I have zero clue what I’m doing. I don’t know where I am going. But what I do know, deep down inside, is that I am on the way.

I can feel it. It is such a unique, ornate feeling that keeps me up at night. My potential is growing and growing, as if I am about to size up in shoes. It is getting tighter and tighter, and more uncomfortable. In a good, settling way.

It has officially marked three months of being post-grad, and I thought the scaries were over. Boy was I wrong; the blues have just begun! It feels like I have been crying every day. Which actually is true, because I have. Crying about the deepest emotions inside me, or crying over a cute dog video.

As lost as I feel, I know I am heading in the right direction. I have some sort of direction, ever so slightly. It’s like I am going on a cross-country road trip, taking a million stops along the way with no certain estimated time of arrival. I know I will get there, but I'm unsure when.

I recently saw a few impactful quotes that shook me to my core; I scolded myself to gett it the fuck together. I know my potential, I know what I am capable of, and I know what I love doing that brings me true, honest joy.

The first one came from a LinkedIn post about someone who was reflecting on getting rejected from their “dream” job. He ended up pivoting and creating such a memorable brand I cannot escape on my daily social media scroll.

A piece from the post that will be ruminating (in a good way) in my subconscious is: A lot can change when you stop waiting on someone's permission to do what you love.

Exactly that. Fuck, I seriously needed to hear that SO badly. The thing is, I already don’t listen to anyone or need their reassurance when it comes to my creative projects. You don’t like what I’m doing? I couldn't care less!

However, I do feel deep down inside that there is a piece of me waiting for some kind of permission. I can’t put my finger on it, but there is. Maybe it’s the validation of more people watching my social media content. Or getting my first brand deal. Having some sort of security in my passion projects that mean so much to me.

At the end of the day, I realized all of the will and drive has to come from me. I have the lighter in my hands, and I need to ignite the fire. I don’t need anyone’s permission to do so. As long as they fulfill me creatively, that is all the permission I need.

I find myself enduring waves of depression, which feels raw and uncomfortable to say and admit. Saying I have anxiety feels lighthearted and humorous, but saying I have depression feels a bit heavier to share. I have so many amazing things in my life I am so grateful for, yet I have deep pits of doom and despair that linger over me from time to time.

It can feel quite impossible to suck myself out of these black holes. Clear the clouds that ruminate over me. Usually I just wait for them to pass, just like any storm does. However, I wanted to write an article about me for me, to circle back to when I get into depressive funks, as I am writing this while in the midst of one.

Another piece of inspiration that really stuck with me had to do with a rocket launch. The way in which a rocket launches includes releasing its heaviest boosters to go to space. It has to physically let go to skyrocket.

With that, I think about how we have to let go to reach new heights. And that sounds terrifying. Letting go. Feeling emotions as they come. Trusting that process, then letting go to reach your fullest potential.

And let me tell you, I have been letting go, to say the least. That is really all I have been doing. Every day, one step at a time. Constantly in a state of shedding. Knowing I am letting go to get somewhere greater and grander.

There’s comfort in knowing I am lost in the right direction. That is the best way to verbalize it. Even though life feels so confusing and tumultuous, it somehow feels slightly comforting. Every feeling that overcomes me feels necessary, no matter how heavy or dark it is. Everything I thought was drowning me was actually teaching me how to swim.

I’m figuring it out, slowly. I am feeling new and uncertain things, each and every day. Some days I am constantly inspired. Some days I am fucking depressed and anxious out of my mind. Some days I embrace the mundane and slow pace. And through it all, I recognize that it is a part of the process.

I fight the pit in my stomach, the knot in my throat that I keep swallowing down, slowly learning to embrace. Taking my time through each and every season, every chapter of my life. Feeling confused as fuck, extremely lonely, and unmotivated, wanting to be anywhere but my mind. It’s scary living with such doubt and uncertainty, but it’s even more terrifying if things were to stay the same.

And through it all, there is a single speck of hope. I know I am on my way. Not the way, not needing anyone’s permission either. With no road map, no idea when I am getting there, I’m on my road. It’s the only way I can truly find and discover myself.

I have always joked about wanting to be a product of nepotism. Wanting to be a nepo baby, hell, even a nepo girlfriend (still counting on this one). How nice it must be to come from a wealthy family, being able to pursue the career you want and then be able to financially support yourself. I get so envious and full of jealousy even at the thought of it. And honestly, if I were in their shoes, I would bask in and enjoy every aspect of my life. As they should, and you know you would too. I can’t feel jealousy towards specific individuals because I would live my life in the exact same way if I were in their place. I would also date A-list actors that the fangirls have coined as the internet boyfriend, do campaigns for Chanel, and summer on the coast of France.

I have always thought about writing a full article on the discussion around “nepo babies”, as I used to consider myself an “expert” on them. I used to have a running list of who was the child of who in a new film and whose parent was a billionaire and had a music career. Dare I say I used to be obsessed, if you will.

Sometimes I ponder all my creative ambitions and passion projects that I pour into in the free moments I do have in between my 9-5. The projects I make zero money on, but just do out of the honest love I have for them. The ones I wish I could dedicate more time and put more energy into if they supported me financially. If I made money solely based on the effort I put into my creative endeavors, I would be a millionaire.

I don’t think a day goes by that money is not on my mind in the slightest. Thinking about my next payday, thinking about my next credit card bill I need to pay, or thinking about my next position if something happens with my job. And to be extremely transparent and fair, I have so much privilege in my own right. It is easy to get lost in the train of thought of others having immense financial privilege and to not have gratitude for your own. I don’t live paycheck to paycheck; If I did not work, I would still have a roof over my head and food on the table, and for that I am extremely grateful. But at the end of the day, I will always have to think about money in the slightest. A retirement I have yet to start contributing to. A trip I am saving up for. Keeping a mental tab of the amount in my checking account. I can’t just work on my creative endeavors as a “job” unless I am making truly supportable income from it.

I would love to make money from my creative projects, but that is not the goal. That has never been the goal. The idea of that potential is extremely motivating, but not always on my mind. For them to be my job and provide for me financially, that would be a dream come true. But I am not going to continue working on them with that being the end result in mind. However, it feels exhausting at times trying to balance pouring into these when I have to prioritize the things that support me financially.

And so I learn to balance. I do my best to balance everything and carry equal weight on my shoulders. It is a bit challenging at times, but I try to keep my head above water and work on my projects as much as I can. Allow them to fulfill me and enjoy having them as hobbies.

The thing about it is that it is not always about effort, and that is the problem. Sometimes it’s less. I find myself putting in so much effort into my projects just to get 50 views on a video or 7 likes on an article. It is really the luck of the draw and the algorithm. An article I did not put a lot of time into got over 500 likes, whereas one I worked on for what felt like days did not perform nearly as well. And that is okay. Confusing as hell, but it’s okay.

I am not working my dream creative job. I do not make a cent from any video or article. And there is something so beautiful about that. Creating solely for personal fulfillment. Not to pay bills or for financial support. For the true love of it. And that is exactly the mindset every creative should have. So many talented individuals do not come from nepotism. Who made it on their own, with no one helping pave the way for them. And they continue to inspire me and push me to my greatest potential. That it is possible. I might not have a parent or sibling in my dream industry, but I have passion, drive, and hope, and that must be good for something.

At the end of the day, it would be so nice to be able to pursue my creative projects with my full brain capacity and to their fullest potential. That would be incredibly fulfilling. But I don’t have a backup plan or a trust fund to fall back on. I can’t realistically take the risk of fully pursuing my projects to their fullest extent with the sliver of hope that they will financially support me. I can dream, I can hope, and see where it takes me.

In the meantime, I will still be writing. I will still be creating. And I will remain passionate through it all. Maybe, ever so slightly, hoping my time as a nepotism girlfriend is on the horizon.

