked over to the bar where the nice, cool bartender was chatting with another cool bartender. “Ready for the check, hun?” she asked before I could say anything.

“Actually, I changed my mind. Could I get another amber please? My husband decided he’s gonna come join me for the chess club.”

“Oh my God, fun! Yes, absolutely!”

I went back to my little corner feeling so many wonderful emotions I hadn’t felt in so many weeks. But at that moment, I wasn’t thinking about all of that. All I was thinking was that I was so excited for my husband/best friend to come hang out at this bar with me on a weekday night. Something we never, ever do. And I don’t know why that is. Because now I’m realizing, maybe we don’t have to wait around all week until Friday to go out and enjoy this amazing place we get to call home. If there’s anything I’ve learned from the personal essays I’ve written, it’s that every time I get out of the house and experience the unique places and people this beautiful city has to offer, I always returns home with a heart full of gratitude and wonder.

The past month or so has been long and difficult. But this day was such a blessing. It was a reminder that the bad days will pass, and that there will always be another good day waiting around the corner. I may not have been strong enough to handle some things that I thought I could, but I know that someday I will be. And although I won’t always be prepared for the challenges life throws at me, I don’t have to let the setbacks define me either.

A few bad weeks don’t make a bad year. Honestly? They don’t even make a bad summer.

Because this summer has been pretty lovely for the most part. It’s been filled with spontaneous trips and walks through the park. Labors of love like gardening and redecorating. Savory, home-cooked meals and sticky, drippy ice cream. Ripe blueberries and fresh cut flowers from our rooftop garden. It’s been filled with supportive friends and funny FaceTime calls with my parents. Date nights at home and growing ever closer to my partner in life through the happiness and hardships and everything in between.

As this season comes to a close, I thank the sunsets for showing me beauty after the toughest, ugliest days; the stars in the clear night skies for showing me it’s possible to sparkle in the darkness; the plants for showing me how to come back after wilting.

And I thank this city for revealing to me exactly what I need, every time I need it.

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& thank you for your patience while i was on an unplanned hiatus. hope everyone’s being doing swell <333

But even we think the farmers market in our little corner of Seattle is the best place to be on a Sunday morning in May.

We’ve just finished eating breakfast at home—protein pancakes, berries, and honey oat lattes—and now we’re making the quick ~20 minute walk to the market. Anthony’s lugging our giant insulated tote bag while I cling to his other arm. It’s partly cloudy. Slightly chilly. Cars and buses are rushing by us, creating their own gusts of wind.

But the minute we come up to the market, it’s like a summer fair at a SoCal beach city. The clouds are parting over the rainbow of flags marking the entrance. The old buildings on either side of the street are sheltering us from the wind. It suddenly feels as warm as mid-July. I remove my sweater and stuff it in our bag. Now I’m glad I wore my pastel pink top with the yellow and orange flowers printed all over it. It’s got a delicate eyelet lace trim and a tie-front closure. Nothing else in my closet says spring into summer more than this top.

The street is filled with people wearing sundresses or t-shirts and sunglasses. There’s not a heavy duty jacket in sight. The scent of curry and spices wafts through the air from the always popular Indian food truck. We pass crowded flower stands overflowing with tulips and peonies. We point out dogs with their noses twitching up at the tables of freshly baked goods and ripe fruits. And everywhere I look, people are smiling, talking, petting dogs, taking pictures, and laughing. It feels good to be here with this community of people as we make a collective escape from the chaos of the Monday through Friday grind. Look at all of us supporting local businesses and splurging on heirloom tomatoes that are also sold at the grocery store but just taste better when they’re from here somehow. We’re like glittering pieces in a mosaic of this perfect picture in spring.

Anthony picks out our special produce for the week from a Sedro-Woolley farm stand.

“Just this for you guys?”

“Yeah... And, uhh. What is it exactly?”

“It’s an onion.”

I bust up laughing. I can’t help it. And Anthony says to me later after we’ve paid, “Well I’ve never seen it with the leaves still attached!” I get myself a bouquet of flowers, like I try to do every Sunday. We treat ourselves to a half dozen apple cider mini donuts, and then decide we should probably eat a real lunch too.

It’s the NBA playoffs right now, and it’s honestly become one of our favorite events of the year (the playoffs are so much more fun than the finals). So, we make our way to our new favorite sports bar that’s at the end of the street. The bar counter is designed in a giant U shape with a large screen in the middle and multiple TVs on the side walls as well as out on the covered patio that the main room opens up to. But what we really love about this place is the fact that they actually have the sound on for the game they’re showing. (You’d think all sports bars would have the game audio on but apparently it’s a luxury.)

We walk into the bar and unsurprisingly, it’s packed. We scan the room and the outside patio area. No luck. We’re just about to leave when an older man and woman wave us over and immediately start moving their stuff one seat to the left, making space for two spots right in the middle of the bar.

“You two basketball fans?” the man asks as we start sitting down.

“Yeah, we are! Thank you so much!!”

“Oh good! Now you’ve got the best seats in the house.”

And we absolutely do, thanks to them.

I order my go-to: a pilsner and a grilled cheese sandwich with fries on the side. Anthony gets his usual hazy IPA and a cheeseburger. We’re not emotionally invested in the game; we just want to see some good basketball. So after deciding we actually hate OKC, we consider ourselves allies to a gentleman we spot on the right side of the bar in a Nuggets hat. He is emotionally invested though, and since OKC’s lead is pulling away, he doesn’t join in when we applaud every feeble Denver bucket. His arms remain crossed and his furrowed brows barely soften. “Poor guy,” says Anthony, and we shake our heads out of sympathy as SGA makes another 3. We both know how it feels to watch your team lose an important game. But today, that couldn’t be us. We’re just here to have a good time, like the drunk OKC fans on the patio behind us cheering after every play (and whistle). And Anthony and I laugh to ourselves as we say Booooo just loudly enough for only us to hear.

