Her dad had come home from work. She dropped everything and ran to him.

“Tato!!” she yelled in Ukrainian.

He picked her up in his arms and kissed her cheek.

I stood in the doorway of her room wide-eyed. Observing the interaction with a lack of understanding. That had never happened to me.

The rest of the time I spent there, I’d see her dad breeze past different rooms.

I thought to myself, “you just have this man walking through your house all the time?”

How strange.

I think that’s the first time I understood that I was missing out on a core experience.

I grew up not realizing that it was normal for people to have two parents in the house.

August 7, 2006.

My dad passed away on August 7, 2006. The day I turned 11 months old.

Every year August 7th would come around and I’d watch the light in my mom and my sister’s eyes dim as they entered a state of mourning.

We’d go to church and I’d light a candle to remember my dad. That was it.

A yearly cyclical activity.

I felt immense guilt for not grieving my father the way the rest of my family did.

I didn’t understand why I couldn’t cry.

But they were grieving a person they knew. His love, his presence, unique experiences and conversations held with him. That was something I couldn’t relate to.

Here is the strange part of losing someone before you can remember them: you don’t grieve a person, you grieve an absence of a person.

I collect pieces of my dad secondhand and hold them like they’re mine, even though they were never given to me directly. I inherited a father made of other people’s memories of him.

I’ll admit, I didn’t make much of an effort to get to know him when I was younger. Mostly because when I thought about him, it made me angry.

I felt robbed. Robbed of knowing someone who would have shaped my life likely more than almost anyone else.

In some ways, I was angry with myself because I wasn’t old enough to know him. That I was left to badger everyone around me to fill in the blanks.

It was hard to ask questions, because I knew I was bringing up a sensitive topic for my mom.

My sister was only six years old when she last saw him — her memory just slightly more intact than mine.

So sometimes, it was easier to push the idea of him down.

But he never truly went away.

Tracing my dad’s life

When I’d be home alone, I’d look through the photo albums my mom had in her dresser.

In them he looked tall, with one eye drooping slightly, the same way mine does.

I’d smell the leftover cologne bottles my mom had saved, which reeked of potent woodsy aromas.

And I’d attempt to read the medical books he’d left behind, hoping to understand his career.

He loved filming little documentaries, and in the handful I’ve seen, I could sense a compatibility between us.

His creativity, his eye for the things that go unseen, his ability to find a way out of almost any difficult situation, the way he seemed to carry the weight of the world just to be there for the people he loved.

I didn't know then that collecting him in private was its own kind of relationship. That in the absence of a real one, I was building whatever kind I could.

I still remember the first time I really cried about missing him.

It was his birthday, I was in fourth grade. My mom picked me up from afterschool and we’d just walked into the hallway of our apartment. When she turned to open the door, I began to sob.

“I miss him mama,” I said.

My mom just held me. She didn't ask why, or tell me it was okay, or try to explain anything. I think some part of her already understood what I didn't yet have words for.

And that’s when I saw a white butterfly land on the window sill beside me.

“Look,” my mom said pointing at the butterfly. “There he is. He’s come to say hello.”

I never looked at butterflies the same again.

Children experience grief differently from adults.

Grief as a kid feels like you’re experiencing it in reverse. It doesn’t get better with time — it actually gets worse.

As I got older, August 7th became another marker of everything I missed out on, and everything I’ll continue missing out on.

I never got to learn how to hold a camera or how to roll tape on film. I never got to sing his favorite songs with him or show him my new dance routine.

I never learned how to ride a bike so that I could tag along on his rides or how to swim in open water.

He wasn’t at my high school graduation where I was awarded Salutatorian, or when I accepted my dream internship.

He wasn’t there for my first breakup or when I drove a car for the first time. He didn’t get to move me into my college dorm or come to my first concert.

Now, he won’t be there to see me graduate from my dream university. Get my first job. Walk me down the aisle.

And most importantly, he can’t see the person that I am becoming. That’s what hurts the most.

Adulthood

In a few weeks, I’ll turn 21. Adulthood. An entirely new world in itself. New experiences, responsibilities, relationships.

I’m entering it without ever knowing what it feels like to be loved unconditionally by a father.

I don’t fully know what proper treatment from a man is supposed to feel like, because I never had one to show me. I’m building that standard from scratch instead of inheriting it, and some days I don’t know if I’d recognize it even if it was standing right in front of me.

I think about having children someday and I already know I will be hypervigilant in a way most people can’t understand. Because I know exactly what it costs a child to grow up with the absence of a parent.

And underneath that is the fear I don’t say out loud very often, that I also might not get the years he didn’t get. I picture the version of my life where I don’t get to see the person my future kid becomes, the way he didn’t get to see me.

A loss like this rewires your sense of how much time is guaranteed to anyone. That time is not something you’re owed. It’s something you’re lucky to have, one uncertain year at a time.

I’ve come to understand that not remembering is its own wound. I didn’t just lose my father. I lost the right to miss him the normal way.

But I also gained an opportunity. The chance to live a life big enough for two people.

I only have the version of him I’ve built myself, and some part of me feels responsible for making sure that version gets to exist in the world anyway — gets to see the things he didn’t see, finish the things he didn’t finish. Except it’s me doing the living. Not him.

I embody every part of him that couldn’t flourish. I have his creativity. His love for cameras and documenting the world around him.

He spent his career trying to heal people through medicine. I think I want to heal people too, just differently — not with medicine, but by bringing their stories to the world, and doing work that matters the way he tried to.

I don’t think I’ll ever stop learning about my father and I’ll discover more parts of him as I enter new experiences.

Every once in a while I’ll see a little butterfly breeze past me. I know it’s him. Reminding me that he’s here and smiling at the woman I’m becoming.

And I’d like to think I’m becoming the version of myself he would’ve wanted to raise.

********************************************************************************************************

I’m studying headlines, pulling research, writing the questions that get asked on air. By the time most people are seeing a story for the first time on TV, I’ve already lived inside it for hours.

So when I’m asked how I “keep up with everything,” I laugh a little. Because in all honesty, some days I don’t.

Like many of you, it’s easy for me to feel like the news around me is oversaturated. I notice it within myself as I read the morning rundown.

Another war that was supposed to be over. Another act of violence that will lead the broadcast for exactly one day. Another headline that should stop me cold and somehow doesn’t.

And then by the D block, I realize I haven’t absorbed a single sentence. My eyes moved, but my capacity to care started running on fumes.

Even while writing this post, I feel exhausted.

Exhaustion doesn’t make me stop caring, but it does make me stop processing. Instead, information starts piling up. And a pile of unprocessed grief and outrage at the world doesn’t sit quietly — it spreads.

Irritability. Numbness. Doomscrolling where I spend hours in the pitch dark of my room, thumb moving, brain gone.

Knowing I’m going to get up at 4am just to do it all over again.

The Guilt Nobody Talks About

There’s a very specific kind of guilt that shows up when I feel myself checking out. When I see a headline about devastation and policy that affects my future and I choose to keep scrolling to a video of a dog snuggled up in a blanket.

It feels like I’m supposed to sit with every hard story for exactly as long as it deserves — and none deserve less than my full attention. But if I gave each of them the attention they actually deserved, I’d have no willpower by 10am.

You don’t have to work in news for this to be true. You just have to have a phone.

Here’s my method to fixing said “guilt”

I think that if I continuously thought this way, I’d rot inside myself. And probably abandon my career path.

Luckily I care too much to do that.

So, I’ve found ways to keep myself informed without it hollowing me out completely.

I fill my own pot. I’ve developed my big three that I call “the holy trinity” of newsletters. These allow me to go deep on the stories I care about:

(my full list of recommendations are at the bottom of this post)

1. Fareed’s Global Briefing (International)

2. Washington Post, Axios and CNN (National)

3. LA Times and NYT (Local)

Fareed cares deeply about his reporting, often having his producers do in-depth research into the topics they pitch. His writing is concrete, focusing on larger international conflicts not widely streamed.

The Washington Post and Axios both come in early enough that my morning show can adjust our reporting more accurately.

And the LA Times and NYT keep me in tune with what goes on in my local neighborhoods both in LA and New York.

With these, I may read the transcript, watch full interviews, and ultimately allow myself to circle the web for hours trying to gain a better understanding.

I seek stories that I know will make me smarter and help me keep an informed opinion.

It’s not all about news. I don't have to consume only what's broadcast or printed. Most nights I'd rather listen to a podcast about social dramas, or watch an old episode of Bourdain, than sit through another press conference I could summarize in my sleep.

That is not me checking out. That's me building a wider view of the world than the news alone will ever give me — because the news, even at its best, is not the world.

I protect a window with no inputs. Even fifteen minutes where I'm not absorbing anything new. I mean that literally. Staring at the wall (if I have to), no phone, no sound. My brain needs somewhere to put things down before it can pick up anything else.

I used to think this was wasted time, but it’s the opposite. It’s the only part of the day where processing actually happens.

I remind myself that caring isn’t the same as consuming. I can care deeply about the state of the world and still not know everything.

Nor should I have to. And when I have questions, I ask them of my colleagues.

My Point

In my two months at CNN, I learned that the people doing the most good are not the ones who consume every headline — they’re the ones who took what they learned and did something with it.

There’s a version of staying informed that’s sustainable. It doesn’t require knowing everything. It requires knowing enough to act.

The answer is never to care less, or to wave it all off as a whatever moment. It’s to stop mistaking the volume of what you consume for the depth of what you care about.

I do spend eight hours of my day engulfed in what Trump posted on Truth Social or how much oil prices have gone up. But I don’t ask myself to carry those stories home with me anymore — just the ones I’m actually going to do something about.

Like the AI-generated doctors selling fake products to older women with health issues.

Or the Senator navigating a terminal diagnosis publicly.

I care enough to dig into these. So when I close my laptop, I know enough to act — and I actually do something with it.

That’s my trick to being a good journalist :)

***********************************************************************************************************

Here are some newsletters and journalists I recommend keeping up with:

• Maggie Haberman (White House Correspondent NYT)

• Kaitlan Collins (Senior White House Correspondent CNN)

• Karen Tumulty (Washington Post Chief Political Correspondent)

• Christiane Amanpour (CNN International)

• Clarissa Ward (CNN International)

• Axios Morning Newsletter

• ProPublica for investigative stories

• Heather Cox Richardson

• Jim Acosta

• The Daily Podcast (NYT run podcast with on the scene correspondents)

If you want any personal recs, shoot me a text!

This July 4 was anything sort of usual for me. As the holiday approached, a part of me was sad that I couldn’t join my other anchors on their trips for the special. So I took a chance and reached out to Sara Sidner, hoping she would bring me along.

And she did!!