I find myself plagued with decision fatigue and endless opportunity. There are so many figs to pick from on the tree, but for my brain, because there are too many options, I choose none of them. I want some of them or all of them, but I leave empty-handed.

My mind will race with ideas and get so excited and then stop in its tracks and not know what to do about any of them. Unable to execute them. There are so many things I feel compelled to do creatively and just do in my life in general.

The thing is, I feel spark. I feel inspiration constantly; execution, on the other hand? That’s another story.

Thinking of these ideas, and even thinking of the ways I could heal my body and feel better, overwhelms me to a point where I don’t do anything about them. I am lucky if I get a week, maybe even 10 days of the month, where I either am not in some kind of pain, or my nervous system is not in overdrive as if I’m on the battlefields at war.

I’m not scared of putting myself out there on the Internet anymore. I’m not scared to be perceived (occasionally), or to publish my creative work. I just get a weird feeling sometimes, where I have so much potential to do something and be something that the pressure I put onto myself stops me in my tracks. The idea of not doing something 100% leaves me stuck at zero.

I’m well aware of the phrase “Rome wasn’t built in a day,” and since it took multiple days, count me out.

It takes so much energy to plan, cultivate, and execute my creative endeavors. Sometimes I get a spark of an idea that feels effortless to turn into something, but most of the time it takes so much out of me.

The burnout I’ve experienced after graduating college has been completely eye-opening. I didn’t realize how busy my lifestyle and my nervous system had been for so long. Settling into a routine, working a 40-hour-a-week job, and spending weekends doing nothing but sitting in the potential of my creative endeavors has been an interesting experience to say the least.

Not being in an environment where I am living with my closest friends in my college town put me into such a deep funk of having no inspiration around me. Constantly surrounded by individuals working towards the same goals and supporting one another. That is not to say I don’t receive support or inspiration at home; there is such a distinction that I can’t exactly describe.

It feels like there are so many things wrong with me. Literally. If I were to list all of the things I’ve been diagnosed with, we’d be here for a very long time. That’s a bit of a hyperbole, but the past two years have emerged with so many confusing and overwhelming symptoms and conditions that I end up not knowing how to even treat one of them. And the funny thing is, it’s not just me who feels like this. It’s also the doctors and specialists I’ve been going to. Everything is connected, yet somehow, with that root issue, Nothing is addressed. There are so many avenues I can take to try and “heal”, but one always affects the other, and that root issue remains untouched.

However, while I talk about my frustration about these issues and illnesses, I am incredibly grateful to be able in other ways. Sometimes when I fixate on all of my issues, I fail to recognize how truly blessed I am and how much worse it could genuinely be. But that does not take away my frustrations from my condition either.

Here I am stuck in an overwhelming paralysis with both the creativity lying in my brain and the health issues that plague my body. I have no control or grasp over either of them, and I don’t know when I ever will. I have a small, tiny bit of hope that there’s a silver lining somewhere in my future. And so I hope.

I work towards organizing the overflowing thoughts in my mind as if it were a messy room. Organizing one by one, taking my time. Allowing myself to take my time in figuring out the messy thoughts that plague my mind. Clean them up. Organize them. Find a good rhythm to not feel any sense of overwhelming emotion doing things that I enjoy and fill my cup. Life is not a race; I have time, and there is no finish line I need to force myself to cross. There is no rush; there is no timeline I have to complete everything I am passionate about by. I take it day by day, wave by wave, and one step at a time. Healing one day at a time. I give myself grace in picking figs off the tree, one by one.

For the figs cannot rot. Because I am the tree.

Dating is such a weird, uncomfortable experience. Dating apps are even worse. Never experiencing romantic love, then scrolling on an app and deciding whether to pursue someone or not based on responses to generic prompts and group photos from four years ago isn’t the plot of any of my favorite romance books and movies.

It’s funny how one second, you are so sure of yourself. So sure of who you are, your values, interests, and qualities. You share them with someone you like. They show interest and give you verbal affirmations, which make you feel more comfortable continuing to open up more. So they do as well. It’s reciprocated, until it isn’t.

I makes you feel empty. Vulnerable. Naked and exposed, like I’m standing on stage in front of everyone I know in a towel with nothing underneath, and the towel is gone.

That’s probably a little bit dramatic. Maybe a lot. And that’s exactly how it feels.

Ghosting is genuinely the most loser and lame thing a guy can do while dating. Ghosting someone is quite literally the most cowardly behavior. Talking to a girl, taking the time to get to know her, then never speaking to her again feels like it should be illegal.

In the wise words of my fictional boyfriend Garrett Graham, Kierkegaard sees ghosting as an immoral abdication of selfhood and a rejection of the subjective and objective truth.

It’s ridiculous how all of this came from being ghosted by a guy. Seriously, it’s embarrassing. Giving men the time of day is exhausting, especially when they continue to express interest until they magically stop. Never giving you an answer why. How crazy of me to think you like me and want to get to know me more, after you tell me verbatim that you like me and want to get to know me more!

If I had a nickel for every time I got close to going out with a guy then he ghosted me, I would have two nickels, which isn’t a lot but it’s weird that it happened twice, right?

In hindsight, there are truly bigger fish to fry. There are worse dating experiences, longer times girls have spoken to a guy before being ghosted, gone on dates, and more. Yet here I am. Only talking for some time and long phone calls, then I never hear from them again. All circumstances can suck, and they might not all be as drastic, but their feelings can have the same emotional weight person to person.

I leave my ghosting experiences questioning myself, my worth, my social skills, my dating traits, and everything under the sun. I go into talking to guys so confident, self-assured, and proud of the person I am and the traits I bring to the table in a potential relationship. It never fully feels like I leave the situations. They always linger in the back of my head. I am still at the restaurant, unfortunately. All I want to do is leave.

I also hate giving men this kind of brain capacity. Wasting my energy and time even thinking about them for a second, let alone waiting by my phone for hours for a text back. The most expensive thing you own in this life is your time, yet here I am just aimlessly giving it away to men who can’t even give me the time of day.

It’s a rare occasion for me to open up to men. Share personal details about me and my life. Show them my garden, until I show them too much. I leave myself vulnerable and open, letting their actions dictate how I view and perceive myself.

So now the garden you worked so hard on growing is dried up. The good news is, it can grow again, and it will. Just because one person dried it up doesn’t mean everyone else will. You need to protect your garden like you protect your heart, mind, and soul. You can let people see your garden, but you preciously watch over it.

A man is never and will never be worth viewing yourself any differently than you did before. A man's misconceptions and opinions on you will never define who you are or your self-worth. I wish I believed this earlier.

Because the truth is, it was never about you. It was never towards you. It always came from them, their self-worth, their confidence. They thought you were too much? That’s because they were too little for you. Maybe figuratively and literally (a guy shorter than me dared to do that to me).

My lack of romantic love will probably be one of my main personality traits for a while longer, I fear. And that’s okay, which is what I say when I lie. Truth be told, it sucks. It’s such a shitty feeling. To want to be loved is to feel naked and afraid, and in pursuit of it anyway.

And so you get over it. You give it time; You eventually will forget about it. You ponder on it for a while, and then let time do the rest. You can either fixate and dwell on it, letting it consume you and how you view yourself. Sulk and bask in it, embracing a victim complex. Or I brush it off. The time will pass anyway.

How silly of me to let a man dictate how I feel and view myself. So don’t

I finally did agree with them on one thing: it really is that damn phone.