Two women have just taken up the seats that opened up on the left of Disappointed Nuggets Fan, and for some reason they’re both decked out in head-to-toe Lakers gear. Complete with hats and necklaces and purses. Anthony and I give each other a look as we take a moment to admire their passion and dedication. Especially since the Lakers were eliminated already and this is Seattle, where most LA-related things tend to get you an immediate side eye. (God forbid anyone refer to I-5 as The 5!) But these two Lakers super fans are holding their heads up high and if I were sitting closer to them I would lean over and tell them I’m a Lakers fan too, born and raised. The bartender brings them a couple of Seattle hotdogs, a beer, and a bloody Mary, and it warms my heart when a guy walks up to them saying YESSSS GO LAKERS before continuing on his way to meet a friend across the room.

My eyes follow the bartender as she brings blue jello shots to a booth on the left side of the bar. She leaves the couple to do their shots just as a group of people come up to join them. The girl stands up and greets them excitedly. “This is my Todd!” I hear her say as she puts a hand on the guy’s shoulder and they all take turns giving him handshakes and hugs. Now they’re standing near us at the bar trying to get the bartender’s attention again. “Yeah could we get a round of tequila shots please!” shouts Todd much to the approval of his girlfriend’s friends who are hyping him up and saying things like, “Oh he’s a keeper alright!”

Anthony and I share another look as this all unfolds. We don’t say anything to each other, but I know we’re both thinking about all the nerves and excitement there are at the start of a relationship. And also how nice it is that we’re over a decade past those early days and know each other so well that we can communicate with just our eyes and smiles.

Between all the conversations and shouting and laughter and cheers, I realize the joie de vivre of the farmers market has followed us here to this bar too, and now I can’t wait for all the memories we’ll make in our little city this summer. It’s almost the season of watching endless boats and kayaks and paddle-boarders parade around Lake Union; waiting in line to get Molly Moon’s ice cream while it’s still light out at 9pm; and scouting for an open spot by the Fremont canal to set up our hammock and read.

I can feel the summer energy here already in the middle of all these different people at different stages in life enjoying a Sunday together yet separately. Some of us are here to watch the game, some are here just to get trashed and make new friends. The elderly couple that made room for us earlier are still sitting on my left. They have their heads close together while they talk and the man’s whole body is turned to face his wife. He has one arm around her chair and her eyes are locked on his. I know they haven’t noticed a single thing that’s happened in this bar since they first spoke to us, and I hope that will be me and Anthony in thirty years or so too.

What a beautiful thing it is to just be out in the city with the one you love the most on a sunny day full of luck and everyday magic. I hold onto Anthony’s arm and lace my fingers with his as we watch the game clock wind down. Out of nowhere, I hear a chorus of “HUZZAHHH”s cut through the sounds of the bar and I turn to see a group of friends beyond the patio prancing across the sidewalk in Renaissance Faire attire. A guy wearing a crown at the front of the pack raises his staff in the air with another shout. Right on cue, the drunk OKC fans respond with their own emphatic HUZZAH! and the rest of the bar joins in with raised glasses.

“I love Seattle,” I say to Anthony.

“Seattle is so cute,” he says at the same time.

And we down the last of our beers.

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This was the aunt who took my mom in when my mom was going through her Bad Girl Phase in high school. No longer fresh off the boat from Thailand and living with relatives in Southern California, my mom had spent her first two years in high school partying, getting bad grades, and—oh yeah, she attempted to run away from home with her boyfriend before they were caught in the next town over. Because of this, she got kicked out of her relatives’ house and was put into a foster system. Then, from across the country, this aunt flew in to collect her sister’s troubled daughter and give her a chance to start over in Yonkers, New York.

Thirty years later, my mom waited for this same aunt to take her in again. Only this time, she wasn’t alone or troubled and it was for much happier reasons—to celebrate her 48th birthday with her daughter (me) in New York for 10 days.

When New York Auntie picked us up from La Guardia, there were no teary-eyed hugs and welcome flowers. She was impatient to leave the airport and hurried us into her car without so much as a Long time no see. I was immediately intimidated by how tough she appeared despite being very tiny and old. She spoke in a choppy, sharp Thai that didn’t sound at all like my mom’s sweet, melodic voice when she would speak in her native language at our local Thai restaurant. And she barely acknowledged me, perhaps, because I don’t speak Thai.

It was strange. My mom and this aunt hadn’t seen each other in decades and yet, the normal sentiments of a family reunion were completely nonexistent. New York Auntie’s demeanor was strict and authoritative. My mom anxiously responding to her rapid fire dialogue in a mix of Thai and English. I sat quietly in the backseat of NY Auntie’s SUV, taking in this bizarre welcome and fully realizing for the first time, how much history must exist between my mother and this woman.

Before heading up to White Plains, we went to dinner with some relatives I didn’t know I had in Queens. I was quiet the entire meal as we ate unfamiliar Thai food that was not pad thai or pad see ewe or cream cheese wontons. The relatives repeatedly asked my mom why she never taught me the language. Why had I never eaten any traditional Thai dishes. And I felt bad for her. I wished I could speak to them in Thai just to make my mom look good, to prove she was no longer that troubled teen but a successful woman and an amazing mom. Instead, I sat there perpetually sweating from the humidity and my awkwardness. As we were leaving the restaurant, New York Auntie pointed at me and barked, “YOU! khop khun kha!” I brought my hands together like a prayer in front of my chest, bowed, and said the words to my feet while my mom stood sheepishly by my side on the dirty sidewalk.

Most of the trip went like this: Bland rice porridge for breakfast. Sight seeing from New York Auntie’s car. Never being allowed to walk down the street or go into any shops. New York Auntie always speaking in her sharp Thai. My mom responding in her nervous, unpracticed Thai. Though I didn’t know what they were saying, I was always tense.

Then finally, my mom and I got a free day to ourselves. That morning, I ate the bland porridge like a champ. My mom packed her backpack with snacks and water and we embarked on what felt like our first real day of vacation. We rode the bus for an hour from White Plains to the Bronx. We took the subway for another hour from the Bronx to Manhattan. We explored all corners of the city, getting on and off the subway at random stops. We ate ice cream before lunch. We shopped at stores we couldn’t afford. We cried in the 9/11 memorial museum and then walked two and a half miles up to Madison Square Park. It was pure fun and chaos. A cinematic reverie. The perfect day.