I am so grateful for everything I was able to experience.

One minute I was meeting the women’s Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest champion Miki Sudo, the next I was watching Mayor Zohran Mamdani light the Empire State Building and later laughing with Sara Sidner as she joined the Norwegian navy in chanting their famous “row.”

But that’s the magic of live television, you never know what crazy and cool things it’ll bring your way!

I live the coolest life ever

Despite confident statements of prosperity from the Kremlin, the conflict has quietly become as much a manpower crisis as a military one.

Growing Losses on the Front Line

A statistic by the Ministry of Defense of Ukraine estimated Russia to have lost 1,412,250 personnel with 1,200 dead on July 7 alone. That number grows everyday.

Ukrainian Commander-in-Chief General Oleksandr Syrskyi said on June 25 that the Russian military command has adjusted its plans and now intends to form an unspecified number of new divisions and five new brigades in 2026.

These are strong statements, and their execution seems plausible given Russia’s continued recruitment push. Those plans, if carried out, would require tens of thousands of additional troops, underscoring the recruiting challenge Russia faces.

Notably, Syrskyi said just five days later that Russia was actually scaling back its reserve-division plans and instead taking the personnel meant for them and sending them straight into combat to replace soldiers being killed and wounded on the front lines.

It’s evidence of strain. An army in a comfortable position builds reserves. An army that stops building reserves because it needs every available body just to hold its current lines is signaling it doesn’t have troops to spare.

Note: These are statements from the Ukrainian defense and should be taken only as such information.

Publicly, Russian President Vladimir Putin has struck a confident tone. In remarks to the press, he said, “It is important to continue supporting our troops as they carry out this special military operation and to help strengthen security in Russia’s liberated historic regions. I am confident that each and every one of you will do everything necessary to defend our homeland and ensure its prosperity.”

Behind that messaging, a different picture is emerging — one in which ordinary Russians describe being pressured, and sometimes threatened, into signing military contracts.

Coercion at home

On June 18, mass raids swept through Penza, Serdobsk and other towns in Russia’s Penza region, targeting men who hold Russian citizenship but had not enlisted. Those detained said they were given a choice: sign a Ministry of Defense contract on the spot, or face unspecified consequences.

Andrei Surkov, the military commissioner for Penza region, confirmed the raids in an interview but described the process as routine. “We have been conducting contract conscription for five years now,” he said. “It is conducted calmly; citizens come to the designated address and sign the contract.”

That account differs sharply from what activists say is happening on the ground.

Ivan Chuvilayev of “(Idite Lesom) Go to the Forest,” a Russian group that helps citizens avoid military service, told the independent outlet Veter that raids like these largely target the most vulnerable.

“We can say that dozens of people are being caught this way in Penza, primarily the socially vulnerable: debtors, drunks, and those with outstanding criminal records,” he said. “They’re easily ‘snared’ under contract.”

Multiple people swept up in raids have described being beaten or intimidated, though the Kremlin denies that forced mobilization is taking place.

**I’ve reached out to humanitarian organizations on the ground and am awaiting comment.**

A recruitment drive that reaches beyond Russia’s borders

The most expansive front in Russia’s recruitment drive runs through the developing world. The Ukrainian Center for Countering Disinformation estimates that Moscow has recruited over 42,000 foreigners since the beginning of the war, and is preparing to recruit at least 18,500 foreigners into Russia’s Armed Forces in 2026.

The center’s report says the Kremlin has primarily targeted citizens of Central Asian countries, including Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan and Tajikistan, as well as citizens of allied nations like North Korea and Cuba.

And also African nations.

These civilians were promised high salaries, signing bonuses and an expedited path to Russian citizenship in exchange for military service—financial incentives that often far exceeded what they could earn in their home countries.

Recruitment efforts have also increasingly appeared on Russian employment websites, where military contracts are sometimes advertised alongside civilian jobs.

Russian job-search site Avito, labeled openings as “security guard” positions — some posted by entities linked to the Moscow city government — appear for jobs in Russian-occupied and front-line areas of Ukraine, including Avdiivka (Donetsk), the town Ukraine calls Boikivske, Kherson and Berdyansk.

The listings advertise salaries starting up to 400,000 rubles (roughly $4,900) and note that no prior experience, education or citizenship is required.

What the ads don’t mention: past recruits have described being sent to combat roles near the front line after being hired for guard duty or manual labor — a pattern researchers and Ukrainian officials say is central to how Russia has kept its recruitment pipeline running even as domestic enlistment falters.

The economy can’t carry the war much longer

Russian citizens are increasingly feeling the economic strain.

More than half of Russians (56%) say their standard of living is getting worse—the highest level Gallup has recorded in two decades. A record 60% say economic conditions where they live are deteriorating, suggesting the the financial burden of the war is increasingly being felt by ordinary Russians.

Economists say Russia has kept its economy afloat by pouring money into military production. But that strategy has come with tradeoffs. As more resources are diverted toward defense spending, inflation has remained high, labor shortages have worsened and civilian industries have struggled to keep pace.

The consequences are becoming increasingly visible. Ukrainian drone strikes on Russian oil infrastructure have disrupted refinery operations, causing fuel shortages in several regions. Videos shared online show Russians waiting in long lines and arguing over fuel.

Taken together, those trends point to a war effort that remains capable of fighting but is becoming progressively more expensive to sustain. As casualties grow and living standards decline, the challenge facing the Kremlin is no longer just maintaining the front line—it is maintaining the people and resources needed to keep the war going.

A government that can no longer afford to pay its way into an army is instead coercing and importing one. Putin’s ‘special military operation’ has become, in practice, a tax on the poor: paid in rubles by Russian consumers, and paid in blood by the men least able to refuse a contract.

I purposefully went with no plan. I booked a train in at 11am, hopped on the metro and immediately headed to get my first parisian galette and cappuccino.

The weather was lovely. Everybody was outside. The air felt fresh. And the galette healed the wound left in my chest from San Francisco.

Notre Dame

I then walked to the Notre Dame, where I left prayer requests and lit candles for my family in distress. I remembered my father and etched his name into a candle, asking that he keep looking over me as I grow up.

I tend to feel comfort in churches. I walked out feeling like I had just been wrapped in a warm hug.

Louvre Museum

I continued my journey to the Louvre museum. I honestly found the architecture inside the building more appealing than the paintings. Ceilings that were painted with greek gods and gold plated chandeliers of Napoleon.

And yes, the Mona Lisa was just as unsettling in person.

By the time I’d gotten through the museum, it had started misting.

I walked through the gardens with a bit of disbelief that people here woke up to this every single day. This was normal.

At the end of the garden, a man approached me promoting his brand and handed me a wide-brimmed hat. I put it in my bag and kept walking. I didn't think much of it at the time.

The Eiffel Tower

I made my way to the Eiffel Tower betting on the chance that the weather would deter tourists from going.

I was right :)

I took the elevator all the way up to the top. When I got to the outside, the top of the tower was inside a rain cloud.

The sun was shining through a downpour and ridiculously strong winds. I thought I was in a dream.

It was the most beautiful view, even with my hair blowing in my face and the rain ruining my makeup.

I turned my head for a moment and locked eyes with a boy who was smiling a wider smile than mine.

We shared a laugh, like two strangers who'd never felt more similar.

On the way down we traded stories of our travels — I gave him tips on school since he'd just started college. By the time I hit the ground again, I'd made a new friend.

Paris was warmer than I expected.

Le Pornstar Martini

At sundown, I went to a bar in search of a pornstar martini (when in Paris…duh).

I sat at the bar, next to a couple who seemed to be good friends with the owners. While I couldn’t understand what they were saying, the flow of their banter and the nature of their laughs needed no translation.

Despite being on my own, I never felt alone.

I sipped my pornstar martini and watched the interaction unfold. I never spoke to them — not a single word — but their presence made me feel welcome.

I was never looked at strangely for being alone, but rather respected. Like solitude here was something people understood.

La Caveau de la Huchette

At 10pm, I made my way to La Caveau de la Huchette — the famous basement jazz club in the Latin Quarter, the one you’d recognize from La La Land.

While I had no plan, this was the one place I had circled in my mind before I even boarded the train.

I paid for my ticket and made my way in. It was exactly what I’d expected — a basement packed to the brim, a pool of collective sweat, an energetic crowd dancing to swing music and a band of musicians way past their prime who somehow still had more energy than anyone in the room.

It was very clear this was a space for young people, a girl even took her parents here after celebrating her 18th birthday.

While unusual, it felt great to be around so many people my age. It was like we had a space for nightlife.

After a few songs, I drifted to the bar to catch my breath. That’s when I noticed a boy passing by with a wide-brimmed hat that looked unmistakable.

I tapped him on the shoulder.

“You got that hat today, didn’t you?”

He stopped. Stared at me.

“F— how’d you know?”

“I got the same one. I’m only in Paris for a day.”

“I leave for Monaco tomorrow.”

And off it went from there.

After one too many glasses of red wine — which he swore he hated — he’d convinced me to teach him how to swing dance. I don’t think I’ve smiled or laughed that hard in ages.

There’s something about spontaneity that no amount of planning can replicate. You can’t engineer a moment like that. It only exists when you show up open-handed, with nowhere you have to be.

And sometimes, in a sweaty basement jazz club at two in the morning, you find someone who is just as alone as you are — and somehow that makes neither of you lonely anymore.

He's got a whole future ahead of him. Monaco tomorrow, and whatever comes after that. Who knows if we'll ever cross paths again — but neither of us will forget that night.

And that, I think, is kind of the whole point of traveling alone.

I made my way back to where I was staying for the night and fell asleep with a huge smile on my face.

The next morning I woke up with a mission. Acquire the #1 croissant and baguette from Paris and take it back home to my mom.

Success.

I spent the rest of my trip shopping, taking in the views.

I grabbed one last americano on the street and made my way back to the train station.

By the time I got back on the train to London, I needed a full two hours of silence just to process everything.

All I could think about was, I did this. By myself.

I navigated a foreign city in a foreign language and nobody held my hand. Nobody made the decisions for me. And I was completely, utterly fine.

More than fine.

There’s a quiet kind of confidence that comes from proving to yourself that you can. That you don’t need to wait for the right person or the right moment or the right circumstances. That you are, all on your own, enough to make something wonderful happen.

It made me want to do it all over again.

I already know I am going to be my mom’s biggest stress lol.

The space is small, but intentionally designed to accommodate every booked-out reservation. Diners pass the open kitchen on their way to their tables, brushing close enough to feel the heat from the grill. Meanwhile, a server hurries by with a dish that trails rosemary and citrus, the aroma turning heads as it passes. Before you’ve even sat down, you’re hungry to order.

