Grief doesn’t really play by those rules.

I’ll never forget the night of my grandfather’s funeral, the way that profound loss snuck up on me. Pure panic attack. One minute I was lying in bed in a fit of giggles with my now husband—strange, I know, but it was exactly what I’d needed—and the next I shot up as if from the force of a defibrillator; my shattered heart brought back to life, only to finally feel the suffering.

“My grandfather,” I’d managed through choked gasps.

He was the first person I lost that I felt close to. And we weren’t as close as my grandmother and I, but we had our secrets. The money he’d giddily flash when we were alone, cash he’d hoarded, leftover from lunches or coffee. The mints he stole from every restaurant he ever walked into. The Tootsie Rolls he kept crumpled up and liquefying into chocolate soup as he popped one right after the other.

All habits I carry today.

But it was my grandmother I was closest to. The years before and after my grandfather’s death only solidified that. She grew to rely on my mom and I, and it made us closer. We were the ones she’d call when she needed to vent, when the dementia made him inconsolable, when the rampages were too much, when she didn’t know what to do. I was the one she asked to write his obituary. My mom was the one who brought her wiped-down groceries during Covid and took her to all her appointments. It was the three of us, always.

When I was writing this post, I struggled with which memories to share; how to sum up our relationship. This is where I ended up.

I spent over 2,000 days at my grandparent’s house. Over 16,000 hours. It’s representative of the once a week minimum that we visited. Every week, for all thirty plus years of my life.

It doesn’t feel like a lot when I put it like that.

And yet, it truly was my whole life.

The last year of her life was tinged with a traumatic family feud that meant my grandmother was ripped from her home and kept in isolation. I’ll never get those months back. I was robbed of a year’s worth of memories. Over 400 hours of memories.

It feels mammoth.

After she passed, I knew her house was going to be listed. But it took long enough that it started to feel like, I don’t know, maybe it just wouldn’t. Maybe it would remain a museum to my grandparents forever and ever and one day when the family members that kept her from me died off, I’d get to go back. Sit in the living room where we’d watched hundreds of hours of mindless TV, where my grandparent’s would mechanically pass a bag of Lays potato chips between them while my grandmother taunted my grandfather that she could stop at one chip. I thought maybe I’d get to sit on the hideous green couch and paint my toenails again, or maybe we’d just order a pizza and watch bad movies, like we used to.

But alas, that’s not life. I knew I’d have a reaction to the listing. That I’d probably cry. What I didn’t expect, was the Frasier effect.

You know that episode of Frasier, where Niles is in the hospital and starts mumbling incoherently about buildings having memories? That’s how I felt as I scrolled through a barren living room, devoid of the TV with her Westerns, the clock still hanging, counting down the minutes to absolutely nothing.

How can the people who come through the open house know the ordeal that was cleaning out the front room and trying to get her to part with a pamphlet from 1985 that she hadn’t looked at in thirty years? That she chose that color yellow for the walls because it matched her personality so perfectly. That each week we went through their old belongings, I got to hear hours of untold stories, things I’d never known.

To them, it’s just an old room in need of renovation.

And the prospective buyers can’t be expected to know that if it’s between ten am and lunchtime that gram is meant to be stationed there, sitting at her computer checking her Facebook and playing computer solitaire. They won’t see fifteen year old Angela camped out in that same chair, sneaking glances at Myspace and logging on to AIM.

How could they understand the significance of the ugly green couch or that the kitchen was our happy place? That it’s where we crafted a new meal for gram to try each week, just to satisfy her endlessly curious spirit. How we made High Tea in honor of her favorite show, Downton Abbey. That the tiny raised square just to the right of the kitchen sink is where I made us tea each week. (Two splenda, save the tea bag!).

But as I was scrolling the listing, I saw every bit of those memories.

In the empty space the table once occupied, I saw us lazily dissecting our weeks, embellishing the mundane, coaxing out the storytellers in each of us, just to get my grandmother to laugh. I saw us getting lost in fits of laughter, making up the rules to our favorite games, going through boxes and boxes of old photos.

Scattergories. Scrabble. Cranium.