Late in the afternoon, we were sitting at a bench in Central Park sharing a box of macarons when she tilted her chin up looking at something beyond my shoulder. I followed her gaze turning to my right and saw a group of other tourists ordering hot dogs from a cart. “I used to work at a Nathan’s hot dog stand when I was living in New York,” she said. “Not that one. But similar.” She’s told me this many times before, but it felt more real now. I could sort of picture her with her big 80s hair leaning out the cart to take orders.

“Oh really? And what else did you do when you lived here?” I asked, and she smiled mid-macaron, her eyes widening in excitement.

“I went to my first concert ever at Madison Square Garden. Van Halen, 1982.”

I was awe-struck. Then I laughed and said, “Oh okay but my first concert had to be that Christian girl band you guys took us to see in a church auditorium?” We both started laughing as she said sorry for wanting my sister and me to grow up in a good Christian household. In between the laughter I heard her say something like, “was just trying to make up for my sins,” with self-mocking sarcasm.

Then she added, “You know, I used to sit on the fire escape of my Auntie’s old apartment in Yonkers and smoke cigarettes. And look out at the Hudson River. Auntie found my lighter once and I told her I used it to heat up my eyelash curler. I even tried to grow a marijuana plant on her rooftop.” My jaw dropped. Who was this wild child that grew up to be my Always On Time, Always Polite, Always Standing Up Straight MOTHER??? I stared at her, once again in amazement and disbelief.

“Poor Auntie,” is all I could say.

“Poor Auntie,” she agreed.

Later, as the sun was going down, I was starting to feel very aware of the distance between myself and the twin guest bed that awaited me back in White Plains. My mom, however, was unfazed by the heat and humidity and our probably 20,000 steps or more. Reminiscing in the city seemed to have brought out a new energy in her. Almost like she was no longer ashamed of having once been the Troubled Teen but thankful for that time in her life and what it brought her.

As we started the journey back to White Plains, I understood her silence as she sat beside me on the subway. The memories from 30 years ago probably flashing through her mind. I’ve seen her high school yearbook before, and the scribbled notes her classmates left on the inside covers: “Bea, We did it. Class of ‘84! I’m going to miss your California accent!” Before she was my mom, she was the cool new girl from California who smoked on the fire escape and took public transit into the city to go to rock concerts.

She was also the youngest of three siblings who grew up in Thailand without a father. She was the girl who tried to run away from a broken household in the US with a boyfriend that still called her sometimes in New York. Unable to afford the long distance call, he’d let the phone ring twice and then hang up to let her know he was thinking of her. And she’d smile to herself as her aunt yelled in frustration at whoever kept calling and hanging up.

She was once an 18-year-old who graduated high school and immediately called the boy back. Carefree as she’d always been, she got on a plane and flew to California to be with him. She had no money and neither did he and they rented a tiny room and lived off instant mashed potatoes for a week. She is one half of the greatest love story I’ve ever heard. The story of how these two misfits with broken families were separated by a whole country with no social media or cell phones and still ended up together, figured things out, got married, and had two daughters—me and my little sister.

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When we got back to White Plains, the night was quiet. A stoplight over an empty intersection swayed a little in the breeze. My mom said her aunt would pick us up from the bus station but she was running late at the Buddhist temple.

I sat down on a bench, my feet tired and my body longing for sleep. But my mom was still standing. “I want pizza,” she said suddenly. I snapped fully awake. “Wait. What?” I called out as she was already starting to cross the street.

“I saw earlier there’s an Italian restaurant in that plaza. Let’s go check it out.”

“But what about Auntie?” I called after her. To this, she made no comment.

There were no other customers when we got to the restaurant. The waitress assumed we were ordering takeout, but my mom asked to dine-in. We were shown to a small table with a single rose in a simple glass vase. After hearing the specials and asking if we’d like anything to drink other than water, my mom asked, “What do you have on draft?”

We ordered a pepperoni pizza and spaghetti to go with my mom’s beer. I’d never felt so satisfied from a meal in my life. I love spontaneous moments like this. My mom was sitting back enjoying her amber ale and I was texting my sister about our day when my mom got a phone call. We exchanged a look that said, Oh shit. We’re gonna be in trouble, aren’t we. And then she answered and I heard the angry Thai. My mom held the phone slightly away from her face and rolled her eyes as we tried not to laugh.

New York Auntie picked us up from the restaurant. My mom got in the front passenger seat holding the box of leftovers and I got in the backseat behind her. More angry Thai words filled the car while my mom sat there quietly. She seemed somehow rebellious in her silence. Like my sister when she’s being lectured for staying out too late. A tiny hint of a smirk, the power of knowing she’s so charming no one will stay mad at her for long.

I watched my mom stare serenely out the window, and I could see the rebel teenager in her who was always set on finding her own way. I can only imagine how much she went through in order to become the mom who provided her two daughters with the most stable household imaginable. How hard she must have worked to make sure they would never have to worry about where their next meal would come from. I can only imagine how many wounds she must have healed to make sure her own daughters would never question whether or not they were loved and wanted.

I listened to my great-aunt scold my mom as if it was still 1984. The smell of greasy pizza hung in the air like a curl of cigarette smoke on a rusted metal fire escape.

Despite its revamped store design, the essence of Barnes & Noble felt the same as it did in the early 2000s. I passed young families, groups of friends, and couples huddled in different sections talking excitedly about books they’ve read and loved, read and hated, want to read, will never read… There was a youthful energy to the place that reminded me of a school book fair in the late 90s. But what really made me nostalgic was that scent that greeted me when I first walked in—the smell of books mixed with the aroma of coffee and, I don’t know, maybe the various assortment of candles in the Gifts section?

However you would describe it, it was like the first sip of a pinot noir transporting me to a certain wine bar in Long Beach. The sound of a teaspoon tapping on porcelain after the cream and sugar’s been stirred in bringing me back to Sunday brunch in my small hometown.

I inhaled the scent of Barnes & Noble and was 13 again.