Once seated, the late afternoon light filters through open windows, landing perfectly on the menu resting on the table. Linen napkins are folded neatly beside small ceramic plates. A small bottle of olive oil is placed in the center. At Theodora, the menu leans toward wood-fire Mediterranean cooking. Dishes rotate with the seasons and what’s available that week, but everything is designed to be shared – encouraging conversation and reaching across the table.

After a glass of chilled wine, the first plate arrives.

The hiramasa crudo is presented delicately, with dollops of avocado and glossed in a finger lime dashi sauce. Scooped out and eaten in one bite, a blast of flavor packed with umami notes from the dashi and tartness from the lime make the eyes widen. A promising start, and a subtle signal that this meal will require your full attention.

Next comes the grilled eggplant dip. Spread across the plate in a swoop, drizzled with oil and herbs, it’s served alongside a housemade flatbread, still soft from the oven. There’s a faint bitterness from the char that keeps it balanced and perfectly caramelized. A taste so unique and addicting, you’ll find yourself fighting for the last bite.

And just when you think you’ve found a favorite, the star of the evening makes its entrance.

The swordfish belly skewer arrives alongside a crisp little gem salad – the greens offering a fresh contrast to the main dish. The fish, dry-aged until the texture softens, is skewered and finished over charcoal. It reaches the table crackling, resting over a bed of labne and dusted in chili pepper. The tenderness of the fish is undeniable, clearly made with precision and care.

No meal at Theodora is finished without dessert. The flourless chocolate cake is dangerously good – 70% dark chocolate topped with whipped mascarpone and finished with olive oil and sea salt. It’s fudgy and rich with just the right amount of sweetness, making it indulgent but well balanced. The perfect way to finish out the meal.

At Theodora, taste, presentation and hospitality all hit the mark. Nothing feels rushed. Nothing feels accidental.

Because Theodora doesn’t just serve dinner — it creates a room you don’t want to leave. The kind of place that feels like a warm home, even if it isn’t yours.

And once you’ve been, you’ll find yourself wanting to return again and again.

Her Story

Anouska met Ghislaine Maxwell when she was just 16, on a trip to Paris with friends. She came from wealth — an upper-echelon London society, the kind where everyone knew everyone and no one said too much.

Everyone wanted to be part of “their club” because it meant status. A club Maxwell knew quite well.

“You are incredible,” she told Anouska. “And I have this incredible boyfriend. He’s a philanthropist and he loves helping young people. Maybe you’’ll be lucky enough to meet him one day.”

That boyfriend was Jeffrey Epstein.

To a 16-year-old, it sounded appealing. “These people could get me to where I wanted to be, very quickly,” she said. And being chosen felt intoxicating.

She was invited to Maxwell’s home in London to meet Epstein. An encounter that felt wrong almost immediately.

“You’re so strong,” Maxwell said. “Go on over and give [Epstein] a squeeze on the shoulder. Show him how strong you are.”

So, she did.

“As the level of inappropriateness escalated over the first sort of three meetings, I felt shame,” she said. But she wouldn’t dare tell anyone.

“How do you tell your mother you gave a much older man a massage? How do you even frame that conversation when you’ve never talked about sex before? How do you explain something you don’t fully understand yourself?” she said.

“I didn’t want to be in trouble.”

That sentence felt painfully young. And painfully relatable.

Anouska remained connected to Maxwell and Epstein for nearly ten years. But her ambition for success slowly turned into a feeling of “I already sacrificed everything, I should get something,” she said. So, she stayed.

Even now, she admitted, that thought carries shame.

Power, Manipulation and Grooming

From the beginning, she said, nothing happened without Maxwell. She gave Epstein his credibility. “[Epstein] wasn’t connected. He wasn’t polished. If I’d met him at a party, I would’ve thought he was vulgur,” Anouska said.

To Anouska, Maxwell presented herself like a sister. “We’re just girlies,” she’d tell Anouska.

“I’d always wanted a sister,” Anouska shared with us. And in some ways, that’s who Maxwell became to her.

With that bond came a level of secrecy, attachment and confusion.

It takes a certain kind of monster to construct a reality in which everyone around them is convinced that they are above all. Maxwell and Epstein succeeded in that.

“There are moments were I still think she’s my friend,” she said referring to Maxwell.

And when the moment to testify against Maxwell came, Anouska “felt like she was betraying a part of herself that loved her.”

That’s the cruel paradox of grooming: abuse and attachment can exist at the same time. “I hadn’t realized or reconciled how wrong what happened was,” she said. “When you don’t tell anyone, you don’t get to see their face and be like, ‘What you did to me was awful.’ There’s no frame of reference.”

The Moment Everything Shifted

Then she had her daughter.

Looking at her child, Anouska realized she would do anything to protect her—and in that reflection, she finally saw how wrong her past had been.

When Epstein died in 2019, Anouska chose to stand at the courthouse during the dismissal hearing, knowing it would break her.

But for the first time, she wasn’t alone. She stood with more than 20 other women who had endured similar pain. The shame she had spoken of before.

“We held each other up,” she said. They didn’t need to share what they had gone through, but they could all feel it.

Even I did. Years later, in an entirely separate environment. I felt that heaviness in my chest.

My Moments

After class ended, I approached her to say thank you — for feeling safe enough to share her story in a room full of young college students.

Before I could finish, she grabbed me by the arms and pulled me in. I immediately felt the weight of everything she was carrying.

And that was the moment I understood what she had gone through. How she felt standing with those women. The strength it took for her to mask her vulnerability.

My arms grew weak and I felt myself letting go of everything I was holding inside of me.

She hugged me tightly and said, “I feel everything.” And I believed her.

Because that was the first time that I didn’t have to say anything too — explain how I was feeling or what I’d gone through — for someone to understand exactly how I felt.

It made me realize that people who have endured something unspeakable in their lives can recognize it in others without words.

Anouska is brave. Not just for surviving, not just for speaking, but for walking into spaces like ours and trusting strangers with her story.

I will hold her honesty carefully. And I hope, in some small way, I reminded her that she is not alone.

Thank you Anouska.

I grabbed my stuff and called an Uber to the emergency room at LAC + USC in Boyle Heights without thinking twice.

Registration

I approached the registration window. A woman looked up and told me I’d have to wait until I was called — even though I was the first in line.

I stepped back. She turned to her coworkers, iced coffee in hand, chatting as I stood hunched over. A man behind me was vomiting blood into a bag. No one reacted.

When I was finally called, she cut me off mid-sentence as I tried to explain why I was there. “You’ll tell the nurse,” she said.

I limped to the next booth. They gave me a wristband with my name spelled wrong, I didn’t bother to correct it.

Because I was 20, I was sent to pediatrics first. The scale was so old, it couldn’t read my weight. The chairs sagged when you sat in them. I waited 40 minutes.

By then, the pain had made it hard to speak. I felt tears building and tried to hold them back.

Eventually, a nurse told me I was being transferred to the adult unit. She held my hand as we walked, like she knew how close I was to folding in on myself.

“We’re going to take your blood now.”

I asked why it needed to happen immediately and said I wanted to speak to a doctor first. There were specific things I knew needed to be checked.

“You can wait,” she said, “but you probably won’t get a bed.”

“I’m sorry?”

“We use the blood test to decide if you’re stable enough to wait. Other patients are less stable.”

That’s when I burst into tears. In a room full of healthcare professionals, I felt invisible.

“Please I am in so much pain. I don’t know what’s wrong with me and I am alone. I’m out here for school.”

The nurse held my hand and said, “I’m sorry sweetie. I wish there was more I could do. We just don’t have the space to help everyone at once. It’s not fair.”

I sat in the waiting room for two hours. A homeless man pushed past security and into the main room, shouting as he went.

“Ay dios mio. He’s back again,” I heard a nurse say.

No one stopped him. Patients stayed in their seats, watching. The room didn’t feel like a place meant to keep anyone safe.

Then my name was called. I had gotten a bed.

Doctor Number #1

A resident came to see me. Before asking me anything about my symptoms, he said, “On a scale of one to ten how bad is the pain?”

“A nine.”

He nodded. “We could start with Tylenol,” he said, “or try hydromorphone. It’s stronger.”

I didn’t know much about pain medication, but I knew enough to pause. He was offering me an opioid before trying to understand what was wrong.

“No thank you.”

He smiled. “We just want to make you comfortable.”

Did my doctor just insinuate I needed a drug to calm down????

Boyle Heights has long been identified by Los Angeles County as an area disproportionately affected by substance abuse and public health crises.

To walk into a medical institution and be offered an opioid first — for stomach pain — speaks volumes about how patients are viewed.

At that point, I called my friends. I knew I wouldn’t make it through this alone.

Doctor #2

A mere 40 minutes later, the general doctor stopped in to see me. “What seems to be the issue?” he said.

I explained everything again — for the fifth time.

He looked at me and laughed. “Looks like a mild case of constipation. We’ll order you a CT scan.”

As someone who’s dealt with chronic issues for the past four years, I knew that was the bullshit easy response.

“We’re not as packed as usual, so it shouldn’t take too long.”

They placed an IV in my arm.

Doctor #3

At 5:30pm, a third doctor came in.

“I’m taking over for the last doctor,” he said. “Let’s look at your scans.”

“I haven’t gone in for a CT scan yet.”

“Oh.”

After three hours of waiting and zero communication, I’d had enough. The IV burned in my arm. I couldn’t take the pain anymore.

I asked the nurse how long it would be until I went in.

“A few more hours.”

“I’ve been here since 10am. I don’t know if I can wait much longer.”

She looked at me. “People have been waiting since last night. Some of them are dying. You’re not.”

My body froze.

Because I wasn’t coding in my room, I didn’t qualify for urgency.

It took me raising my voice — saying I hadn’t eaten in over 24 hours, that my head was spinning, that I was having an anxiety attack — for a doctor to finally check my place in line.

Lo and behold, they immediately came to wheel me into the CT room.

While I was scanned, my friends sat outside.

Waiting Room

My phone buzzed with texts from them:

“Update on the waiting room. Every patient registry is full.”

“A woman just came in with complication from an open heart surgery.”

“A man said his abscess is leaking into his scrotum.”

“A girl got hit by a car outside??”

I had enough. I knew I was taking away a bed from someone in much critical condition. I now felt sick in a different way.

Post Scan

I asked to see a doctor to review my scan. The nurse said, “I don’t know when he’ll be back. They work on their own schedule.”

I yelled for them to take the IV out of my arm. I changed into my clothes and stood at the curtain, observing. Surely within five minutes the doctor came back.

“You have a stomach tear,” he said. “We think it’s IBS. Try an anti-inflammatory diet and follow up with your primary care doctor.”