I remember the first time my dad said it to me in sixth grade. It was a time in my life when I was experiencing my first symptoms of anxiety, and I came home from school early. Confused and puzzled in my mind and body, I felt overwhelmed in my school environment, so I spent the rest of my day in bed. On my iPad. Watching videos and scrolling on social media. My dad would come into my room on occasion and check on me. As I heard his footsteps approaching, I would shove my phone under my pillow and pretend to be watching TV. When he would leave, I would get back on my phone. I became reliant on consuming media as it allowed me to ignore and not pay attention to my racing mind and anxious thoughts.

Eventually, he caught me and told me straight up, “It’s that phone, sweetie”. He had a point. At 12 years old, I developed not only an anxiety disorder but a phone addiction. And both of those things go hand in hand.

People have existed for centuries without modern technology, years upon years without social media, and a phone in our back pocket. But it’s not even about our usage. It’s about our brains and our nervous system.

The human brain has existed for roughly 300,000 years. Out of those, cell phones have been around for 50 years, with smartphones only being introduced in 2007. Not even twenty years agoOur parents, aunts and uncles, and grandparents existed without cell phones like we have today. They didn’t wake up in 1970 to scrolling on social media, or be glued to their phone watching videos in 1955. The human brain has only been introduced to technology within the past 100 years. Think about that.

It wasn’t until recently that I correlated the relationship between not just my brain and my cell phone, but my nervous system. Nervous systems evolved over 600 million years ago. Before cell phones were introduced, our nervous systems were regulated. Adapted for awareness, boredom, and processing. Our days existed without constant dopamine receivers, without multiple forms of stimulation, and without the constant input of information being received for our bodies to interpret.

I will be completely honest and transparent: I am glued to my phone. I am connected to it at such a deep, chemical level that my body relies on it. Constantly needs to be near it. I find myself using it too often, and I have created an incredibly unhealthy relationship with it. My family calls me out on how much I scroll, and how engrossed I am with it. It’s embarrassing.

When I would feel a bit of panic begin to come over me, the first thing I would go to do is grab my phone to distract myself. I would signal to my nervous system to not think about my symptoms, thinking that was helping me. In reality, it was creating a reliance on my phone and providing more stimulants for my brain that is already receiving too much information, and my nervous system is entering fight or flight.

I hate how addicted I am to my phone. I hate how excited I get when I get a text or see a new notification on Instagram. I honestly find it quite ridiculous. It’s the most unhealthy relationship a chronically single girl could be in.

Little by little, I am working on rewiring my nervous system to not be dependent on my phone. To be comfortable not consuming multiple forms of media at once. To not aimlessly scroll on my phone. To be content with boredom and silence. To allow my brain and nervous system to not constantly be in a state of receiving and processing information. Learning to sit and embrace my anxiety symptoms rather than suppressing them by continuing to overwhelm my nervous system.

But it’s not easy. It’s extremely hard and difficult to train your body and brain to not pick up your phone when you hear a notification, to not scroll for twenty minutes on TikTok when you open the app. It’s addicting for a reason, and this relationship I have with my phone is not subjective. You know, you are addicted too.

I challenge you to break that relationship with your phone, little by little. Think about the relationship with your phone, healthy or not, and take some time to really think about how it makes you feel. Begin implementing small, daily tasks of removing your phone to allow your mind to forget about it. Whether that is going for a walk without it, not scrolling before going to bed and waking up, or setting limits (and actually listening to them), practice a new one every day.

So here I am, a stubborn youngest daughter, agreeing with her hard-headed father.

I drove past my childhood home, where I lost my first teeth and spent my first Christmases. The light, salmon pink with the white trim, and the lion fountain, which I was infatuated with. Now there lies a for-sale sign, and the entire house has been completely renovated.

Across the street is my grandparents’ house, where I also grew up. I always loved to go down the pool on the plastic slide headfirst. The front yard where my trampoline used to lie. The porch where my neighbors and I watched the premiere of High School Musical 2, where my mom made us popcorn and put the TV outside. Now my mom doesn’t even remember that memory, or living in that house. The pool is now filled with dirt, and I can’t remember the last time I set foot in that house.

Next to my grandparents’ house lived an older couple who could never have kids, and we called them our aunt and uncle. They used to give us Christmas presents and host Easter egg hunts in their backyard. My mom used to send me over to their house after dinner with a plate for each of them. My sister and I loved watching Judge Judy with them on weekdays. They now both rest in peace.

It felt numb driving down this street. Going quite literally 3 miles per hour, letting my brain flood with every memory possible. So many memories of my childhood exist on this street, in these houses, with people both living and both dead. Mourning them. Mourning my childhood. Mourning my mom’s memory, with whom I can no longer share these memories. In the house she grew up in. In the house I grew up in. And the childhoods that were spent in them.

I drove past my elementary schools, both of them, which used to feel so giant to me as a kid. I thought of all the events that were highlights in my brain. All the events my mom used to get excited to attend. At all the awards ceremonies she would be at, phone glued to her hand, recording me. All the times she would drop me off after an appointment with a Starbucks passion tea lemonade, going back into school. I always thought I was so cool doing that.

While I think about these positive memories, sometimes I forget about the sad ones and the rough ones that I would like to forget about.

Such as the time when I was 6 and returning to school from fall break, playing on the monkey bars, just to immediately fall and break my arm. The tears I shed in the nurse’s office, begging for my mom, will never be erased from my memory.

Or when in second grade, the family of a girl in my class came to hand out her birthday invitations to the class at the front of the door, and I left empty-handed. I ran to my mom’s car parked in the pickup line, and sobbed.

I would like to keep those as far out of my mind as possible.

Growing up, everything feels mapped out, for the most part, until you finish college. Elementary school. Then middle school (the worst part in my humble opinion). High school is the last mandatory part, but college is extremely encouraged. Then after college…… what?

What is next?

I find myself scared by that thought more than anything. Petrified even. But that’s another topic for another time.

All these memories and thoughts of my childhood have been popping up in my brain because the roadmap I’ve been working off of since I was 6 has ended. The map ceases to exist, and I am expected to guide myself. I am expected to navigate.

I feel like I am now expected, and honestly, in my subjective experience, forced to move on. And, quite frankly, finally grow up. I never received a roadmap for adulthood.

I still feel 17. I feel like I just became a legal adult, not 5 years ago. I feel like I just got my driver’s license, not 7 years ago. I feel like it was just yesterday that I was sitting on my grandma’s couch, eating Milton’s toast and scrambled eggs, and watching cartoons with her. It was just a few years ago that my mom and dad took me to McDonald’s after school and Toys R Us to pick out a toy after school. It was 15 years ago.

I am forced to grow up. I am forced to move on from my childhood. All I want to do is cherish it. I want to reminisce, not mourn. I want to celebrate, not sorrow. I want to remember these positive memories with nothing but happiness, and not a quiet feeling of dread and existentialism lingering in my mind. A pit in my stomach.

But I have no choice. I can’t go sit in my childhood backyard and stare at the mural my sister, dad, and I painted, because it’s been painted over. I can’t receive reassurance from my mom about my anxieties because she can’t comprehend them. I can’t have my mom help me get ready for bed because now I have to help her. I can’t be held in my grandma’s arms as I wail because she is no longer living. I cried, and cried, and cried on my way back home. Realizing I will never be that girl again. I will never have my younger self back. I don’t know what to feel but grief.

And so I grieve.

I am actively grieving my childhood like I am grieving my mom, who is sitting right next to me. I can’t help but look at a baby picture of me and feel so much sadness. All I want to do is get to her. I want to be her again. I want to feel her warmth and joy again. I want to feel her softness and sensitivity again. I want to feel her excitement about the future. Not the fear and uncertainty.

I wasn’t expecting to feel such strong emotions, particularly about my childhood. I know going into post-grad it would be rocky. But not like this. Thinking about my youth. About the memories I have stored inside of me. About the people, I wish I could hug one more time.