Memories have always had a mysterious hold on me, and I cling to them even more so now that memories are all I have left of my sister. But even as a kid, I was always interested in how the phenomenon of remembering worked. I wondered about the magic that allowed me to close my eyes at night after a long day at school and play a montage of all the times my crush had talked to me during 5th period like it was my favorite movie. I was fascinated by the process of memorizing a piano piece as much as I was about learning it. I needed to know why the song “SK8er Boi” always made me remember a hot summer afternoon spent skateboarding around the garage with my sister and cousins.

At Barnes & Noble one night, I begged my mom to let me get a book called Memory that explained how the brain retains information. I was finally going to uncover its secrets. Or so I thought. But I was too young to understand the scientific jargon so unfortunately, ironically, I don’t remember anything it said.

What I do remember is going to dinner with my family almost every Friday night during that time of my life. There’s the four of us at a booth in our favorite family-owned Mexican restaurant. I can still see the hanging orange lights and the tiled floors. The large oval dinner plates with a brown stripe along the edge. I don’t remember much of what we talked about, but I can still hear our voices and laughter. Still taste the comforting savoriness of refried beans and Spanish rice.

I remember how after dinner, we’d split up to go shopping. My mom and sister to Target, my dad and I to hide in different corners of Barnes & Noble until they joined us. I’d browse every book in YA and Fiction, and then slowly wander through the aisles of all the other genres. Even then, I loved being surrounded by books. I distinctly remember that by the time I made my way back to the front of the store, I would find my mom and sister at the B&N Café Proudly Serving Starbucks Coffee.

My mom would be standing at the counter with her perfect posture, half her hair pulled back in a claw clip, black leather bag on her shoulder. At her elbow, my little sister and her pigtails would be looking all around for me. I’d go up to meet them, tell them where I last saw Dad, and our mom would go off to find him.

I remember following my sister to the tiny green chairs in the children’s section where we’d camp out and gossip about her friends in between slurps of a vanilla frappucino. The mini wooden stage didn’t feel so mini then, and the paper tree pillars were as tall as redwoods. I remember reuniting with our parents in the Music and Movies section. My dad in his grey flannel would always be at one of the sampling stations with the black headphones on, a CD in his hand, and his head bent down reading the track list on the back cover. Only after the four of us were back together again did the store somehow seem quieter, emptier. I’d suddenly realize how tired I was. As if they could read my mind, someone would then announce over the speakers, “Barnes & Noble will be closing in 10 minutes.”

I can still remember sinking into the back seat of our sedan like it was a leather couch. My sister would be asleep before we pulled out of the parking lot. My dad’s new CD already playing from the speakers. I can still see my view from the backseat window as we sped home on the freeway. The dreamlike blur of lights whirring by as my eyelids got heavier and heavier and heavier…

There’s a scene in Midnight in Paris where Michael Sheen’s pedantic character Paul says a line, “Nostalgia is the denial of the painful present.” In the movie, it’s a sentiment that’s central to the plot. But in real life I don’t think that’s always true.

I’m not denying that nostalgia can be an easy escape from life’s current disappointments, a way to paper over the pain with rosy, sepia-tinted snapshots of the past. And sure, sometimes it’s easier to mask our problems with distractive thoughts. But I also think nostalgia reveals what really matters to us underneath the chaos and anxieties of the present. It reconnects us to the experiences, places, and people that brought us comfort and pure bliss; the moments that made us feel most like ourselves.

As I sit here writing this, I only feel gratitude for the close relationship I’ve always had with my family and the childhood my parents gave me. There are so many people that cannot say the same. I’m so grateful to have had a built-in best friend in my sister, even if she was only here for 19 short years. This nostalgic dip into the glistening ocean of my memories makes me want to call my parents just to chat, even though I already did that yesterday. I want to ask them if they remember those days too and What was the name of that restaurant, by the way?

There’s always going to be a bittersweet longing to relive life’s best moments. But the yearning also reminds me how lucky I am to have memories worth holding onto like little treasured keepsakes from all the lives I’ve lived.

And I do feel overly nostalgic sometimes. I do miss those simpler days when the most stressful thing in life was finding out the guy I was crushing on liked a different girl. I would do anything to go back and share a frappucino with my sister just one more time. I could long for those days so deeply that tears fall down my face.

But it’s not a denial of anything. My present life isn’t painful at all, it’s actually quite beautiful. And I think part of the reason why is because the memories I want to relive, often through my writing, are intertwined with who I am today.

Before I started writing this, I was reading my twelfth book of the year on my sun-drenched rooftop deck. I wonder if I would still have books scattered all around my home in piles, on bookshelves, and stacked on the floor if I didn’t have the memory of those Barnes & Noble nights tucked safely in my heart all these years.

Would I still find a warm hug in my morning cup of pour-over if the smell of freshly brewed coffee didn’t somewhere in the back of my mind remind me of my mom, and how I used to admire her getting ready for work with a cup of coffee on the counter next to a Clinique makeup bag.

Would Friday night date nights with my husband still be my #1 favorite way of all time to start the weekend if they didn’t in some way light up my soul just like those Friday nights with my family.

I am my memories. There is a little nostalgia in everything I am.

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Maybe I’m just a romantic, but it feels significant that the first day of spring was also the day our new couch arrived. A new beginning materialized in champagne chenille fabric and modular deep-seated cushions. Our old couch has been with me for the past 10 years. It was the first piece of furniture I bought after I graduated college and moved into my own place without roommates. It’s where I painted my nails and listened to music and ate a whole pizza after a bad day at work. On these squashy cushions, I had Gilmore Girls and Hart of Dixie marathons by myself. My two best friends and I sat on these same seats and drank wine until we ended up on the floor, lying on our backs and laughing with our legs up against the cushions. This couch has seen the end of good and bad dates and mistakes. I could go on about the parties it’s seen, the stories it’s heard, and the role it’s played in nursing me back to health the many times I’ve been sick or hungover and spent all day lying on it in front of the TV.

We had a good run just the two of us, this couch and me. But when my then-boyfriend-now-husband moved in with me and it became Our Couch, I think its true purpose as a loveseat was fulfilled. On our couch, we had five years of date nights at home, lazy afternoons, and intimate conversations. It witnessed us breakup and get back together and breakup again. It saw us grow and learn to commit to each other. I took selfies on it showing off my sparkling engagement ring. When Anthony got relocated for a new job, our couch traveled 1,200 miles from Irvine, CA to Seattle, WA. In the middle of a sea of boxes, I rested on its pilling grey cushions for the first time in our new apartment and finally felt at home in our new city. When the donation company came and hauled it away, it was more difficult than I thought it would be to say goodbye.