I felt the rage boiling inside of me. Ten hours and all I get is IBS???

A nurse handed me my discharge papers.

“OMG girl — you’re the patient? Period, baddie.”

Never in my life did I think I would be spoken to in such an unserious tone at a HOSPITAL.

I didn’t even have it in me to respond. I grabbed the papers and left.

Last Moments

When I walked back into the waiting room, I stopped short. Every seat was taken. A line of more than forty people stretched toward registration.

People screaming in pain. Having to beg to be seen.

I was lucky enough to be able to walk out.

Many of the people in those seats won’t.

This is why healthcare in Los Angeles does not work.

Yes these hospitals are under funded. But they are also understaffed, disorganized, and protected by a system that tolerates indifference.

Ten hours in an emergency room should not end with a shrug, a diet recommendation, and discharge papers handed over with a joke.

When patients are told they are “not dying” as a way to justify neglect, care becomes something you need to earn.

Urgency becomes a privilege and humanity is optional.

Do not work in a hospital if you have no intention of helping people, especially in an underserved community.

Walking past suffering with iced coffees in hand is not a sign of overwork as they say. It is abandonment.

And that’s why healthcare disparities in Los Angeles persist.

Nothing.

There’s a particular kind of stuck that doesn’t come from laziness or apathy. It’s that feeling of wanting to do better, feel better, think better — constantly.

I set new goals, build routines, make the most of my free time. I get a burst of energy to feel good. To push myself to step out of my rut.

But it only ever lasts a few hours at most.

It’s not because of a lack of motivation or will. It’s the opposite.

I have so much to look forward to!

I have an incredible semester lined up. A documentary I get to build from nothing — idea, structure, intention.

Being an Arts, Culture and Entertainment editor. I’ve planned weeks worth of workshops and so so many concerts and events I plan to photograph.

A Maymester in London: three weeks making music, performing it live and then documenting it all with my camera.

These are real things I’m excited for.

And yet, I can’t see the other side.

Not when I’m staring at my computer for hours — writing cover letters from scratch, sending follow-up emails, preparing for mock interviews.

All that effort just for it to collapse into a single rejection email. Or worse, silence.

I look at the other kids in my cohort. They put in the work and the reward seems to follow: internships, national awards, recognition from professors and staff.

Meanwhile, I’ve begun to want to do so much that I can’t get anything done at all. And I’m left to sit there and think: when will it be my turn?

I think that’s why 2025 felt so grey.

It was a year of doing a million different things — many of which I had no real interest in, that I knew wouldn’t serve me in the long run. I was busy, but not intentional.

I was getting things done halfway. I gave up on my commitments: skipping DKA, calling out of work, ghosting my friends, flaking on my classes. Giving up felt easy.

For a long time, I thought this was a personal failure. That everyone around me was moving forward and I was being left behind.

Until I went to a Friendsgiving and realized everyone around the table was scared, too. Afraid of being too ambitious without the resources to chase what they actually want.

Oddly, that comforted me. Because it’s not that I’m not capable of success, I am simply doing too much.

That was my sign to slow down.

Remember how I said my time at home has resulted in nothing? Well, that’s not entirely true.

I’ve been fixing a lot of the smaller things in my life. What I can control.

I’m enjoying having the time to cook. Spending an hour blending unique flavors and eating the colors of the rainbow.

I signed up for solidcore classes, in an effort to get stronger. I bought a new serum for my skin (actually clear up my stress forehead breakout cause wtf) and invested in whitening strips.

And I’m writing again :) I picked up my guitar for the first time in two months and I wrote a song that drained my mind for a minute. I felt great.

(p.s. I love this blog, it’s a token of my mind).

None of these are dramatic. But I wake up and I feel okay, at least for a few hours.

And that’s something.

I’ve always been somebody that has a lot of sas and attitude, which is also accompanied by strength and passion.

Is it too condescending to say that it’s the reason I know I’ll be successful, no matter how uncertain I feel now?

Not in a overnight solution way, but that I trust myself to figure it out.

What I do worry about is the waiting. I don’t know when it’ll be my turn. But lately, I’ve been trying to believe that my small choices count.

**food blog incoming 2026???**

Just a little over a week ago, I decided to take an impromptu trip to San Francisco. I booked the tickets on a whim, not knowing what I was looking for — only that I needed something in my life to change.

Yes, a part of me was terrified. I tried to cancel the flight multiple times, convinced I was being reckless and stupid. How could I possibly travel somewhere I don’t know, to people unfamiliar to me? To a place that wasn’t my own?

United told me I couldn’t back out. So I had to see it through. I sat on the plane a nervous wreck.

But after landing, something shifted. I stepped onto the BART, looked out at the clouds draped over the mountains and my nerves dissolved into a rush of excitement. The kind of feeling that only comes when you know something is meant to be.

The air felt different. Fresh and bright, in a way that LA never quite does.

My first stop was Mission, where small shops lined the streets. Kids were running around outside after school, couples lingered outside cozy wine bars for happy hour, and pampered dogs trotted up the hills like they owned the place.

It felt great to be in a space where I could enjoy a slow morning. Wake up, grab a coffee, hike up to a view of the city and spend the whole day perusing without rushing anywhere.

During the day, I got to explore the little neighborhoods throughout SF — each one felt like it’s own world.

And I got so lucky that I didn’t have to explore alone. Not even for one second.

Marina

Friday night, we took a drive down to the Marina. What a beautiful place to see a sunset (and get engaged apparently). Literally thought we were witnessing two engagements in the span of five minutes. I had to fight the urge to yell “just do it already”.

The Palace of Fine Arts looked grander than any photo I’d seen. We kept trying to figure out what the figures at the top were. Possibly jacked women? I have no clue.

Houses were already decorated for Christmas and just like that, the city had already grown on me.

Haight Street

Saturday, we headed to Haight Street. I could feel the lingering energy of the 60s as I walked down. It reminded me a lot of St.Mark’s back in NY. Overpriced thrift stores, wannabe hipsters, and dogs wildin’ out to Pop Smoke.

Naturally, I played into the bit. Did I purchase a $25 tank top, yes. Do I regret it?

No, I’d do it again.

Hippie Hill and Golden Gate Park

We headed to Golden Gate Park straight after Haight, where we passed through Hippie Hill. It really lives up to its name.

Groups of older people made music together atop it — all completely immersed in rhythm. It felt pure and inviting — every person removed from their own life and invested in something bigger than themselves.

Golden Gate Park felt like a maze within itself. It’s the perfect place to go on an hour long walk and discuss the fate of the world. Maybe even read aloud a children’s book in comedic voices.

There’s something for everyone.

Chinatown

And then came Chinatown — a burst of color, noise, and nostalgia that somehow felt like home. Taking a cable car there made me feel like a kid on a rollercoaster again. I couldn’t stop staring at the city in awe.

The corner grocery shops, jade jewelry stores, restaurants with dollar rice rolls all felt familiar, I couldn’t help but pop my head into every store.

The coolest thing I got to do was make fortune cookies. It showed me how much time and precision it takes and how unique they can be.

Somewhere in all the wandering, I stepped into a church. My head, which had been pounding since the morning, had quieted. Crazy how that works.

I lit a candle for my dad, reminding him that I knew he was there looking after me the whole trip.

So, yes the neighborhoods stood out. But so did the energy and life within them. The next sections serve as proof.

The Food

The Michelin-guide didn’t lie when it said San Francisco has some of the best food in the world. The best meal came on a whim at Liholiho Yacht Club — an open-kitchen concept restaurant, blending the most unique flavors.

I never thought I could experience fireworks from eating a meal. The swordfish katsu melted in your mouth like butter. The pistachio-and-plum crusted pork shoulder was unreal.

I was a very happy gal.

I also think I’ll spend the rest of my life dreaming about the blueberry almond croissant from Aristicault Bakery and the gruyere crepe from Chez Maman East.

I genuinely could spent an entire week just eating my way through the city. My entire TikTok feed is now filled with places to try. (It’s a sign).

Nightlife

And then there was the nightlife.

The notion that SF is dead is unbelievably wrong. Both nights, I found myself running through the streets like I was in some coming-of-age movie — dancing like an idiot, reliving my old Billie Jean choreography from over two years ago.

The music was everywhere. Every bar had a band with real musicians who lived through their music. The streets filled with energy.

And the people. I talked to everyone — a “high-profile” real estate agent who wouldn’t stop name-dropping, a few too-drunk musicians, and, of course, the man I convinced I was Sylvia Plath reincarnated as a writer, while he was tripping off molly. (He believed it.)

I let loose for the first time in MONTHS and my personality shone through. I didn’t feel any pressure to act a certain way, I could just undeniably be myself.

And somewhere in the middle of everything, I met someone that matched my energy to its fullest. Someone I connected with so easily it startled me.

It was so unexpected (for the both of us)…but maybe the best of the entire trip. It was a quiet reminder that the world is bigger than the little bubble I’d been living in.

It takes stepping out of it to find your people.

Social anxiety didn’t exist with him. I really couldn’t have asked for a better tour guide.

So, what does this all mean?

When I got on my plane back to LA, I immediately burst into tears — partly from relief, partly from everything the city cracked open in me.

San Francisco got me out of my head. It made me realize that I have so much to work towards. That I shouldn’t feel lost or hopeless.

And I am so grateful.

I think I’d like to go back — experience the city the way the locals do. Definitely from a calmer and more laid back perspective.

I get excited just thinking about discovering a new coffee shop, having a picnic on Mission Hill, talking for hours at a jazz bar, and taking a ride on the ferry just slightly tipsy off wine.

I’m a firm believer that everything happens for a reason — the places we end up, the people we meet, the timing of it all.

So thank you San Francisco.

Thank you for giving me a plethora of stories to tell — the crazy ones, the somber ones, the strange little moments that will only ever make sense to me (to us).

Stories I’ll likely tell for years.

You reminded me that life is bigger than I think and that it’s so easy to miss it, unless I embrace its spontaneity.

It’s strange when you find a place that feels so right for you, but you know you can’t be there yet.

It gives you something to look forward to because you know it’s a city that’ll be waiting for you when you’re ready.

God I love being young and stupid — and falling in love, even just a little, with a place that feels like home.

I’m writing this while sitting in the grass at L.A. Historic Park. The sun is pressing against my skin and a cool breeze flows through my hair. I see a field of people, each entwined in their own conversation. I hear laughter from the couple beside me, cheers from friends playing racketball.

A little boy with a helmet had approached me about five minutes ago and asked me what I was writing. I told him I was writing a story.

He paused. “Like a fairytale”?

“You could say so.”

He nodded seriously and ran off — only to return moments later with a flower in his hand.

“This is for you,” he said with a smile. I couldn’t help but smile back.