She is somewhere inside of me, I just know it. I’d give anything to get to her again.

It could just be the migraine I am experiencing, but it doesn’t feel like anything else I have felt before. It feels like more than that.

My family is in town to help me move out of my college town. I love having them in town because I get to show them my favorite places. This time, it feels bittersweet as it’s the last time I will be doing this.

We went out to lunch, and as each day passed, I realized I was experiencing all my last living in this town. My last thrift trip to my favorite vintage store. My last coffee chat with a friend at my favorite local coffee shop. My last lunch pick up at my favorite gluten-free restaurant. It is physically making me sick.

I always told myself I liked change and knew how to embrace it positively, but I am not so sure. It feels like I am on a small boat in a huge storm. So much is occurring around me, and seasickness to add to it. I feel out of control even though I know the storm will pass and is leading to new waters. Maybe I don’t want to experience new waters. I want to stay where I am. This chapter ending in my life feels more real as the days pass. I had two weeks after graduation to embrace summer break and have fun before moving home. And I did exactly that. And it was some of the best days ever.

Slowly, the boxes started to form as my roommates began their move-out. One by one, they each left, and I was in disbelief. I didn’t process that they were moving out, to their hometowns, hundreds of miles away from me, and I would not be living with them again, at least for the foreseeable future.It wasn’t until they each left that I began to feel their emptiness. How much their presence impacted my happiness, my mood, and my energy. How much they filled my cup. Now it feels empty.

There is such a beautiful feeling about finding a place that feels like home, where you didn’t grow up. I spent so little of my life so far in this town, yet it feels like a part of my identity. I know it like the back of my hand. It feels like a warm hug, especially the kind you need on a tough day. It feels welcoming and inviting. It feels just right.

While I am so thrilled for this new chapter of my life, it also feels daunting. It feels intimidating. I want to stay here. I want to stay where it is comfortable. Where I have developed a love and a safety net in my quaint college town.

I want to continue to live with my college roommates who bring so much light and positivity into my life. I want to drive 3 minutes to my favorite smoothie bowl place and local grocery store. I want to sit by the fountain and people-watch in the middle of town. I want to keep my anchor where it is. I want to stay exactly where I am.

It has been a few weeks since I started writing this. I have been moved out for almost a month, and I feel a weird longing for my college town. I find myself thinking about stores and shops and streets as I go about my life in my hometown. Even though I am less than two hours away, it feels like my college town is now a lifetime away and completely out of reach. It’s not like I will never visit it again, I just know it won’t ever be the same. As it was.

Change is weird. Change is scary. Change makes me feel sick. Nothing changes if nothing changes, and I think that’s even more terrifying. But the only way through is through. And that is exactly what I plan to do.

I am excited for this new chapter. I feel as unprepared as one could be to enter the post-grad chapter of my life, which makes me even more ambitious to embark on it. Endless opportunities. It fuels my excitement and anxiety at the same time. There is so much uncertainty, and that is a wonderful thing. I don’t feel ready to surrender to change, but I know it’s necessary.

Little by little, things are coming together. New routines are forming. I am finding my footing again. I do love change, but I can’t help but feel a little sick about it.

This is the second edition of my weekly newsletter, where I share various things in my life that I have been loving. From the media I am consuming to small moments this past week, there are so many things around me bringing me pockets of peace and joy that I tend to overlook because I can be extremely pessimistic and only focus on the negatives.

Focusing on how my cup is being filled rather than emptied has really changed my outlook on life and my perspective on things. I quite often get lost in life through the ups and downs, and only focus on what went wrong compared to what went right. I encourage you to do the same, so please comment down below what is filling up YOUR cup!

This week, I have been enjoying establishing my routines as I have moved back home from graduating from college. When life can be so unprecedented, having a routine has felt incredibly grounding and stabilizing. From my nighttime breath work to my morning stretch routine, I have been loving keeping my routine stable.

On that note, I do fear Love Island has been filling my cup. It’s not necessarily the material, aka the people and the show itself, that I am enjoying, but I am loving the routine it gives me. I look forward to watching it with my mom and sister every night as we react and talk out our thoughts on each episode. My sister and I love to bake a sweet treat on some of the nights, and it’s been great bonding for us (as if we don’t live together and spend every second attached at the hip).

Photo from Penguin Random House

I also love talking about media I am consuming that is filling my cup, and I am not counting Love Island. Last weekend, I read Phoebe Berman’s Gonna Lose It by Brooke Averick, and it was such a good read! It really blew my expectations out of the water, and I found it so witty and captivating.

As a girl with OCD and anxiety, I can totally tell this is written by someone who’s experienced it as well. Sometimes, when writers try to make the character have these mental illnesses that the author doesn’t have experience with, it feels very foreign. I would highly recommend reading it, plus the hardcover is absolutely gorgeous.

Photo courtesy of me in Coronado, California

Something else that has been filling my cup this week has been living in my hometown again. I just moved back to San Diego, and honestly, I am romanticizing it to the max.

It’s crazy to wrap your head around living in a place that is people’s dream travel destination, or even somewhere they have to fly hours to arrive at. I definitely take it for granted, and this change in mindset has helped me embrace moving back home and enjoying it from a new perspective. Moving back home after graduating from college can be hard for a lot of people, and this decision felt comforting and necessary. However, it’s nice to see my hometown in a fresh light. Sometimes you need to change your mindset to embrace change in a familiar place.

And now I turn the mic over to you. What is filling your cup up this week? A show you have been binging, an album you’ve been loving, or a drink you have been enjoying. My drink selection for this week is a crispy Diet Coke (specifically from McDonald’s). It hits the spot, and it fills my cup.

I recently realized I have never experienced half the emotions and experiences in my favorite songs. But that’s why I love them so much. Some feel incredibly disconnected listening to music about things they have not lived through yet. I, on the other hand, love it.

I know I sound like a broken record when I say I have never experienced any kind of romantic love, and I swear my entire personality is not based on the fact that I am chronically single and have no romantic experience…. maybe just a little bit. After all, it’s just my biggest secret.

Music makes me feel things I haven’t felt before. Takes me on roller coasters I’ve never ridden before. Uncharted waters that I have always been curious about going into. How it feels to swim in them.

There’s something so beautiful about enjoying love songs as if you can relate to them. Listening to a heartbreak song and crying as if you have been heartbroken before. As if you have been on a first date, or have had a first kiss. As if you have ever experienced even an ounce of romantic love.

Olivia Rodrigo’s new album “You Seem Pretty Sad for a Girl So in Love” has not left my brain in the 36 hours it has been in the world. I have been listening to it nonstop. This album feels so personal and intimate, bringing me the closest to the highs and lows of a relationship that I have ever been in music. I feel so pulled into this journey of self-discovery and the nuances that occur in a romantic relationship. One second, it’s about the lust that exists after a first date, to true romantic love, and the anxiety that comes with loving someone too much, you know that you have to leave them.

I think that is what makes this album feel different to me. It feels relatable in a different way. Not in the sense of the trials and tribulations of a romantic relationship, because the songs aren’t fully about that. They are about her personal journey in the relationship. About her. And her issues. And her insecurities. These feelings and emotions feel more universal than those about being in a relationship. They immediately connected to me.

The album was such a refreshing and brutal reminder that even if you experience romantic love, it won’t change or take away the struggles you face with yourself.

Love won’t erase insecurities. Dissipate anxieties. And that is fucking terrifying.

That is honestly something I think about a lot. I think about the struggles I have and face, and think about how it would feel to be in a romantic relationship. If I am being honest, I would think they would go away. I would be happy. I would be content. I wouldn’t have a single issue anymore. But this album tells a story I have never wanted to read, but I am so glad I did.