I know I can be too sentimental at times. I’m not denying it’s kind of dramatic to get this emotional over a $300 Walmart couch that probably wasn’t even made to last a decade, but that’s just who I am. Of course, life has taught me that being sensitive easily exposes me to the possibility of getting my feelings hurt. But I’ve also found that life is most beautiful when I feel deeply. I love that I can find meaning in most experiences of my life and I love that I can look at an old couch and see beyond its cheap fabric and sunken-in cushions.

Yes, I can see that it’s outdated and the threads are coming loose on the corners. But I can also see the clouds moving through a purple and orange sunset outside the window next to me. I hear “Polka Dots And Moonbeams” drifting across the living room from my bluetooth speaker. I smell soy sauce and sesame oil from Anthony’s cooking that warms my soul with the comforts of home after a long weekend away. I see him stir-frying onions and beef in the wok while I admire him from my little corner, my heart full of gratitude for him and his secret dream of becoming a chef. I see myself sitting cross-legged with the hot bowl of homemade beef chow fun in my hands, careful not to spill but not so careful that my back is stiff. I don’t even notice that my phone has gone missing in the cracks next to a decade’s worth of stale crumbs. After dinner, we eat strawberries and dark chocolate and watch basketball or Brooklyn Nine-Nine. I read a book while Anthony plays Rocket League. Or I play Elden Ring while Anthony plays chess online. I see us snuggled side-by-side on our too small, too old couch every night like it’s a luxury. Because it is a luxury. I look at this old couch and see home, and a level of comfort that for the past 10 years I haven’t found anywhere else in the world.

Some things (like furniture and electronics and shoes) are meant to be replaced. Adulthood has also taught me that goodbyes are a part of life. Still, sometimes it hurts to let go. And so, I write. I write to hold onto things like a photographer captures a single moment for eternity. So that one day I’ll read through my essays like I look through my mom’s photo albums from my childhood and recognize an old favorite hairstyle or a birthday party when I felt so loved. Maybe in another decade from now, I will stumble upon these words and feel what it was like to be in my twenties again. When Anthony and I are old and grey, these words will satisfy my yearning to walk through our first home together just one more time. And when I think about it like that, oh what a privilege it is to have so many feelings and so much to say about a lumpy, 10-year-old couch.

With love from,
Hannah

P.S. I’m currently editing this from our new couch and it is heavenly! Can’t wait for the stories I will write here but I will have to leave the wine and dinners to the table from now on lol. Also, I totally begged Anthony to make beef chow fun for dinner after writing this. 🩷

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Every morning of summer break, our parents would leave for work and a secret door would swing open inviting us in to a world full of magic and adventure. We became princesses, pop singers, actresses, fairies, or anyone else we wanted to be from the stories we read and the movies we watched. We gave each other new names and new personalities, fully becoming the characters in our tales. At the end of the day, the sound of the garage door opening was the clock striking midnight. We’d hurry back through the door and safely lock our stories behind until the next morning.

With each passing day, the magic grew stronger and more powerful. It became harder to close the door behind us. We started to leave it ajar and our story would sneak over with us to the other side. We created signals to ask each other if we were still in character without our parents knowing. A scratch on the nose in the middle of dinner. Are we still playing? A subtle tug on the ear. Duh. There was never a need to create a signal for No. Our parents never knew that during those nights we were no longer their daughters but two woodland fairies enjoying sugared cakes under the stars or famous actresses fending off the paparazzi at a five-star restaurant in Los Angeles.

One night, tired after a long day of playing make-believe, we were watching TV when Dad walked up to us holding a bible. “I want you girls to start practicing public speaking,” he said. “You’re going to take turns reading passages from the bible out loud to the family.”

Instinctively, my sister and I exchanged a look of preteen annoyance. Is he serious? But I turned off the TV because I knew better than to talk back to him. He handed me the open bible first since I’m the oldest. I stood up to read the passage but couldn’t get past the fifth word without giggling.

“This isn’t a game! Start over.”

I got through all the words this time but Dad said I mumbled. I sat back down red-faced but relieved my part in this random exercise was over. My sister asked if she could read from her Harry Potter book instead of “The Bible.” She said it with a slight eye roll. Sure, said Dad. The main point was that we get comfortable speaking in a confident voice. So my sister stood up extra tall, cleared her throat importantly, and then began to read a chapter from Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone like she was J.K. Rowling herself at a book signing with a British accent and all.

“Girls, I said this isn’t a game!”

But my sister and I had already made eye contact. I was smiling because I knew, and she knew; the magic door had swung wide open. From that night on, Harry Potter became our shared story. Every day for the rest of summer, we couldn’t wait to leave the muggle world behind. At the sound of our parents’ goodbyes, we would sneak off to the back of the Leaky Cauldron and tap on the brick wall revealing the pathway to Diagon Alley. We crafted our own wands out of meticulously sanded down sticks that we stained and polished with the materials we found in the cobwebbed corners of the garage. We never missed a Potions lesson as we stirred bowls of blue dish soap, lavender laundry softener, and green glitter glue. We flew our brooms high above the school grounds dangerously jumping from coffee table to sofa to armchair. We made a Hogwarts year book using an old sketchbook and magazine clippings of the movies’ stars. Then, we filled it with the signatures of our classmates and friends.

At the end of summer that year, we went on a family vacation to the beach. For my sister and I, it was a vacation away from the towers and turrets of Hogwarts—a new setting for a new story waiting to be written. On the first day, we transformed ourselves into fish to overcome our fear of the turbulent ocean waves. “If we are FISH,” we clasped hands, “We can’t DROWN!!!” And my sister ducked bravely beneath the sea’s surface. I took a deep breath and sunk below the water with her, just as the wave rolled over our heads. To my amazement, the roaring water was silenced down here. It was calm and soothing, bubbly and soft. I stopped being afraid because in that moment I knew: the magic of our story was real.