I watched him for a while, and all I felt was joy — pure joy to be in a space so alive.

I’m surrounded by people who, whether they realize it or not, are taking the time to breathe. To exist outside the worries of their mind.

Humans being human.

In all honesty, I’m not used to this.

The world has a way of convincing us that peace is laziness — that slowing down is failure.

Most of the time, I feel guilty for resting — as if taking a day to simply be means I’m falling behind.

And every time I try to slow down, worry follows close behind — a quiet panic that I may say the wrong thing, spend too much time in the wrong place, or attach myself to the wrong people.

So I end up avoiding rest altogether.

I haven’t felt rested in weeks.

What I’m Losing.

I think often about what Jeff Buckley said about living:

“If you let yourself listen with the whole of yourself, you will have the pure feeling of flight while firmly rooted to the ground…Love heals all wounds.”

This awoke wonders in me.

I realized that the more I push myself away from the simple enjoyments of life, the more tension I begin to hold within me. The more overthinking I do, the less human I feel — until it all spirals into a familiar descent.

That is what will kill me.

And It’s Not Worth It.

Lately, I’ve been trying to think differently because nothing about being human is ever perfect.

Life isn’t always going to turn out the way you want it to. Not every time you go out you’ll have fun. Not every meal you make will turn out perfect. Not every person you meet will be meant to stay.

But every moment in your life makes for a good story. That’s what really matters.

So yes — go out with your friends. Sleep in past twelve. Leave the bar with that guy, even if you’ll never see him again. Be reckless.

And make time to laugh. To pick flowers in the grass. To dance in your kitchen. To buy yourself a sweet treat just because.

You don’t have to control every outcome. Just notice it. Let it move through you.

When I think like this, I feel like I’m moving through life in slow motion. Almost in an euphoria.

And that’s the most beautiful and true feeling I’ve felt in a long time.

Because it really never is that deep. Nothing is really worth worrying over that much.

Once you see things that way, you realize that everything that is right for you, that is pure, will find you.

If I hadn’t honored my exhaustion today, I wouldn’t have ended up here in this beautiful park. The little boy would have never found me. And I wouldn’t have walked away with flowers to fill my empty vase at home.

I am the most romantic person I know. I don’t mean that only in the context of relationships. When I love, I love with every ounce of myself. I pour emotional depth into ordinary moments and in doing so, I romanticize the world around me.

My Idea Of Love

Growing up, I was raised on movies and books that glorified love — where human intention was pure and soulmates seemed inevitable. And I believed in it. Completely.

I was fascinated by the idea that you could find a person who became stitched into the fabric of your life. A person who was meant for you in every lifetime.

I wondered endlessly: Who will be my person?

So, I waited. I imagined that one day someone would magically appear on my doorstep with roses, ready to turn my world upside down. Mark the start of the story I’d been promised.

And then…nothing.

Somewhere in the waiting, a part of me became closed off from accepting romance. I turned away from the idea of building connections with people, worried about shallowness and feeling disappointed.

I wanted love in its most poetic form, and anything less than that felt like a compromise.

It’s Not That Simple…

But here’s what I didn’t understand. The stories I grew up with taught me that love must arrive, that it must be given by someone else. I wanted to feel worthy of love. And when I wasn’t sure that worthiness existed in me, I decided I could earn it. By giving. By loving harder.

I wanted those around me to feel it, showering them in admiration with romantic gestures. I showed up relentlessly, even when no one asked me to. I listened too deeply, cared too quickly — all in the hope that love would mirror itself back.

And if it didn’t, I convinced myself that I must not deserve it at all.

But that isn’t true. The real problem was that I turned away from the romanticization of myself. And in doing so, I faded all the love that surrounded me already.

I spent so much time hating who I was. Chasing an imaginary version of myself and forgetting the one that existed right then.

Afraid that if I looked too closely, I’d have to confront the truth: that love wasn’t something I could earn. It was something I had to believe I already deserved.

What my heart truly wanted was never the grand gesture of roses, but rather the little pockets of love. The joy of getting a text first. Friends showing up announced on a random Saturday to say hello. A phone call from my sister asking how my day was. Someone remembering the random fact I spewed about myself over dinner.

The truth is, love is not one dimensional. And romance — real romance — is never truly absent from anyone’s life.

It lives in friendship, in family, in encounters with strangers.

Within you, it thrives in self-compassion — the quiet rituals you set for yourself. The way you show up for others and the way you show up for yourself.

So yes, I buy myself flowers. I fill my room with things that make me feel alive. I look forward to buying my afternoon matcha and doing my grocery run. I explore the unknown parts of LA, in hopes of making it feel more like home.

These aren’t substitutes for romance; they are my romance.

So What Does That Mean For Me?

I still believe in soulmates and in physical connection. I still believe in the electricity of meeting someone who feels like they’ve always been meant for you.

But not as the single missing piece that will finally complete me. Instead, it’s one of the many ways love might find me.

The most endearing love story I will ever live is the one I have within me. And as I heal that relationship and become my own person, I find myself more open to every other form of love that exists.

Am I still the biggest romantic? Absolutely.

And that — that capacity to see love in a hundred different forms — is the best part about me.

So, here’s my ode to New York and to making peace with being away for the third year in a row.

My Time on CNN and with Johanna

I came home feeling excited, but also let down. I couldn’t wait to be back home with my family and friends, but I was also disappointed that I hadn’t landed the internship I’d dreamed of at NBC. I felt like I was missing out on a summer of opportunity.

Then I met Johanna Maska.

From the very beginning, Johanna recognized something in me that I hadn’t yet recognized in myself. She saw my ambition. One that I thought I had lost somewhere along the way.

She brought me along to the Abby Phillip show, and of course, I carried my camera with me. At that point, photography still felt like something I did on the side, not something that could define me. But walking into the CNN studios was different. There was an energy in the newsroom, and I suddenly found myself imagining a version of me who belonged there.

Not long after, I crossed paths with Kaitlan Collins. It was only a passing moment, but it felt like looking into a mirror—like catching a glimpse of who I could be one day if I kept going.

That day at CNN shifted something in me.

And Johanna never left my side. We clicked instantly. I am so driven by the work she does, it pushes me to be a better person and a better journalist.

From then on, I never regretted not being at NBC because I’d found something much better.

I am incredibly grateful to have met my mentor. Someone that I can look up to and aspire toward, with the hope that one day, I will achieve the same success in my future.

Although I am still trying to get my footing and learn along the way with her, I know how rare it is to have someone like her in my corner. I am so excited to help develop her branding and create the Freedom Project initiative.

Now, the not so fun-ish stuff….

Working in Restaurant Service

Of course, inspiration doesn’t pay bills. I had to prepare for a semester of living on my own. That meant picking up a job—one very different from walking into a newsroom.

This summer, I discovered what it means to work as a host in one of the most bustling cities in the world. I started at a newly opened Italian restaurant in the West Village. As the only girl on the staff, I experienced endless mistreatment, superiority complexes, and a work culture that thrived on intimidation.

All for $18 an hour. And no tips.

I reached my breaking point when I was forced to stand outside in the rain on one of New York’s coldest days—without a jacket—while being told, “It isn’t hard, Andriana, it’s just work.” The words came from a man who never once lifted a finger for the restaurant and pocketed the tips I had earned.

Shortly after, I found another job—this time at a small French restaurant tucked inside the Tin Building in Seaport. Here, the work was just as grueling.

I pulled nine-hour shifts, sometimes doubling back-to-back. Many days I stood behind the host stand with a sore back and tired feet, staring into space. I had too much time to think about all the ways my life felt like it was falling apart.

But as hard as the job was, it became bearable—sometimes even enjoyable—because of the people around me.

Yes, we ALL hated our jobs. We were yelled at by customers, hassled by chefs, and constantly reminded by upper management of our “place.”

But that’s precisely what brought us together.

My floor managers: Alex and Daniel, were two of the kindest people I’ve ever met. They looked after me, made me feel welcome and despite me only being there a month, I felt like I was part of a family.

July 4th especially.

At 9:45, every staff member in the Tin building said a collective “fuck you” to Jean-Georges and we sprinted upstairs into the all-access Macy’s suite to watch the fireworks.

It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. One of my coworkers gripped my hand tightly, and for the first time in a long time, I felt at home.

The truth is, the pay will never match the psychological or physical toll the job takes.

But I don’t regret any of it.

I left T.Brasserie with gratitude—for the stories and friendships. And the generous 50% off.

Recovering and Being Alone

The restaurant work left me physically drained, but what weighed on me even more was what I was carrying emotionally.

In late June, I began going through something that dampened my entire summer.

I was consumed by manipulative thoughts about myself, and it left me emotionally vulnerable. Somewhere along the way, I started to believe things that weren’t true—that I had no future, no direction, no beauty, and no place where I belonged.

After it all ended, I was left with silence and space. I cried a lot. I was disconnected from myself and a part of me had to relearn how to exist again—how to be human.

Day-to-day tasks became impossible. Getting out of bed. Getting dressed. Deciding what to eat. I had no energy.

No one talks about that feeling—the one where you don’t think you’ll ever make it out. People talk about heartbreak, about moving on, but they rarely describe the fear of believing the heaviness might never lift. That was the part I faced alone.

I was too deep in myself to reach out for help. And in return, no one reached out to me. I struggled with the concept of friendship and independency.

I realized most people, unless they are your immediate family, are too wrapped up in their own lives to notice when you’re quietly drowning. And honestly, I was the same way.

So if I wanted to become the kind of friend who shows up, I first had to learn to show up for myself. And most importantly, hold myself accountable.

Learning to be Selfish

Step one was to become in tune with myself.

I strayed away from listening to music, unless it was live, filling the silence with audiobooks instead. I invested in productivity journals and started experimenting with habit-stacking techniques.

I shifted my physical routine too. I stopped weightlifting and turned to yoga and pilates. I learned how to breathe again—really breathe.

I built little rituals for myself: practicing morning gratitude writing, going on daily walks.

And I colored. I colored every line in my coloring book like my life depended on it.

Feeding myself with intention became a reminder that I deserved to care.

Exploring

Step two…I never let myself sit at home. I had to keep busy.

When I wasn’t working, I explored and reconnected with places that made me whole.

I learned how to have fun on my own. How to take myself out: go to movies, art galleries, gardens, third spaces, restaurants. And I documented every moment with my camera.

I also met someone who tagged along on a few of my crazy adventures. And though we only knew each other for three weeks, he showed me how much lighter life can feel when you allow joy to exist without attaching it to an outcome.

Sometimes people enter your world just long enough to awaken something inside you. I’ll always thank him for that.