I don’t know what will happen to the house. It’s not exactly a looker. But I hope someone finds the charm in it and that they know how incredibly special it is. Beyond my lifetime, that home holds over sixty years of memories I’ll never really know. It’s the house my mom grew up in, and I like knowing that some things are just for her.

I had another rogue memory as I was scanning the listing.

When I was young, I had an attachment to all our family cars, but especially Minnie Van Blue. I’ll let you guess what kind of vehicle she was.

When it was time to let her go, I sobbed. I mean, I was really attached to this thing. I probably begged my parents not to sell her. She didn’t do anything wrong! I cried. She won’t understand why we’re giving her away!

I was a sensitive child.

Anyway, the car had to go and so I settled on writing a note. I don’t remember what I said but I think it was along the lines of how much she’d meant to us and that I hoped they’d love her as much as we had. That they’d take good care of her and give her all her favorite things. Whatever that is for a mini van.

I stuffed it in the visor and hoped for the best.

That’s what I think of now, when I look at the listing photos for my grandparent’s home. I wish I could write the buyer a note. Stuff it between the stats and figures of the MLS sheet and make sure each prospective owner knows just how precious this home is.

I would show them our photos, and share miles of memories, so they understood the lifetime of love they’re stepping into.

But I can’t and so all I have is this hope that they can feel it when they push open the door. That they’ll hear the faint jingle of the bells that once occupied the doorknob for decades, and something in them will click.

That when they decide to put an offer in, it’s because they love her, just as much as we did. That they’ll spend family evenings cozied up together in the living room, and that they’ll get pizza stains on their own ugly green couch. That when the night is winding down, they’ll head to the kitchen where they’ll spend hours laughing over board games and forging new memories as they make up their own rules.

I hope they love her, just as much as we did.

And I hope, she never forgets us.

Back in college, when the world seemed fresh and full of novel ideas, I took a documentary film class. We covered all the classics—F is For Fake, Exit Through the Giftshop, The Cove (that one nearly killed me). I also took a silent film class, where we studied and dissected the art of filmmaking in the early 1900s. With the tenacity reserved only for a twenty-two year old with absolutely everything ahead of her, I studied the craft and catalogued the way every scene felt so full of heart, ripe with raw emotion, each expression so crucial to the plot’s advancement.

That era also birthed my love for Sunset Boulevard, a film I try to rewatch as often as I can.

As I grew into my twenties I tried to make a habit of watching old movies regularly. Harold and Maude. Casablanca. His Girl Friday. I’ve always shied away from this love of cinema because it felt pretentious and unearned. I didn’t go to film school. I don’t like a lot of the movies that real cinephiles froth over. I don’t see the same things when I watch a film as they do.

And yet, I continued to return to it through quiet transitions. Like dragging my husband to a silent French film on a rainy Monday in NYC. Or re-igniting my tradition of watching old movies on rainy Sundays. Or allowing myself to be vulnerable in a way that has always felt a little scary. Crying in front of my husband when a scene refuses to let me go. Re-watching a movie because I love it; even if I’ve already seen it a hundred times and have a to-watch list a mile long.

Eventually, I took this adoration for film and re-focused it to cinematic wedding photography. After a year of that, I’ve started to think…what if? What if I also offered wedding videography? But no, that felt too stiff. What I really wanted was to continue to be a fly on the wall and create a sort of cinematic time capsule of the day. Like an indie movie for their wedding or engagement, but, condensed to just a few minutes.

What if, what, if, what if.

So I did as I always do—toe the line between what I want and what I believe I’m actually capable of. This is where I’m at now; I’ll test the idea in a myriad of small ways, and only when I’m certain it’s the right choice, I’ll dive in.

Which brings us very nicely to the point of this week’s post. A sort of mini-review/reflection on Take This Waltz, which has captured the restless part of my soul and forced me to examine why.

It’s been a long time since I went inward like this, and if you’ll forgive how cliche this sounds, it felt like coming home.

In my quest to soak up all the knowledge I can about indie films and the styles I might want to emulate, I decided this was a great excuse to get back to something I used to love doing: watching indie films. And it started with Take This Waltz.