As we got older, we grew too tall to fit through the secret door. We let the vines overgrow around its archway and instead spent our summer breaks rewatching the Harry Potter movies and criticizing every aspect of the story we loved so much. After all, years of living in the Wizarding World gave us the credibility to do so. “How did Dumbledore not know that Mad Eye Moody was an imposter if he’s the most powerful wizard in the world?” We would rally off seven other questions like this one. Other times, we would critique the directorial choices or the movie’s script like we were world-renowned film critics. It was a different kind of magic, but it was magic, nonetheless.

The day I left for college was bittersweet. My sister was starting her second year of high school and I was moving out. It felt like our book of stories had reached its final page. But as I was sitting in my dorm room, listening to her tell me about her day at school and all the drama it entailed, I realized it was not the end, but a new chapter. Or maybe even the start of a new book. We had never talked to each other like this before. Like best friends in the early 2000s calling each other after school, fingers twirling around the curly phone cord. As natural as it had been to be witches when we were little, our daily text messages, Snapchats, calls, and emails had now become the literature of my life. We perfected the art of turning our day-to-day lives into stories. Whenever there was gossip in my life or just something happening out of the ordinary, I couldn’t wait to tell my sister. I would leave out certain details until the moment it would make the biggest impact. When several things were happening at once, I could carefully arrange them in an order that kept the story flowing seamlessly. I could paint the perfect picture for her of everyone involved, even down to the way they talked. And she would do the same for me, turning people I already knew into characters in her story. When she secretly got a tattoo she texted me, “Don’t tell Parents but…” After that, we only ever referred to them as one singular proper being.

When I was little, I wanted to live in the world of our fairytales forever and never grow up. But I realize now that the magic was always there no matter how old we were, or whether we were playing make-believe or not. Those stories were a part of our reality. It was the magic of the world we created together. It was the way we would say, “accio remote” to mean, “Can you please hand me the remote?” Or the way we would hold hands at night during a thunderstorm and give a squeeze to say, “Are you still awake?” and a squeeze back to answer, “Yes, don’t be scared.” It was speaking in code and speaking without saying anything at all. It was a magical world hidden in plain view that only we had the key to, and all of our inside jokes and unspoken ways of communicating was its native language. It was my first language, and she was the only one who could understand me.

In March of 2015, my little sister passed away on a dark and rainy Wednesday due to a sudden infection that overtook her whole body. I stayed up the whole night reading our Facebook messages on my phone under the covers. She was so funny. I laughed through my tears and then got so angry I deleted them all in one heartbreaking moment. Three months later, I graduated college with a degree in English and came home to a quiet house that was now too big and too empty. It was summer break and for the first time, I was alone. I went to her room and sat on the floor against the wall pretending I was small again, her furniture around me my fortress. I leaned on her purple chair and found under the seat cushion a small, glittery journal. I opened it and saw that it was filled with pages and pages of poems and personal essays. All those years, we had shared a love for writing and had somehow never talked about it.

It's hard to believe that was ten years ago. The world is so different now, but everywhere I go, the echoes of our stories linger like the faded writing on the Valentine’s Day card I made her in 2010 that is still stapled to her empty bedroom wall. Having to be the sole keeper of our inside jokes is such a specific type of pain I never knew I could feel. And when I’m standing at the shore of the ocean, the feeling of the water gently coming up to meet me is no longer comforting, it hurts. So here I am, in a new house in Seattle. The waters up here don’t know her. The walls of this room have never heard her laugh. And I put pen to paper in a blank journal as I try to create something new. But its pages are lined in purple because I am only here and able to write these stories because I learned how to write them with her.

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For someone who grew up in Southern California where it’s always warm and sunny, moving here was a little intimidating. Even though I’ve always loved the rain, I had no idea how I was going to handle months of it and temperatures wayyy below 60. People I met when I moved here told me to prepare for my first dark season with Vitamin D supplements, a SAD lamp, and preplanned vacations to warmer places spread throughout the months. I didn’t do any of that. I just continued to enjoy the glorious days of summer (which are INSANELY beautiful in Seattle) while somewhere in the back of my mind I wondered, what the hell happens here in the winter?

Fall came on suddenly, and brought with it a sight I had never seen before—a city lined with trees in stunning shades of orange, yellow, and red. Every day was a gift to the little SoCal girl in me who used to throw open her bedroom window whenever it rained. I wore sweaters and rain coats daily. I put the temperature sticker on all of my Instagram stories to stir envy into the hearts of everyone back home experiencing yet another 80-degree Halloween. There was a mysticism to autumn that cloaked its shorter days in falling leaves, little handwritten signs that said “seasonal latte with house-made pumpkin syrup,” and cutout paper ghosts in local shop windows.

When, at last, the trees lost their leaves and the wind became aggressively cold, I thought, ahh, here it is. The Long Dark. I braced myself for the seasonal depression and inevitable karma of jealously tapping through Stories of my friends soaking up their endless California summer.

But Seattle had something different planned for me. Every morning, I would wake up in the still-dark hour of 7am, and only feel peace. It was quiet except for the sound of the bus pulling up at the stop across the street and the light rain pattering on the windows. I’d make a pourover with freshly ground coffee beans, sit on my squashy old couch, and just watch the sky change from a deep velvety indigo to a pillowy soft grey. How could a day start any better than this?

That first winter opened my eyes to the quiet loveliness of Seattle in the off-season. During these cold and dark months, I am free from the pressures of a fully-booked social calendar. Free from the obligation to “get outside and enjoy the sun while we still have it!” I get to revel in the mysterious life of a night owl while still falling asleep at 10pm.

I love it here in every season, but during the late winter months, Seattle has a charm to it that feels like it’s only for those of us lucky enough to live here.

We see a different side of the city, the one just for close friends, because we fill its coldest and darkest months with the warmth of our coffee shop conversations and dinner dates. We admire its barren beauty from its many, many parks. We still go out and stay out all night, sans umbrellas. We tell our friends and family winter is the season to visit because there are less crowds, things are cheaper, and it actually doesn’t rain 24/7. We thank Seattle for its close proximity to several amazing ski resorts. We leave our Christmas lights up till February to brighten the mornings for our neighbors out walking their dogs in the dark. We love the rain and this time of solitude not only because we’re all introverts and hate small talk, but also because it honestly just makes living here that much more beautiful.