And I got to try so many new things! A 13 course omakase and wagyu. Wine pairings. Escargot. Gazpacho. Lobster ceviche. $8 Lychee Martini.

And see so many new places! The Met Cloisters. Governors Island. The Museum of the Moving Image. The Neue Gallerie. This list could go on.

Rebuilding Friendships

As much as I learned to enjoy time alone, the summer reminded me how grounding old friendships can be too.

I spent time with my childhood friends, Vegas and Jolina. Jolina took me out to one of my first ever “proper” New York outings. Running around the city at 2 a.m., eating fries on a stoop with ice cream in hand as we waited for our Uber.

With Vegas, it was bar hopping around the Lower East Side. Dancing to grunge music while playing table tennis at Sour Mouse. Indulging in cocktails at a speakeasy. And then taking meetings at the Capital One Cafe before hiking all the way up to the met cloisters.

I spent my final day in NYC, building a collage in an art room with them both. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

These moments may sound small but they stitched my summer together. Just as both Vegas and Jolina have been stitching my life together for almost ten years.

Reconnecting With My Family

That sense of reconnection extended to the people who matter most: my family.

I finally had the time I desperately needed to reconnect with my mom and my sister.

My mom and I had spent much of my second year in college arguing. I’d nitpick, claim independence, and pick fights I didn’t need to. While sometimes I was right, most of the time I was wrong. I overstepped both my morals and hers without realizing it.

But the thing about mothers is, no matter how angry they get, they don’t leave. And this summer, we found our way back.

The highlight of my three months was taking her places—like a Late Night taping with Stephen Colbert, or a movie premiere with Idris Elba and John Cena. We roamed the West Village galleries and rode the ferry home whenever we could.

My sister took me to two of my dream restaurants: Don Angie and Theodora. I dream about Theodora to this day. And I loved our little outings. Where the two of us could reconnect by walking the windy roads in Prospect Park or picking candy in the west village.

The highlight was being able to see my sister get coated into medical school. I had to fight back tears that day because I was so incredibly proud of her.

After that moment, I felt okay leaving. That somehow, everything would be okay.

Final Thoughts

I came home an entirely different person and now I have left an even more different one. And frankly, I can’t say I’ve figured it all out. Some mornings, I still wake up and feel the heaviness sitting on my chest.

But I now know what to do when I feel that way. I know I can move, create, breathe, and keep going.

Maybe this summer wasn’t about “finding myself” completely. Maybe it was about learning how to sit with the process—and trusting that piece by piece, I’m getting there.

Sooooo, c’mon LA. Show me what you’ve got.

Attend a Late Night Show Taping 🎬

One of the most special and surprisingly easy things to do in NYC is seeing a live taping of a late night show. I’ve gone to every one—and each has its own vibe.

I really recommend seeing Late Night with Seth Meyers. His energy is electric, and he genuinely connects with the audience (yes, he talks to us between takes!).

Plus who doesn’t love seeing celebrities? I got to see Natalie Portman and Noah Kahan in one taping.

Tickets are free and easy to request. Be flexible with dates, and you’ll likely get in. Visit: https://1iota.com/

Spend Some Time in Community Gardens 🌿

If you’re looking for a quiet pause, NYC’s community gardens—especially in SoHo, the Lower East Side, and Alphabet City—are beautiful, communal spaces run by local residents.

They’re a great place to sit, enjoy nature, and engage in activities.

My favorite one is Elizabeth Street Garden, which also happens to host community events. Right now they are in their summer movie series, screening movies every Thursday.

You can find more information here:

https://www.elizabethstreetgarden.com

6BC in Alphabet City is a close second, simply for its treehouse. There’s tons of books to read inside, and a communal writing space.

Explore Free Art Galleries in Chelsea 🎨

Beneath the High Line, especially around Chelsea Piers, there’s a cluster of galleries that rotate work from contemporary artists around the world.

Every Thursday evening they offer gallery opening nights. Here you can hop around multiple galleries, connect with artists, and enjoy complimentary beverages.

I just visited the Murakami exhibit at Gagosian and was absolutely amazed.

It’s quiet, thoughtful, and a great way to engage with the art world at your own pace, while also meeting new people!

Wander Through Weekend Markets 🌈

Weekends are all about markets in New York. They’re a great way to get outside and explore unique pieces.

I spend many of my Sundays at the Grand Bazaar on the Upper East Side or the DUMBO Flea Market in Brooklyn. Even if I don’t buy anything, I almost always have a good conversation—usually with a vendor sharing stories behind what they’re selling.

In the summer, food markets like Smorgasburg in Williamsburg and Prospect Park are a staple.

But my personal favorite is the 18th Ave San Gennaro Italian Festival that happens every August in Bensonhurst. There’s so much liveliness, good food, good music, and overall good prices.

Rush Tickets for a Broadway Show 🎭

Broadway doesn’t have to be expensive. Many shows offer rush tickets the day of—just show up when the box office opens.

Some of my best theater experiences have come from these spontaneous decisions. One winter morning, I got a $40 front row seat to Sunset Blvd.

FREE Museum Nights ✨

Most museums in NYC offer free admission on specific days. Here’s a complete guide:

Monday

• Museum at Eldridge Street – Pay‑What‑You‑Wish Mondays & Fridays

• 9/11 Museum – free to New Yorkers 5:30–7 pm

Wednesday

• New York Aquarium – free tickets after 3 pm (reserve ahead)

• Bronx Zoo – free Wednesdays (ticket needed)

• Museum of the City of New York – free admission

• New York Botanical Garden (grounds) – free for all from 10–11 am; NYC‑resident all day

Thursday

• Museum of the Moving Image – free 2–6 pm

Friday

• MoMA UNIQLO Nights – free 5:30–8:30 pm for NY residents

• Whitney Museum – Free Friday Nights 5–10 pm

• Morgan Library & Museum – free Fridays 5–7 pm

Saturday

• Jewish Museum – free admission all day Saturdays

• Guggenheim – Pay‑What‑You‑Wish 5–8 pm Saturdays

📆 Monthly Free/Special Events

• Poster House – First Friday monthly, 10 am–9 pm

• Neue Galerie – First Friday monthly, 5–8 pm

• Brooklyn Museum – First Saturdays (Feb‑Jun, Aug, Oct), 5–11 pm

🎉 Special Annual Event

• Museum Mile Festival – All Museum Mile institutions (Met, Guggenheim, Neue Galerie, Museum of City of NY, etc.) free 6–9 pm one evening in June

  ---

Unwind with Live Jazz 🎷

New York is known for its Jazz life. Jazz clubs fill up every evening with bustling people and vibrant city energy. They are the perfect place to wind down after a long day, listen to some good music, drink a fancy cocktail, and meet a diverse range of people.

One of my personal favorites is No Work Allowed. A small jazz bar located on the Upper East Side with a great ambience and delicious food. I also frequent Smalls (when the ticket prices go down) and the Django when I want a more calm and intimate atmosphere.

Unleash Your Creativity at Happy Medium 👩🏼‍🎨

Happy Medium is the perfect creative reset. Part art studio, part café, it lets you drop in and choose your medium—clay, collage, watercolor, or charcoal—and just make something.

With locations in Two Bridges and now Greenpoint, it’s a great spot for solo dates, casual hangs, or something different to do on a weekend.

Heads up: Book ahead by DMing @gethappymedium on Instagram.

And now my personal favorite…

Neighborhood Wandering: A Guide to Exploring NYC Without a Plan 🧚🏻‍♀️

One of the best ways to experience New York City is to hop on a train, get off at a random stop, and let curiosity lead the way. The city’s magic is in its neighborhoods—each one offering its own mix of culture, history, and charm.

I do this often—wandering into bookstores, coffee shops, parks, and local bakeries. I don’t set a goal. I just let the day unfold and marvel at the stunning architecture around me.

My favorite neighborhoods to explore have been Cobble Hill and Bay Ridge.

Cobble Hill

The quiet, tree-lined streets are lined with brownstones and historic buildings that reflect the area’s 19th-century roots.

Start your walk on Court Street, where you’ll find a mix of old-school Italian bakeries, family-owned cafes, and small boutiques. Around nearly every corner, you’ll stumble upon charming nooks: curated bookstores like Books Are Magic, cozy wine bars, and little specialty shops you didn’t know you needed.

Bay Ridge

If you're looking for a neighborhood that feels like a small town tucked inside the big city, Bay Ridge is worth the long train ride. Walking along Third Avenue, you’ll pass generations-old Italian bakeries, Irish pubs, Middle Eastern markets, and new restaurants bringing fresh energy to the area.

But what really makes Bay Ridge stand out is its connection to the water. The views at Shore Road Park during sunset are unbeatable—especially if you bring a coffee and sit on one of the benches to watch the light change across the harbor.

**P.S. try Clockface Coffee on 74th street for the best coffee in the city.

Whether you live here or you’re just visiting, NYC has a way of revealing itself to you when you’re not trying too hard. Let the city surprise you. It usually will.

Feel free to reach out if you need any recommendations.

From,

Your Favorite New Yorker ♡

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From the outside, she was beautiful. Her wings were bright, admired for their unique patterns. She flew quickly and gracefully—always in motion.

She held her head high, and other butterflies noticed her strength, her confidence, her independence.

But beneath it all, she carried a secret:
She was terrified of landing.

There was a tension in her wings.
And every time she tried to slow down—just enough to rest—she’d falter.

So, in fear of anyone noticing, she trained herself to fly harder, higher, faster.

To make it look like she had it all under control.

She became tough. Sharp-witted. High-functioning.

And never let a single soul see her land.

Occasionally, she’d find a butterfly who matched her rhythm—who didn’t rush ahead, who flew beside her gently.

She’d watch them land on an open flower, leaving just enough space for her to settle beside them.

And for a moment, she’d feel safe.
Her wings would soften.
She’d believe maybe—just maybe—she could land with ease too.

Because she wasn’t alone.

So she touched down carefully. Slowly. Trustingly.
And in those moments, she didn’t have to be tough.

She could just be.

When she found that warmth, she clung to it.
Not out of desperation, but because safety had always felt rare.

She hoped that butterfly would always be there when she landed.

But they weren’t perfect either.

Sometimes they teased her for her fears.
Sometimes they doubted her ability to land.
Sometimes they landed too hard and knocked a petal loose.
And sometimes… they weren’t there at all.

And suddenly, her world would collapse.

Her guard went up.
She got defensive.
Her wings slapped against them at every chance.

She grew mean, difficult—not because she wanted to hurt them, but because she hated how much it hurt her.

She was ashamed to be afraid of something so simple:
The act of landing.

When the wind finally cleared and she caught her breath, she’d realize:

She had dragged the ones who cared about her most into the dark world of her mind.