The album honestly has me in awe. I could write a whole review about it, but I thought it was so interesting how emotionally connected I felt to this album. Every second I am feeling emotional about a song, I also get a little bit of an anxious feeling in my stomach. I feel exactly what emotions she is trying to communicate, even if I haven’t felt them myself.

Just because I cannot relate to a song doesn’t make it less emotional or heartbreaking. I don’t think you have to experience something personally to relate to it or feel emotional about it. And I think that is so alluring.

I love how art is so open for interpretation, especially within music. While I listen to “Right Where You Left Me” by Taylor Swift, I think about a friendship breakup I experienced. When I listen to “You’re So Vain,” I think of Andie and Ben in How to Lose A Guy in 10 Days. I can have songs remind me of personal experiences. But I can also have them reference my favorite fictional characters.

When I really go down the rabbit hole of thinking of it, I have been listening and loving songs I had no business relating to almost my whole life. Who was I to be so emotional about “The One That Got Away” by Katy Perry when I was eight? Despite not realizing it, I have been listening to music I cannot personally relate to for a very long time.

It is honestly so much fun to belt your heart out to songs, relatable or not. Sometimes it’s cathartic to cry to songs about experiences you have never had. Sometimes it’s beautiful to just enjoy and embrace the art for what it is. If you can’t relate to a single romantic song, you’re not the only one. You can still enjoy them. You can cry to them. You can relate to them in whatever capacity you want to. That’s the beauty of it.

I hope one day to relate to my favorite love songs and truly know how it feels. For now, I have a taste. And I am savoring that up.

However, I hope I never have to relate to a breakup song.But who knows? I might be 32, finally relating to drivers license. God, I hope not.

I tend to dwell in pessimism and self-doubt. I tend to exist every day as a bundle of anxiety, ready to burst at the seams. I tend to fixate on the negatives and cynical situations and outcomes rather than the exciting and positive ones.

I tend to focus on how my cup is empty, not full.

So I thought I would start a newsletter where I force myself to address and highlight the positive aspects of my life on a weekly basis. Life is so much more enjoyable when you focus on the good parts of it, but I just don’t do it enough. Now I am going to force myself to do the same, and I encourage you to add yours in the comments!

This week, I have been enjoying going on daily walks after dinner and lunch, specifically without media. No headphones, no podcast, and I am slowly incorporating no phone. Just me, my thoughts, and nature. I am working on healing my nervous system as an anxious girl, and doing these small tasks has been challenging but insightful. They serve as little reminders to my body that I am grounded and I am safe.

I live in the most perfect, HOA-regulated, of course, neighborhood with private trails full of nature. A friend once made a comment that my neighborhood is like living in Snow White, and she isn’t wrong. Hummingbirds can be found on every flower and bunnies in every burrow. I remember why I love being in nature when I force myself away from technology and go on multiple walks a day.

I want to include a piece of media I enjoyed each week in my newsletter. Neither of the books I read were my favorite, but I did watch a new movie that hasn’t left my mind, and that is The Sheep Detectives. I went in thinking it was going to be a cute, family murder mystery wtith talking sheep. I left the theater so emotional.

It touched on heavy topics like grief and death in such a wholesome yet honest way that made me wish I had this movie when I was a kid. I loved looking at my eye candy Nicholas Galitzine, but the talking sheep stole the show. I will never look at clouds the same way.

I am proud to say I have been on such a decluttering grind. Moving back home after graduating from college has forced me into a space with both my teenage belongings and my college ones. There is no space for everything to coexist, both mentally and physically. This has honestly forced me, positively, to get rid of things that no longer serve a purpose in my life or have any sentimental value. It genuinely feels like a weight has been lifted off of me, getting rid of clothes and trinkets that have been taking up way too much space. I have also been selling so much stuff on Depop, which is great because now I can buy more coffees to continue to fill my cup even more!

Lastly, redoing my teenage bedroom has been filling up my cup the most. It has been so much fun reorganizing and rearranging my stuff. I love a good room transformation, especially during such a pivotal time of change in my life. I also love decorating and putting up all my trinkets from my travels across my room. The more my room feels like a comfortable place, the more relaxed and settled I have been feeling in my new routine.

So, PLEASE TELL ME, what has been filling up your cup? A good book you read, a movie you watched, or a drink you’ve been loving. My drink selection for this week is the blackberry vanilla olipop. It is so deliscious, and it fills my cup.

No holding hands. No serious talking stages. No dates. No kisses. Nothing.

I could write for hours on this topic alone, and how it has affected me and my relationship with myself. Not having any sense of romantic experience as a girl who has yearned for it for so long is like the cut that always bleeds. But that’s a topic for another time.

I feel like I have always focused on the boyfriend side of the relationship. Wanting a boyfriend. Wanting to be loved. Wanting to be in a relationship. Wanting to experience romance with someone else. Feel unconditional love for the first time.

All my focus has been on the partner part of it. Not on myself or my part in the relationship. And that’s where I’ve had it wrong this whole time.

I was on a solo date at Disneyland a few days ago, walking around and spending the day by myself. Usually, anytime I see couples doing things I love, especially at a place like Disneyland, I am filled with envy and jealousy. I feel so jealous, like that should be me. I should be the one on a date at sunset with my boyfriend. I should be on a coffee date at my favorite cafe with my boyfriend. I should be going shopping at my favorite stores with my boyfriend.

I saw a lot of couples, and for some reason, I did not feel any negative emotions. I thought about them for a second, but did not let them affect me. I was just enjoying my day by myself. Soaking up my own company. And I was loving every second of it.

The thought came to me that there are men out there who do not have me as a girlfriend, and that must suck. I literally thought that.

It sounds a bit dramatic typing it or even saying it out loud, but I swear that is what I thought. I went down a rabbit hole thinking about all the things I love doing alone, and how I have such a good time. And there’s no one having a great time with me. That must suck for them.

I hope that does not come across as self-centered or obsessed. Because as someone who went from not being able to do anything by myself and now prefers to be alone, it’s not a matter of self-obsession. It’s a matter of being able to be by myself and have a good time. I enjoy the person I am, my values, my personality, and the energy I exude. And that should be the case with everyone.

That mindset really did a 360 on me and changed the way I viewed being single. I always got jealous thinking about how I was doing things I loved alone instead of with a boyfriend. But now, I think about these things from their perspective, and it must suck for them that they are doing these things without me. I still feel jealously though, but it’s a work in progress.

I can confidently say I have a great relationship with myself, both physically and mentally. It’s not always like this, and it fluctuates, but I finally have a stable relationship with myself where I nurture and understand my mind, body, and soul. It was a long journey to get here, though.

During the pandemic, I felt extremely self-conscious and wasn’t happy with my body. I used to look in the mirror with disgust and pity, hating the reflection I was seeing. I was starting to exercise and eat cleaner, but I still had such negative thoughts about my image. I was, in fact, a Chloe Ting girl.

My sister told me something extremely important that completely shifted my mindset. She told me that you can’t lose weight by hating your current weight and body. Sure, you probably can on a physical level, but having a negative mindset and being pessimistic about your current body is not going to help you lose the weight any quicker. And along with that, it will make the whole weight loss process unenjoyable.

And so it clicked. I started to talk positively about my body, even when it didn’t feel true coming out of my mouth. I forced myself into thinking as positively as possible, and it worked. I felt confident and ready for change. And I did it.

After I lost the weight, I didn’t love my body any more than I did before I lost it. With that, I carried that concept throughout the course of different experiences in my life. If you aren’t happy right now, how can you attract happiness? If you aren’t putting out positivity, how can you expect it to find you?

If you don’t love yourself, how can someone else love you?