With love from,
Hannah

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Let’s go back in time to 2019. I’m 26 years old and stuck in a dead end job, in a city I hate, and dating someone who prioritizes work over our relationship. This is what my average Monday (and Tuesday and Wednesday and so on) looked like back then…

It’s 5:43pm and I’m stuck in traffic on the 405 South. Most of the cars have their headlights on but I’m trying to get by on the tiny sliver of daylight that’s still hanging on the horizon. Brake lights twinkle one by one as each car inches forward, just barely, before stopping again. Southern California palm trees sway gently in the early evening breeze, silhouetted against a darkening pastel-colored sky.

The subtle beauty of it all goes unnoticed to me.

I finally make it to my offramp and wait at the light. tick tick tick goes my left turn signal. Normally, I can’t drive anywhere without music playing. But after eight hours of endless meetings and business reports and office politics, I can’t find it in me to sing along to “7 Rings” today. Maybe tomorrow, Ari. But I definitely do not see it/like it/want it/got it right now.

The light turns green and every car around me is in a rush to GO. Not me though. I just drive. I have none of the eagerness that Mr. BMW who won’t stop fucking tailgating me must be feeling to get home.

I get it though. He’s most likely on his way home to his family. And with that car? Probably headed to the gated neighborhood at the foot of the hills. I imagine his multimillion dollar home is filled with the aroma of his wife’s cooking. Fragrant ribbons of rosemary and melted butter drift into the foyer from the roast in the oven. A saucy medley of mushrooms, garlic, and shallots simmer on the stove. There’s definitely an aerating decanter of wine ready to be poured into a Baccarat glass just as he’s pulling into the driveway… How nice for him.

The apartment that’s awaiting me couldn’t be any more different—dark, cold, and with an empty fridge. Great. I decide to exit the stream of other impatient commuters and turn into the shopping plaza, parking outside the overpriced grocery store.

Unfazed by another sea of upper class Irvine residents pushing their carts in a hurry with zero regard for anyone else’s direction, I make my way through the maze that is Whole Foods on autopilot. No cart or basket in hand. Despite not having anything to eat at home, there’s only one thing on my list.

The wine section is in the back right corner, and it’s a heavenly floor-to-ceiling array of bottles from all over the world. At the section marked France, I stop and take a deep breath. My brain fog finally lifts for the first time since about 3pm. I look over each bottle intently, my eyes lingering to admire the prettiest labels before scrunching up my nose at the price tag. My mood feels a little lighter now. Maybe it’s because this aisle is surprisingly empty. A small moment of solitude. Or maybe it’s because… Seriously, Hannah? Because I’m already imagining my troubles floating away at the first sip of this sweet, sweet red wine.

It’s fine.

This is completely normal behavior for someone in her mid-twenties who’s recently come to the realization that most childhood dreams go to die in a place called The Corporate World. I don’t know how anyone is buying into the façade that grey felt walls pockmarked with last year’s numbers and rows and rows of bright white fluorescent lights are the gateway to personal fulfillment.

Who knows. Maybe Stephen in Marketing genuinely ties his self-worth to his director title. But to me, the office is just a place to develop communication skills (master the art of small talk), learn people skills (determine who you can and can’t trust when you need to vent about your boss), and make connections (at happy hour).

An older store clerk starts walking towards me, probably assuming (accurately) that I don’t know anything about French wine.

“Can I help you find anything?”

“Oh, umm. No, I’m okay. Thank you.”

“Okay,” he says, with a half smile and a glance down at the $9 bottle in my hands. Already walking away he adds, “Well, let me know if you need anything.”

I look down at my hands holding the bottle too. My unprofessional red nail polish, slightly chipped. My black pants wrinkled around the front from being creased in the sitting-at-a-desk position all day. I feel small. I feel like a fraud. I graduated with a bachelor’s degree in English Lit, but somehow ended up doing math for a living. Of course I feel like nothing makes sense lately.

I decide to get the cheap wine, with whom I will later continue this heart-to-heart reflection with in my living room until midnight. I head towards the register, stopping to grab a box of frozen pizza on the way.

Everything’s fine. I’ll be fine.

I’ve already started thinking about how to get out of e-commerce, and more importantly, Orange County. My boyfriend recently landed a job at a company in the Bay Area and I’m considering moving there with him.

I’ll find a new job at a cool company with cool people and start over. Maybe at the next job, it’ll be different. Maybe I will be Stephen.

My dreams can’t be dead yet. One day, I’ll like who I am and what I do. Until then, I’ll just have to get through the days any way I can. And today, I’m choosing the easy way.

After all, it’s only Monday. And I don’t even like the Bay.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about how different my life was even just 5 years ago, and that’s how I ended up with this vignette. While I can’t go back in time and tell younger me that drinking wine for dinner was part of her problem, I am proud of how she eventually managed to pull herself together, go back to school, get a master’s degree in English, switch careers and become a copywriter, and move to Seattle.

Of course, some days I still feel lost and hate my job. I still deal with the office politics and question what the future holds. So, every now and then, when it starts to feel too heavy, it’s nice to take a step back and remember how I used to dream about the life I currently have.

I promise younger, sadder me I won’t take it for granted.

With love from,
Hannah

PS. The cover photo (below) is a pic I took of my mom a few years ago LOL. She’s iconic.

This year, I set myself a goal of reading one book a month. I’m a slow reader. I like to take my time with the story, let every word sink in, and think about why the author chose certain words and phrases over another. So, I’m very surprised to report that even at my slow pace I somehow managed to read three books this month.