And then, she’d fight for a second chance.
She’d plead to do better, to fix it, to try again.

But often, the harder she tried, the more chaotic her landing became.

She came off forceful. Too much.
Scared that if they flew away, she wouldn’t know how to stay grounded on her own.

Over time, they did leave.
And she’d find herself alone on a petal that felt a little less sturdy, wings aching, whispering the same thing:

If only I’d been given a little more time.
A little more space.
I could’ve reacted differently. I could’ve shown them who I really am.

Because she never meant to cause damage.
She just didn’t know how to settle gently.

She didn’t know how to be—without trying so hard to be enough.

One day, she realized:
Enough was enough.

This cycle of fear was killing her beauty.
Dimming everything that made her unique.

So she put in the work.

Every day, she woke up and tried again.
Tried to land—on her own.
Even if her wings trembled. Even if her legs shook.

And although it’s hard to do alone, she knew this part was for her.

Because her feelings—the fear, the longing, the sensitivity—are valid.
But what she does with them? That’s her responsibility now.

So, she’s starting to notice the moments when she reacts too soon.
She’s learning to pause. To breathe through the fear.

Soon, she hopes to land in new places. To say yes to things she used to run from.
To trust her footing, even when it feels unfamiliar.

She doesn’t want to be the one others fly away from just because she feels too deeply.

She wants to be the one others stay beside—
because they see what’s beneath the toughness:
a soft, steady heart that wants to grow, to trust, to land.

And maybe one day they will stay.

She knows that she deserves that too.

On his first day in office, Donald Trump signed an executive order instructing federal agencies to deny U.S citizenship to children born on American soil if neither parent is a citizen or permanent resident.

With one signature, he targeted one of the most sacred promises of this country: that if you are born here, you belong here.

This isn’t just a policy shift—it’s a direct challenge to identity. It calls into question who gets to enjoy the privileges, freedoms, and protections that come with being born in the United States.

Months Later

On June 27, the Supreme Court weighed in—not on whether Trump’s order was constitutional, but on how it can be challenged in court.

Three lower courts had blocked the policy using nationwide injunctions, arguing that it violated the Citizenship Clause of the 14th Amendment—the same clause that has granted legal status to generations of Americans born on U.S. soil.

The Supreme Court ruled that lower courts can no longer issue broad nationwide injunctions. From now on, any legal block must be limited to the individuals or groups who filed the lawsuit.

What is a nationwide injunction and why it matters?

A nationwide injunction is a powerful legal tool. It stops a federal policy from being enforced against anyone, not just the people or groups who sued.

For decades, courts have used them to stop executive actions that could cause widespread harm.

So should you be worried?

Absolutely.

By weakening the power of the courts to block federal policies, the Supreme Court has made it easier for presidents to enforce potentially unlawful policies with fewer immediate checks.

That should terrify anyone who believes in the balance of power.

The door is wide open for Trump and he’s taking every chance he can to walk through it.

Trump celebrated the ruling with pride, saying that his administration can now move forward with his “efforts to reshape U.S. policy on immigration and citizenship.”

The Meaning of Birthright Citizenship

Birthright citizenship is not a modern legal technicality. It was written into the Constitution in 1868, as part of the 14th Amendment, to guarantee that anyone born on U.S. soil would be recognized as a citizen—regardless of race, status, or ancestry.

Undoing that principal should not only be considered unconstitutional, it is morally bankrupt.

Let’s Get Personal

Like many of you reading this, I am here because of birthright citizenship.

I come from two Ukrainian immigrant parents who came to this country on visas. But I was born on American soil and granted citizenship.

Because of that, I had access to public education, healthcare, legal protections, and the right to dream without fear.

I grew up being able to speak my mind and build a life path I saw fit for me.

I got to pursue my dream of being a filmmaker and an artist. I graduated top of my class as the salutatorian. Now, I get to attend the college of my dreams.

I am safe and I feel like I belonged. I am a better person because I had the rights and resources every child deserves.

I’m not an exception. I’m an example of what this country can do when it lives up to its promises.

Trump’s order would rip that future away from children born into circumstances just like mine. It tells them: You are not one of us. You do not deserve what others were born into.

But who really gets to be American?

Let’s be honest—Donald Trump himself wouldn’t meet the standard he’s now trying to impose.

His mother was born on a small island in Scotland. His wife Melania, the mother of his son Barron, was born in Slovenia. His first wife, Ivana, mother of Donald Jr., Ivanka, and Eric, was born in Czechoslovakia.

By the logic of his executive order, his own children’s “Americanness” would be called into question.

He’s a hypocritical and egotistical maniac.

This policy isn’t about protecting the Constitution, it’s about ego.

He seeks to create an America that is defined by exclusion and fear rather than inclusion and principle.

He acts with self-interest—governed by his need to appear powerful, no matter who is hurt in the process.

In doing so, he undermines everything that actually makes this country great—our diversity, inclusivity, and our ideals.

So what am I thinking about now?

These thoughts will continue rambling in my head as I anxiously await what policy he will attempt to overturn next.

Because with Trump, there is always a next.

And the scariest part? We’re not just watching laws get rewritten—we’re watching the definition of being an American slowly be erased and redrawn.

So I sit with that unease in me, because I know what is at stake. I’ve lived it, and I refuse to look away.

As always, a penny for your thoughts,

Andriana ♡

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When you turned nineteen, you made a promise to myself. You told yourself, no matter what, you would keep going—you would choose life, even when it felt unbearable. You made that promise quietly as you blew out your candles, hoping it would echo loud enough.

Now, with twenty nearing, you feel a heaviness in knowing you’ve survived another year.

You find yourself in an inescapable paradox: still so young, and yet you feel like your life is already over.

It’s hard to explain that feeling without sounding dramatic. You know nineteen isn’t old, you’ve barely scratched the surface. But what people don’t see is how exhausting it is to live inside a mind that doesn’t give you a break.

How every morning begins with a checklist of failures before the day has even begun. Deadlines, expectations, unanswered texts, that thing you said two days ago that may have been read wrong. It all tangles together and suddenly, the urge to do anything at all disappears.

When your thoughts remain in this continuous loop, they turn into anger. And anger, strangely enough, is comforting. It allows you to shut the world out. It tells you that the people who seemingly care for you don’t really care.

It convinces you that their love must be conditional, because how could they truly care if they knew the way you think about myself?

You’ve lost the ability to believe that you are worthy of attention, respect, and love.

Now, every day feels like a competition to earn those things. Pressure to outperform. Pressure to be okay. Pressure to change.

It becomes harder to step out of that spiral, and even harder to remember that you’re only nineteen.

YES you are nineteen, but you can’t help but feel like you should be 26. Like you should already be successful. Healed. Settled.

You’ve somehow skipped over your prime years of joy and ease, dropping straight into the existentialism of a midlife.

Sometimes you wonder what younger you would think of who you are now. The girl who got up every day excited to do the things she loved. She believed in big futures, fairytale endings, true love, and good.

Would she still believe in you? Offer you a helping hand and sit there with you? Would she offer you compassion?

Weirdly enough, you don’t think she’d be disappointed. You think she’d understand in a way that only she could.

She’d remind you that life didn’t let you stay naive for as long as you needed. That you were forced to grow up too fast, and carry too much too soon. That kind of loss—of wonder and ease—leaves wounds that take time to heal.

But maybe she’d also remind you that you haven’t lost everything. And most importantly, that you are not alone.

Buried under the exhaustion and fear is still her. The version of yourself that still believes you deserve something greater.

You want to believe that you have time to find joy again. To grow into the kind of person you were always meant to be—not perfect, or fixed, but whole in a way that makes room for all of you, even the messy parts.

So maybe that’s what these next few months should be about.

Not trying to fix everything that’s broken. Not outrunning time.

But slowly, gently, finding your way back.

As always, a penny for your thoughts,

Andriana ♡

I touched down in Brooklyn just in time to watch the city spiral—again.

After two semesters covering USC campus politics and student movements, I came home to a city gearing up for yet another mayoral election.

Current Mayor Eric Adams is seeking reelection as an independent and bypassing the primary. But he’s doing so under the shadows of federal investigations, budget cuts, and ethical scandals.

New Yorkers aren’t strangers to political dysfunction at City Hall. But this year, we aren’t just choosing a mayor—we’re deciding if we want more of the same, or if we’re finally ready to demand something different.

A History of Disappointment

It’s fair to say that we’ve had a rough couple of decades at City Hall.

1. Rudy Guiliani, led a “civic cleanup” throughout the city, cracking down on crime. Although he was praised for it, in recent years, his public persona has spiraled into something closer to national embarrassment.

2. Michael Bloomberg: a fiscally moderate billionaire, who was detached from the lived experiences of many New Yorkers, and backed controversial policies like a “Demographics Unit”, which was mapped at Muslim-American communities and did nothing to keep New Yorkers safe.

3. To call Bill de Blasio’s time in office forgettable would be generous. He was mayor for much of my growing years in New York, and as a student at a public arts school, I watched funding for arts education vanish year after year. De Blasio loved to talk, but failed to act—and the city suffered for it.

4. Now we have Eric Adams—a mayor who seems more interested in nightlife than leadership. He’s a former police officer who has every intention to plague the democratic system in New York City.

New Yorkers are exhausted. We’ve had decades of disappointing leadership, and now we’re faced with a familiar question: Can it really get any worse?

Spoiler: it can. But it doesn’t have to.

Two Faces of the Race

Andrew Cuomo

Cuomo is back. The former Governor and Attorney General of New York comes from a legacy of politicians, has deep institutional ties, and decades of experience.

During COVID, he became a national figure. He was praised for his call to action and his daily briefings. But under his polished exterior was a history of toxic workplace culture and a long list of ethical violations.

His reputation became tainted with sexual misconduct allegations and concerns about his handling of nursing homes during the pandemic. Rather than take accountability, he resigned.

Now he wants another shot at leading New York—this time as mayor. He promises to increase the supply of affordable housing, expand on education and childcare, crack down on homelessness, and ensure subway safety.

But New Yorkers should be asking: why didn’t he prioritize these issues when he held even more power?

Why He Might Not Be the Answer

Many people like Cuomo because he acts decisively. His campaign emphasizes his ability to deliver results and enact policy changes.

He’s also a household name in New York. People know him and familiarity can make voters feel safe.

But there are very reasonable concerns about his character. He’s been called “aggressive” by former staffers, being prone to verbal attacks and attempted intimidation.

His infamous defense to sexual misconduct allegations—“I’m not perverted, I’m just Italian”—wasn’t just tone-deaf; it was dismissive and offensive.

Cuomo also has a long track record of governing in the interest of big donors. His administration favored real estate developers and corporate lobbyists, especially during battles over rent regulations and education funding.