The way we think, speak, and view ourselves is the energy we are putting out into the universe. A magnet, if you will. Negativity attracts negativity, and vice versa. If you think negatively about yourself as a person, it won’t get you anywhere. It won’t magically bring positivity.

If you don’t want a partner calling you ugly, don’t call yourself it. If you want a partner to enjoy spending time with you, enjoy spending time with yourself. If you want a partner to be there for you, you need to be there for yourself.

50% of a romantic relationship is yourself. It’s a piece of the puzzle that cannot be forgotten or neglected. The way you treat yourself directly or indirectly affects others, especially in a relationship setting.

I believe it is crucial to fall in love with yourself before someone can fall in love with you. Fall in love with who you are as a person, your values, your beliefs, and your love language. We have been taught from a young age to treat others the way we want to be treated, but it is also important to treat yourself the way you want to be treated. Learn to love yourself the way you want to be treated.

Olivia Rodrigo said that being in a relationship is like a mirror being held up to you. So be happy with the person in the reflection you see when that happens.

Learning how to love yourself is just as important as learning how to love someone else. Love the way you dress, like the way your partner would love. Speak to yourself the way you would want a partner to. Like the jokes you make that your partner would laugh at. Speak about yourself the way a partner would to their friends. Love yourself the way your partner would love you.

I write this as a magnet to attract love into my life. both for myself and for my future partner. If I am being completely honest, I don’t think I will ever stop wanting a boyfriend until I get one. At the end of the day, the most important relationship I will ever be in is the one with myself. Even if I end up dating my celebrity crush (which will, of course, probably happen, obviously!!!)

So maybe I am the boyfriend I have been wanting all along. Maybe I have had to learn to love myself before romantic love can come into my life through someone else. Maybe I have had to learn how to enjoy all the things you do in a relationship by myself first before I do it with a partner. It’s been only at times. It’s been boring. It’s been unenjoyable. But now it is. Maybe one day it will be great with a boyfriend to do it with. For now, I will enjoy it by myself.

I have yet to find romantic love in my life, but I have found it within myself. And that is the best love of all.

I am a creative through and through.

I write what comes. I write what flows. I write how I feel. Nothing is calculated in the slightest. I just show up.

I wouldn’t consider myself a bad writer, but I wouldn’t consider myself an amazing one either. I just write. As simple as that is.

I think that’s the beautiful thing about writing. I’m not writing to achieve anything; it’s for cathartic purposes. To evoke emotion and express my inner thoughts and feelings. I write for me. I write about myself. I write about my perspectives. I write about my favorite things. I write about my least favorite things. And that is a beautiful part of being a woman. Deepening the understanding of yourself. Experiencing life and processing it as it comes. That’s what gravitates me to having writing as an outlet.

Everything I love, for the most part, and my hobbies include human connection. I love to read, and I love posting my reviews on Goodreads. I love making videos, posting them to my YouTube channel, and TikTok. It’s fun to allow your creativity to be seen by others, but mostly to connect. My cup gets filled by seeing other people exude creativity on the internet, and it’s a beautiful experience.

There’s something so ornate about connecting with others on your passions and specifically your creativity that draws me to writing articles and putting my thoughts out there. I do share a lot about me as a person in my articles, but I also save so much for myself, which I do value in the process of private journaling.

For me, the difference between actually being a writer and being a woman is intention. Yes, I’m writing about my life, thoughts, and experiences, but the writing is not specifically the intention. Expression is. And that’s where the difference lies. You can be both, or you can be one. And I am one, and maybe slowly becoming both without realizing it.

I think to be good at something, you cannot be perfect at it every time. It’s simply about consistency. The writing process from when I first started writing to now has come a lot easier to me because I keep showing up and letting ideas consistently flow. Anytime a single idea sprouts in my head, I plant a garden bed for it and see how it grows. Some I continue to water. Others I don’t. And it is always interesting to see where each one goes.

My dad read one of my latest articles and told me maybe writing is in my future as a career, which blew my mind! Seriously? You think so? I was genuinely shocked. My dad is a tough critic to say the least, and his saying that about one of my most vulnerable posts made me feel a way I haven’t felt before. I try not to seek validation from anyone else with my writing. I don’t let anyone proofread or read an article (now at least) before I post it. I cross my fingers and hope for the best.

I never considered I could actually turn my writing, or as I think of it, my emotions, into anything more than a hobby or expression outlet. Sometimes I like to think about the future of where my writing can take me. Writing for a magazine. Becoming a journalist. Publishing my work in some capacity. Conducting interviews. I feel a spark there, I just know it. There are so many avenues I can take. So many figs to pick from the fig tree. I feel paralyzed with decision fatigue. I don’t know what to do. I have no idea what I am doing. So I’ll just keep writing.

Writing on Substack for me is the equivalent of writing in my journal. I used to use my journal like crazy, almost every single day. I would write pages upon pages of my most inner thoughts. Messy and secretive and everything in between. Until one day, it stopped fulfilling me. I felt empty. Sometimes I pick it up every now and then, but for the most part, I open my computer instead.

I only started my Substack because I want to write an article about my mom with Alzheimer’s for Mother’s Day. I truly never thought I would keep writing articles post daily and even start to make friends on this platform. I look forward to thinking every day about different article titles, and they’ve stimulated my creative process in ways I can’t even express.

If you’ve read this far, thank you! I hope to see you around soon, and you can continue to read my inner thoughts and secrets. Who knows where I might be writing one day, and you will never know until you try. <3

One thing could not be truer about me: I am incredibly sensitive.

I have talked about being sensitive before, and it sometimes feels scary to talk about. To admit. It’s been true for so much of my life, but putting it into words makes it feel tangible. Something real that I am stuck carrying. While I have developed a good relationship with my sensitivity, sometimes it gets the best of me and overpowers my emotions. I can go from ignoring something very hurtful a friend did to a small one comment in the wrong tone that feels like a stab. It’s exhausting. But sometimes it’s necessary. Sometimes it’s the only way I can truly process my emotions.

Being told I was “too sensitive” growing up over and over again made me feel like something was wrong with me. Especially when it was followed up with “you need to develop thick skin”. I thought it was a negative thing. I thought something was wrong with me for feeling things so deeply. I thought when I got older, it would go away. I would grow out of it. But that hasn’t happened yet, and I don’t know when it’s going to.

It wasn’t until a year ago, when I was explaining a situation to a friend, that I talked about this phenomenon I experience with being sensitive and taking things so personally. I also mentioned that I have a lot of symptoms of ADHD. She put two and two together and shared that what I might be experiencing is emotional dysregulation. It all made sense. The math I could never add together finally gave me a sum.

I could talk all day about my experience with ADHD. But this aspect of it has been the hardest to manage and experience. It affects the relationships around me, and it’s frustrating. I don’t want to feel this way as much as the people around me do. I want to regulate my emotions and feelings just as much as they want me to. My brain literally goes from never being able to shut up to not being able to talk. From talking a mile a minute to a standstill.

When I have moments of emotional dysregulation, I sometimes have what I like to call “sulking sessions” because that is literally what I do. Sulk. Sulk in my emotions. Attempt to process them. Let them sulk in my mental and physical state. And wait for them to pass.

I haven’t had a sulking session in such a long time. It’s been months. Maybe even a year or two. It used to occur very often in high school, where I would shut down and want to be left alone. I would want to be sent to the moon, where no one could bother me. But just for a little while. It feels therapeutic, but it also feels emptying. It feels relieving, but it also feels isolating. The only person who truly understands me is myself. I love it, and I hate it.

I’m writing this because I'm having my first sulking session in a while. I feel rusty. I felt like I developed such a good routine that I would mold into. Not that having a routine is a good thing, but it just became a regular part of my life.

Now, I don’t know what to do, so I write.