I always end up reading Jane Austen in the dreary winter months. Her writing is so comforting, making for an easy escape into the breathtaking world of her characters. I bought Pride and Prejudice during our December trip to Vancouver from a tiny bookstore at the Granville Island Public Market called Upstart & Crow. I’ve seen the 2005 P&P film a handful of times but reading the book felt like really experiencing the story for the first time. I loved Jane’s soft spoken demeanor contrasted with Lizzy’s headstrong personality. Somehow, all her quips and retorts felt bolder on paper. One of my favorite scenes from the movie is the part when Elizabeth and her aunt and uncle tour Pemberley. The scenery is beautiful in the film but the way Austen depicts the grounds and house through Elizabeth’s point of view allowed me to really appreciate how moving it was for her to tour the private space of the man she has rejected. In the film, we see Knightley’s Elizabeth in a state of awe and wonder at the beauty of the place, but in the book we really witness her feelings for Mr. Darcy start to surface, and the regret she harbors for misjudging his character. When they unexpectedly meet on the grounds of his estate, I not only felt her embarrassment, but also the tension and tenderness of all that remains unspoken between them. In the movie, it’s a little awkward and comedic, and while I do sense the nervousness when they meet, in the book the emotions just felt much more overwhelming to me.

& from the book:

Not Without Laughter is a novel by Langston Hughes I picked up sometime last year from Ophelia’s in Fremont and placed on my shelf to be read later. I read a book of Hughes’ short stories titled The Ways of White Folks in grad school and loved his lyrical way of storytelling. It made the harrowing nature of the subject matter all the more powerful through the heart-wrenching prose. Not Without Laughter deals with similar instances of racism and injustice, although less explicitly. Told through the point of view of young Sandy as he grows up in post-Civil War Kansas, NWL highlights that racism is everywhere even when it is not direct or extreme. I was incredibly moved by this story and Hughes’s portrayal of love, jazz music, family, and family differences. Each member of Sandy’s family viewed the world and what it meant to be a Black person in a white world in a unique way. As Sandy grows up with all these different viewpoints around him, he creates his own path combining all that he’s learned about following the heart and the hard truths about racism from his different family members. Unsurprisingly, the writing is also just so poetic.

In Not Without Laughter, Sandy stays with an aunt who is of the mindset that Black people can only “rise up” in society if they adopt the qualities and traits that white people possess. Aunt Tempy abandons the Black Baptist church, marries rich, dissociates from working class and poor Black folks, and prioritizes education. It is under her care that Sandy discovers he loves reading. Tempy’s bookshelf includes the 1900 novel The House Behind the Cedars by Charles W. Chesnutt, which I also happened to have on my bookshelf and decided to start reading the day I finished NWL. I don’t remember when or where I bought this, but I must have bought it after reading Chesnutt’s The Marrow of Tradition in grad school. The Marrow of Tradition is an intense work that is based on the 1898 “race riot” of Wilmington, North Carolina. It is a fictional account of rising racial tensions between the white and Black communities that culminate in a violent massacre. The House Behind the Cedars follows a similar story progression. Warwick and Rena are siblings who have a half white mother and full white father. The pair decide to move to South Carolina and pass for white in an attempt to claim the life that has been denied to them because of their partial Blackness.

There is so much I could say about this book and Chesnutt’s writing. [spoilers ahead] A looming sense of doom lurks in the background of every chapter symbolized by the repetition of the novel’s title throughout the story. Behind the cedars, behind the white skin, the siblings’ “secret” ancestry is hidden away but always there, as unchanging as the house that has stood firmly in its foundation for generations. The “secret” bubbles steadily beneath the surface and the suspense that it will boil over at the most inopportune time intensifies with every page.

I also noticed that Chesnutt makes several references to fairy tales in the story. When Rena meets George, he is dressed as the knight in shining armor. She is crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty at the ball. She admires her fair skin in an oval mirror. Warwick wishes he had Aladdin’s lamp to make Rena’s troubles go away. The clock strikes midnight as George lies awake with the revelation that his white bride is a Black woman. Rena attempts to run away and gets lost in a forest enchanted with snakes, thorns, lightning, and thunder. She faints of terror in the storm and is brought to a neighbor’s house where she lies in a deep slumber. On the following page, a new chapter begins titled, “The Power of Love,” setting the scene for Prince Charming to awaken her from her sleep with true love’s kiss. Up to this point in the novel, I was making note of all these instances as I read, wondering where Chesnutt would lead with these allusions. But in “The Power of Love,” he effectively subverts the fairy tale; Rena is missing from her sickbed and George, who realizes he’s made a terrible mistake leaving her, is denied the chance to rescue her. Instead, it is her Black neighbor who searches the woods relentlessly, finds Rena, and brings her back home to the house behind the cedars where she dies in the novel’s last sentence.

My initial thoughts are that Chesnutt’s subversion of the fairy tale’s happy ending suggests there is no such thing for those who are “cursed” with even “one drop of black blood.” But I am sure there is more to it than that. I would love to dig into it deeper and explore all that is being conveyed about segregation and miscegenation through the narrative. It would also be interesting to go back and compare the buildings and structures within the novel given the book is named after one. I wonder what we could find in the writings on the walls of Warwick’s mansion, Wain’s rundown plantation house, Rena’s schoolhouse, and of course, the house behind the cedars.

Tomorrow is your 29th birthday. The last year of your twenties but you weren’t even here to see the first. Maybe you missed out on a lot of the pains of growing up—work, bills, traffic, insurance, making important life decisions on your own for the first time—but selfishly, I wish you were here for it. Because there would have been a lot of happiness too. And then I wouldn’t have had to go through my twenties without you. We could’ve figured it out together, and the emptiness I have felt even during the happiest days of the past ten years would’ve been filled and then some. Our parents wouldn’t have been sad on my graduation day. You would have been maid of honor at my wedding and I would’ve been yours. Maybe I would’ve been an aunt by now. 

At 31, our childhood seems so far away from me but I still cling to the memories because that’s all we got to have together. Our beautiful, magical, adventure of a childhood. It seems so unlike real life now. Like I was living in a glittery snow globe for 21 years until one day it fell and crashed to the floor. I tried to put the pieces back together as much as I could, but no matter what, the water that made the glitter swirl and shimmer is gone. I try to fill it up again but it’s not the same and the water keeps leaking from the cracks anyways. Forever broken and will never again be as beautiful as it was when it was me and you dancing around together, listening to our favorite songs on the way to school, sitting on the bathroom counter doing our makeup together, whispering about family secrets while hiding behind the piano, knowing what each other’s silence meant and when to break it, talking in our code language, making funny faces at each other in church… Everything is quiet now & still.