Cuomo leads a record as a leader who often failed to do what New Yorkers needed.

So is he running for mayor to better New York or simply fix his reputation?

Zohran Mamdani

Zohran Mamdani is a 33-year-old Assembly member from Queens, running on a bold, progressive platform. If elected, he’d be the city’s first Muslim mayor—and by far its youngest.

Mamdani has led a strong campaign focusing on rent stabilization, city-owned grocery stores, free bus service, and raising the minimum wage.

Mamdani is funding his campaign largely through small-dollar donations, making his campaign for the real New Yorkers.

He’s accumulated a number of impressive endorsements, including from A.O.C and Bernie Sanders.

In his announcement Tuesday morning, Sanders said, “We need a new politics and new leadership which is prepared to stand up to powerful corporate interests and fight for the working class.”

Why Mamdani Might Stand a Chance

Critics are quick to dismiss him as being ‘too young’, ‘too inexperienced’, and ‘too radical’. But what they’re missing is that his youth is exactly why he has skin in the game.

Mamdani isn’t running in hopes of preserving a political legacy or to court donors. He’s running because like many of us, he’s tired of watching the city fall apart and away from its people.

Mamdani is reaching voters on every platform from TikTok to Instagram. He’s got a loud voice and a great publicity team. I’ve seen more content from him appealing to the younger New Yorkers than I have from any candidate.

A Moment of CHOICE

As I prepare to head to the polls in the next few days, I find myself torn between hope and realism.

I want to believe that New York is ready for a progressive future. But after watching this city elect Eric Adams… I’m not so sure.

At the end of the day, leadership is more than just good speeches and public relations. It’s about showing up for New Yorkers when they need it most.

That means protecting our communities, focusing on our concerns, and implementing policies that will improve our quality of life.

Cuomo may have the résumé, but Mamdani has the movement. The choice is ours.

And while these two dominate the headlines, ranked-choice voting allows us to support multiple candidates. There are others in the race with compelling ideas and real commitments to change. To see the full list of candidates and their policies, visit this link

Signing off from Brooklyn, Andriana :)

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(USC “Comedy Live!” production of a sketch on Donald Trump and the Oval Office)

When Vincent Demonte scrolls through his phone, he’s quick to skip past the breaking news headlines.

“If I'm on social media and I'm hearing someone talk straight politics, I am more likely to turn to the next Tiktok or reel,” said the University of Southern California (USC) senior.

Demonte suffers from political fatigue – a self-diagnosed condition that’s growing among young Americans. According to a recent poll done by the Harvard Institute of Politics, only 15 percent of young Americans believe the country is moving in the right direction and 19 percent trust the federal government.

But there’s one kind of political content that makes Demonte pause.

“If it's someone like Trevor Noah on his show talking about politics, I'm more likely to stick around and see what funny quip he has to do,” he said.

In recent years, late-night television and social media have seen a rise in both scripted and unscripted comedy that doesn’t just mock current events–it explains them.

Hosts like Seth Meyes, Jimmy Kimmel, and Stephen Colbert have made politics a centerpiece of their nightly routines, delivering creative punchlines that poke fun at American leadership.

When President Donald Trump marked his first 100 days in office on April 29, Jimmy Kimmel, host of “Jimmy Kimmel Live,” opened his show by joking to viewers:

“We have 100 days behind us and only 13 more hundred days to go. It’s been an historic 100 days — some would say prehistoric,” he said. “It is difficult to give Trump’s first 100 days a grade, but if I had to, I’d say it falls somewhere between ‘F’ and ‘U.’”

The comment was immediately met with laughter from the audience, but it also made a point.

For young Americans like Demonte, these programs are more than just entertainment. They keep them engaged with politics without feeling overwhelmed.

Soph Cimmino, a stand-up comedian, studies both Politics and Comedy at USC.

“Comedy makes complex issues easily digestible”, they said.

To Cimmino, the relationship between comedy and politics is not coincidental, but purposeful – especially under the current Trump administration.

“Trump rose to political popularity because people laughed at him for being such an outlandish, ridiculous, almost cartoonish character. Now, because he reached his audience, and found people who would agree with what he had to say, people take him seriously,” they said.

In this context, comedians have taken on the role of what Cimmino calls a “soapbox politician,” a single influential voice, broadcasting its opinions through humor, and with a political edge.

If the message is repeated with enough charisma, and “if enough people hear it, some people might agree and follow along,” they said.

Comedians with large social media followings have adopted this approach as a way to address political fatigue among their audiences.

Maz Jobrani, an Iranian-American comedian, built his career around political commentary. Recently, he launched a series of morning news comedy segments on Instagram, where he has over 800,000 followers.

“I've started to do my version of the Daily Show, where I take a serious news piece that comes to mind, and I try to present it with some comedy,” he said.

His audience spans the political spectrum, so he uses what he calls “subtle satire” to reach more people.

“I've learned that if you don't say Trump’s name, you can actually make fun of his policies and get away with it,” he said.

In one recent bit, Jobrani addressed Trump’s tariff policies and Liberation Day by joking, “The only thing that was liberated that day was the money from my bank account,” before delving into a more serious explanation of the policy’s implications.

“I go, you should be worried. Even if you have an iota of sympathy or empathy, you should be upset,” he said.

Jobrani has been met with positive feedback. “I've had people reach out to say, ‘I enjoy your political commentary because it helps me understand what’s going on’.”

On a smaller, local scale, comedians at USC are joining the satirical movement too.

“Comedy-Live,” a student-run USC television show, brings satire to campus through scripted sketches and monologues. Ryan Kolderup, a Philosophy, Politics, and Economics major, is the showrunner of “Comedy Live” and oversees the selection of the sketches.

“One area where we had more room to poke fun at US or USC politics was usually the monologues. Those weren’t written until the week of, and would typically aim to laugh at common issues shared by the audience and cast,” he said.

Tim Rock, an MFA writing student and frequent writer for the show, sees comedy as a gateway to engagement. “Comedy is a great way to laugh through the barriers of very complicated issues,” he said. “People want to laugh, but to laugh you also have to listen.”

Rock, like many of his peers, finds writing political comedy not only therapeutic but also unifying. “We may not agree on the outcome, execution, or message [of comedians], but we can agree on the visceral reaction their work provides,” he said.

“I get to laugh a ton while writing my sketches and then I feel like maybe the world isn’t going to end,” he said.

Demonte echoed this sentiment. “If there's always one consistent thing throughout time, it's the power of comedy to bring people together, and to provide people levity,” he said.

He, too, has joined the satirical movement. Demonte is a member of USC’s Sketch Comedy Group, The Suspenders, where he writes sketches that use subtle satire to bring political commentary to the stage.

In a recent sketch called “House of Chaos,” Demonte parodied the vote to appoint Kevin McCarthy as speaker of the house by mimicking the style of the reality show “The Real Housewives.”

“The whole sketch was about something completely different, but we would drop little jokes, cracking fun at the structure of US politics,” he said.

“This way we wouldn’t be turning people away who aren't as politically involved or know what's going on in the administration.”

The common belief among all comedians is that comedy serves a higher purpose – one that is rooted in democracy itself.

“The whole point of democracy, and the whole point of having a free society is that we should be able to make fun of each other,” Jobrani said. “If that is taken away in a nation, it becomes a dictatorship.”

Political distrust and unhappiness remains high among young Americans, but comedy is one of the trusted tools that makes politics more approachable, engaging, and human.

“Particularly when politics has become so intertwined with entertainment, comedy has a unique power to reach and influence people who might have never been politically active if not for this exposure,” said Cimmino.

For now, at least, the punchline still carries power.

DTLA ArtNight is a cultural art walk held on the first Thursday of every month, with over 38 vendors, galleries and restaurants participating. This month’s art initiative centered around the LA Wildfires and supporting those impacted by the ongoing crisis.

Popular stores stayed open after hours with live music, free drinks and designer art. The Adidas flagship store, in particular, teamed up with local artists to design six pairs of sneakers to be auctioned off with all proceeds going towards “Being Black LA,” an organization aimed at helping Black families impacted by the wildfires. Adidas also donated $10 per attendee to wildfire relief efforts.

One of the featured artists was Tyler Morgan, a henna artist who designed a pair of sneakers on display. “I made and mixed the henna on my own, then sealed it with a mod podge. It holds but it also stains the shoe underneath, which actually means you’re wearing a transformational piece of art,” Morgan said.

Sneakers designed by Tyler Morgan on display at the Adidas Flagship store in Downtown Los Angeles, CA taken on Feb 6, 2025 (Andriana Yatsyshyn).

For Morgan, the design of his sneakers was a direct tribute to the wildfires. “The orange on the back of the shoes represents the fires behind us and the seeds plant new life,” Morgan said. “All we have to do is be willing to rebuild.”

Karla Anahi, a friend of Morgan’s, came to support his art and the broader initiative. “ArtNight does a good job of bringing people together through art. This month they’re showcasing a lot of work from Black artists, which is important because we should be celebrating Black artists, and supporting our community in times of tragedy,” she said.

Just down the street, Rachel Berkowitz, owner of Aesthetíque Studio, opened her gallery as a space where attendees could express themselves and be creative. “The space is open for anyone to see my artwork. I have hand-picked sculptures and paintings that I’ve done to showcase,” Berkowitz said.

As attendees stopped in to admire the sculptures and paintings, they were also able to drop off toiletries, pet and art supplies to be donated to families affected by the fire. For every donation made, attendees were entered into a raffle to win tickets to an LA Clippers game.

Rachel Berkowitz stands in front of her painting of a woman at the Aesthetíque Studio in Downtown Los Angeles, CA taken on Feb 6, 2025 (Andriana Yatsyshyn).

Piano installation in Aesthetíque Studio in Downtown Los Angeles, CA taken on Feb 6, 2025 (Andriana Yatsyshyn).

Diana Barillas, the event coordinator of ArtNight, described their event as being the key to “building communities and highlighting the artists of Downtown.” Barillas is responsible for coordinating 30 artists into the Emerging Gallery every month, which is complemented by a DJ, food, drinks and conversation.

While her job can be demanding, Barillas is driven by a passion for creating a lively community Downtown. “As an organizer, it’s exciting to see when artists collaborate and communicate,” Barillas said. “They have that growth, which is how community grows.”

As the night went on, Downtown continued to hum with energy despite the rain. Jazz bars filled up with music, restaurants hung art above their diners and galleries held open mic events. DTLA ArtNight’s success stands as a testament to the combined efforts of organizers, artists and community members to help the community of Los Angeles rebuild.

Anahi put it best, ““You can’t beat the community of Los Angeles. Art will always bring us together.”