Today feels like every single thing is bothering me. It feels like every little thing is getting to me. I feel like my emotions are weighing on my face. I just can’t express it. I want to scream how I’m feeling from the top of the Empire State Building but no one will listen or hear me. I can’t say how I’m truly feeling. I’m in a limbo of expression and paralysis. And with it, I feel like every emotion going through my head is clear as day on my face. And that’s the tiring part. I can’t hide it, it is so painfully obvious.

It’s easier to be alone with your emotions than have people observe you and question what you’re feeling. It’s easier to process your emotions privately than have someone try to figure them out with you. It’s easier to do a puzzle that only you know how to solve than try with someone else.

When I feel like I can’t quite understand myself, I like to enter my own world. Put my headphones on, ignoring the world around me and tuning out everything that exists outside my bedroom. Hoping that I’ll tap out of it soon. I had to scroll all the way through my Spotify to find my sulking playlist. In a weird way, it felt nostalgic, and that alone put me into a better mood, in a way.

Writing this made me realize that I haven’t felt like this in so long, and it feels so good. I am proud of myself for not feeling like this in a while. I am glad that I have been able to work through and deal with frustrating moments and situations without completely shutting down. I have been able to control my intense emotions and communicate them, rather than close myself off.

If I had learned anything about my journey with my mental health, it’s that it is not linear. It’s a hard reality to accept, especially when you feel that you've made so much progress, and then it’s back to square one. I think having moments or “sulking sessions,” if you will, gives oneself time to return to oneself. To become grounded. To calm yourself when it feels like you can’t do it. To process your emotions alone to learn that that’s all you need. Alone time. Yourself. The relationship with yourself is the most important one to grow and cherish. And if you can handle your emotions alone, you can handle them with others….. sometimes.

I feel a lot better than I did when I first started writing this. I think I’m going to get out of my room and get some ice cream. You should, too.

While I couldn’t think of anyone to tell myself, I thought of it the other way around, too. I realized that I am, honestly, no one’s first choice of friend either. And that’s fine. I’m not anyone’s first person to text with exciting news, first person to call when something is wrong, first person to go to for anything. I am somewhere down the line on the list, but not at the top. And I am okay with that.

I don’t say any of this negatively. I don’t say this in a self-pitying way either. I just say it as it is. I say it in a self-accepting way, a way that my 17-year-old self could never come to terms with.

I always yearned for a best friend. A partner in crime. A friend group. A solid person to tell everything to. To talk to everyday. To confide in everything. I wanted that for myself. I always wanted to be that for someone else, too.

And I have found them. I have lost them. I have shared incredible experiences with them. I have had horrible falling outs. All of it. It was either my fault, their fault, or both our faults. It was either intentional or unintentional, or a mix of both. I wouldn’t change the outcome of anything. I, of course, would change my actions and how I reacted. I would stand up for myself. I would advocate for myself. Or I would have walked away earlier. Or I would’ve been a better friend.

I found myself in such a different place with my friends now, at 23, than I was at 20 or even 21. I felt incredibly friend-centered, constantly needing a best friend or searching for some kind of friend group dynamic. I would constantly see my friends around me be a part of their own friend groups, and I envied their dynamic. I yearned to be a part of a friend group naturally, where I belonged. That’s truly all I have ever wanted.

Without fully realizing it, this feeling went away. It disappeared, and I cannot even pinpoint when or where it went. But it just stopped. I stopped searching for myself in others or even my self-worth in how I was valued in a friendship. I stopped needing a best friend.

Even though I don’t have this “best friend” that I have always chased after, that doesn’t mean I don’t have INCREDIBLE FRIENDS! Because I do. Truly. Amazing friends surround me, whom I am so grateful for. I have such a wonderful community that makes me feel so inspired and loved. I have friends as close as 5 minutes away and as far as 5,000 miles away. I am so lucky to know such wonderful people and to call them friends. And I love that.

I love the relationship I have with the friends in my life. I love having certain friends to go to for certain things. Friends to spend hours with on FaceTime. Friends to send 5-minute-long voice memos back and forth to. Friends to send Heated Rivalry TikToks edits to. Friends to go thrifting with. Friends to stay up to date on any pop culture news. Friends to call on the fly and beat the same dead horse. Friends to only see a few times a year, but still feel so close to.

There’s such a relief I feel now that I don’t feel friend-centered in my life anymore. I feel incredibly independent and self-assured. I feel that I can make well-thought-out (most of the time at least) decisions. I don’t need a booked social calendar to have fun. I don’t need to constantly be texting or messaging someone to consider them a friend.

Just because I am not friend-centered anymore doesn’t mean I don’t have friends or value them. It just means they are not my whole, entire life. They are not all-consuming. They don’t dictate my personal self-worth or value. They exist in my life, but they are not my whole life. I finally filled the void of wanting a best friend that I had constantly yearned for in my adolescence. And it feels great.

I’ve known who I was from a very early age. Sure, I’ve grown, I’ve evolved, I’ve learned. But, fundamentally, I have always been the same girl.

I think there is true beauty in that. I think there is something so special in changing and growing up, but still having this part of your true self carry on and evolve with you. This core attribute of yourself that never changes, but only shifts and adapts as you get older.

A year into college, I remember finding an Instagram profile of a girl I used to be friends with in middle and high school. I vividly remember her interests and personality. The aesthetic she had through the six years, but her Instagram told a completely different story. I was shocked. Her interests and overall personality were incredibly different from the version I remember and the one she presented herself as. I don’t mean this in a bad or negative way; it was more shocking. I was surprised by the complete aesthetic change she made. And hey, so many people discover their true selves at different parts of their lives, of what they really like and enjoy. And that’s okay. It just felt like a shock to see her go from one version of herself to a completely different one. You do you, girl.

I have always been a fangirl. I’m convinced it’s in my DNA. My dad doesn’t just like things; he’s a fan of them. So naturally, I became a fan of things. Some things I liked casually, others I was more serious about. I literally used to be known as the girl with the Tom Holland water bottle (a sticker of his face lived on my Hydroflask) in high school because I made liking him my whole personality trait. And I will be sitting in that theater for the next Spider-Man movie this summer.

I was six when High School Musical 2 came out, and I wore out that "I heart Troy Bolton" shirt at elementary school, let me tell you. Had the T necklace glued on me, and my posters covered my walls. I was 10 when I read the Hunger Games books following the release of the first movie. I truly believe the era of dystopian book-to-film adaptations changed the trajectory of who I am. I was just as much of a fan then as I am now, still obsessing over Theo James.

I am incredibly emotionally sensitive. Always have been, and always will be. I used to cry in elementary school when I’d think about my stuffed animals alone at home. I used to cry in middle school when people wouldn’t let me walk with them to Starbucks after school because they were hanging out as a group I wasn’t included in it. I cried in high school when I got rejected from my school’s student council. I cried a lot. I still cry all the time. And with that, I am constantly expressing my emotions. I am constantly processing my feelings. I have never suppressed them. I used to get told that being sensitive was a negative trait, and I needed to grow “thick skin”. I have finally learned that my sensitivity is a wonderful gift, allowing me to be in tune with my emotions. Even during the hardest times in high school, I made sure to let out my emotions whenever they came through my head. Maybe that’s why I got so many migraines. Whenever I need to cry, I let it out. Sometimes it’s over silly things. Sometimes it’s serious matters. Sometimes it’s seeing an older person eating alone in a fast-food restaurant. I used to cry about that, now that’s my dream.

I have always loved wearing bracelets. I’m pretty sure my brain is programmed to only know a life where I am wearing bracelets. It feels like I am butt naked, not having anything on my wrists. I remember being in kindergarten, and one of my friends pointed to my Hello Kitty watches (plural) from a McDonald’s Happy Meal and said, “Why do you have so many bracelets on?” She and another friend laughed about it. I stayed quiet and went to adjust them. That was one of the first memories where I felt critiqued and judged. I must’ve had some hardcore resilience at 5 years old because instead of taking them off, I wore more to school the next day. I’m sitting here writing this with at least five bracelets on each hand. Bracelets have truly become a part of my identity. As they break and I get new ones, each one reflects a different stage of my life and my style.

While I have grown, learned, and changed in my life thus far, I have remained the same girl I was at 6 in my core. I’m insanely sensitive, a huge fangirl, and I wear way too many bracelets. I have been authentically me from a young age and never stopped. And I am me. And I’m nothing if I’m not consistent.

I was always encouraged to apply for every position I wanted at companies I dreamed of working at. Because while I might not get an offer, any kind of interview experience is a good experience. Applying puts your name out there. You never know which recruiter or interviewer will remember you in the future. I never expect an interview or offer when I apply, but I always have an ounce of hope that it might work out.

One of two things happens during the process:

1. I will either get immediately rejected

2. I will go through multiple rounds of interviews, then get rejected

Rejections suck. I hate them. And I am used to them. The cycle of applying, interviewing multiple times, sending thank you notes, then ultimately getting rejected is exhausting. However, I felt that every door that closed was closer to another one opening. The door is finally open, and I don’t know if I should go in.

I aspire to work in arguably one of the toughest and most cut-throat industries: film and television. I grew up enamored by movies as my dad rewatched the same films over and over again. He introduced me to some of my favorite 2000s movies and the art of rewatching. As I got older, there was a part of the filmmaking process I slowly became intrigued by. That was the preliminary stages of the film, which was the work of publicity. I would see a movie trailer I was interested in during previews, and then I would track the release on social media. I was 11 years old, tracking the international press tour for The Fault in Our Stars on my dad’s phone after school. And I never stopped.

I realized I loved the publicity campaigns behind movies more than the actual movies. After watching a new film in theaters on the Thursday release date, of course, I would watch any interview I could find on YouTube. I remember watching them on my grandpa’s iPad one summer in elementary school, and he got mad that One Direction movie interviews were in his watch history. I even wrote a college admissions essay on the film publicity campaign for Hunger Games: Catching Fire.

I decided that this was the sector of public relations I wanted to go into. I knew it was going to be insanely hard, as I am entering an industry where I know no one and connections are literally everything. Networking isn’t an option; it’s a lifeline. Who you know and who you are related to is foundational in this industry. But still, I have gone out for every position under the sun and applied to every major film studio and every microscopic one. Semester after semester, I hustled with every public relations internship I could to hopefully land in film publicity, and I did. I even got to intern with the Academy…. like THE ACADEMY! But now I don’t know if I can stay.

My senior year of college came with challenges and obstacles with both my mental and physical health. I have had anxiety for years, and it took on a new form with hormone issues. Diagnosis started adding up, and new acronyms appeared in my Google search history. If my issues could be used on a resume as experience, it would be stacked.

The type of mental heaviness and physical pain I experience monthly has taken a toll on my ambitions. I always dreamed of working at film premieres, traveling internationally to work on publicity campaigns, and working film press junkets. I knew the job would be far from glamorous, but I aspired to be a part of the campaign process I always admired. I knew I had the work ethic and passion for this industry in order to be successful, I just didn’t expect to lose the physical and mental stamina before I graduated from college.

When I think about accepting my dream position, I don’t think about the exciting aspects of the campaigns I would be working on. I think about the migraines and derealization I would get from working in an office with fluorescent lighting. I don’t think about how fun and thrilling it would be working at film premieres. I think about feeling overstimulated and having a panic attack on red carpets. I don’t think about the incredible experiences I would have with this position. I think about the physical and mental toll working full-time, in person, would be.

I feel lost and confused. I feel disappointed and sad. I feel like the career I have been working towards for years has slipped away. The sand I have been carrying in my hands has been falling out of every crevice of my fingers, and I am left with nothing. As I realize working remotely is more suited to my future, there are fewer and fewer opportunities within the industry, and it’s just not the same as in person.

As of right now, I have 16 hours to approve or deny my offer. I am choosing to deny. Maybe it will be my biggest regret. Maybe my body will thank me one day. And maybe the right opportunity will find its way to me. For now, I am going to watch some film press junket interviews from my teenage bedroom.

The only intense grief I have experienced in my life has come from the death of relatives and pets. I could never fathom the concept of grieving someone who is still living. Especially someone who is sitting right next to me watching TV.

I was 19 years old when my mom was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s at just 58 years old.

I have struggled to come to terms with the concept of grieving my mom, as she sits beside me. Every time we make eye contact, she has the biggest smile on her face. I can’t help but feel a million emotions when I look at her. I grieve the version of my mom I will never have again, and I grieve my future self who will never have that as well.

But she’s physically alive. She is breathing, and she is walking, and she is talking, and for that I cannot help but feel grateful. It is a constant struggle to experience both gratitude and grief

.

Sometimes I like to sit in my thoughts and let them consume me. Sometimes I like to express every emotion that comes into my head rather than suppress it. In a way, it feels like a release. There is truly one song that encapsulates this experience in how I’m feeling. “Slipping Through My Fingers” By Abba will always be my go-to sob song. It’s a funny paradox, as it is about a mother watching her daughter grow up and slip away from her. In my reality, my mom is slipping away from me. Every day, I recognize her less and less, and the feeling is mutual. And it fucking sucks.

It’s so hard sometimes to feel even an ounce of bravery. To be near my mom and not feel an ounce of grief. It haunts me and follows me everywhere. I feel selfish when I am absorbed in my own sadness and pity. It feels wrong to feel sad and upset when my mom is the one experiencing the disease. I feel guilty for experiencing grief while my mom is still alive.

I feel jealous about a lot of things I don’t have in life. The one thing I will always be jealous of is the mother-daughter relationship. I can’t help but feel a pit in my stomach every time I see a mom and daughter on social media. A mom getting her daughter ready for her wedding. Traveling together. Going shopping. I’m filled with the utmost jealousy, and I hate it. I hate that I won’t ever get to experience that again with my mom. I hate that I won’t have that relationship ever again with my mom. I hate it, and I hate saying that I hate it.

Mom, I miss you. Gosh, I miss you so much it physically hurts. I miss you driving me to go grocery shopping. I miss going to TJ Maxx after dinner, where you’d buy all the trail mix snacks and ginger chews. I miss you always putting oil in my hair, and your signature Clarins perfume on me before I left the house. I miss you taking photos on your phone, then editing them with the Photos filters. I miss you making homemade pinto beans with spinach and Trader Joe’s frozen enchiladas. I miss you getting mad at me for going to bed too late. I miss you comforting me when I’m crying by saying, “You’re just overtired”. I miss you taking care of me. I miss you being my mom.

I miss talking to you. I miss having conversations with you. I miss telling you about my day, my friends, my anxieties. I would do anything to have one more conversation with you. To tell you I’m graduating from college with honors, multiple internships, and being involved in many clubs. You would’ve loved that. You would have been so excited that I moved into a college house with the best roommates. You would’ve spoiled them and brought them all gifts and homemade skincare products. You would’ve taken us shopping and to Starbucks without accepting a single dollar. You would also be surprised to know I still don’t have a boyfriend, and I still haven’t kissed anyone. You would’ve started going up to cute boys in the store and tried setting me up with them. I would’ve cringed so hard and told you never to do that again. I wish you would do that.

To my mommy, I love you so much. You are my world, and I would be nothing without you. You will always and forever be my rock.

But I miss you. And I will never stop missing you. Even while you sit next to me and rub my arm, kissing my cheek. Happy Mother’s Day.

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