The movie stars Margot (Michelle Williams) who is happily married to Lou (Seth Rogan). After five years of marriage, the two are best friends. Silly, playful, completely connected and immersed in their own world. What I loved is the sharp specificities of their weirdness. There’s a running joke where they swap I love yous by one-upping each other on all the horrible things they’d like to do to one another. Ex: I want to peel your eyes with a potato peeler. I want to throw you in the wood chipper.

It reminds me a lot of my own marriage.

I often think, if my marriage were a reality show, everyone would hate me and they would love my husband. They wouldn’t understand our jokes or the way we jab at one another. 99% of the things we say would make no sense. My own mom sometimes has no idea what we’re saying. We have our own language and strange little way of existing and until Take This Waltz, I haven’t really seen anything similar reflected in cinema. I loved the simplicity of it. It wasn’t overtly romantic, nor was it asking too much of me to interpret. It was just true.

So they’re best friends. But they’re also comfortable in the way most marriages undoubtedly become. They fall into a routine, one that leaves Margot feeling both seen and unseen, loved, but not necessarily in love. So when she meets Daniel (Luke Kirby) on a work trip, and the two end up seated next to each other on the flight home, sharing inside jokes and getting pretty vulnerable in the span of a few hours, it’s easy to see the cracks that allowed for her infatuation to form.

Maybe it could have ended there. If they weren’t neighbors.

Turns out, Daniel lives directly across the street, which makes running into one another inevitable. Especially when Daniel is always just sort of there, following Margot around. To her swim aerobics class. On the bus. He’s not shy about letting her know how he feels, and she’s not particularly shy about verbally reciprocating it. And I know this is the part that I shouldn’t love. The pining. The deep yearning. The love triangle. But I adore a love triangle. I think that so many of us like to pretend that we’d never allow ourselves to fall into this situation but that doesn’t allow for the acknowledgment that for most of us, something is missing. If we’re getting deep, it’s generally something within ourselves, but that doesn’t mean that there’s not an outside factor(s) that can contribute to or lessen that. To deny that is to simply bury our heads in the sand.

So it’s true that most of us, should feelings arise for someone who isn’t our partner, would step back. We wouldn’t, as Margot does, keep going on furtive little dates. We wouldn’t pretend to shout back to our husband from the porch, and announce exact place they’re going, so that a hot Luke Kirby could follow us there. All the while retaining the right to feign ignorance.

There’s one scene that’s a sort of microcosm of the movie as a whole. For me it’s one of the most memorable scenes for this reason (and the pining, my god!) and I haven’t been able to get the song, or the scene out of my head since watching it four days ago. It encompasses the immense lightness and euphoria of the beginnings of something new, before ebbing into deep infatuation, and eventually plateauing into pain and disappointment.

But! Then we’re rocketing back up to, if not the initial elation of the moment, a kind of subdued happiness. An understanding that although it can never be like it was, maybe this could be just as good. And then jarringly, abruptly, we are brought back down to reality.

It feels like whiplash in the best way.

But this begs the question: can we really deny the importance of being seen? Or that, deprived of it long enough, we might go to extreme lengths to recover that feeling?

To be clear, there’s no cheating in this movie and I’m not condoning cheating. What I’m saying is, I think we sometimes deny ourselves the realities of what we actually need. And when we do that, we become a time bomb, to not only ourselves but those around us.

But this movie isn’t really a romance.

I think what it’s really about, besides feeling seen, is how we’re all so endlessly hungry for that fleeting sense of aliveness that fluctuates so carelessly throughout life. We know that everything new eventually become old and yet, we can’t help testing fate.

So Margot and Daniel end up together. It’s inevitable, and not just because Daniel is running all over town with that rickshaw looking buff and glistening in the Toronto sun, but because Lou can’t give Margot what she needs. He’s her best friend, but he’s ceased to be her partner. And it’s heartbreaking to watch; the love between them is obvious. Throughout the film we’re watching her yearn for not Daniel so much as the life she’s mourning. The one that, I fully believe she wanted to re-ignite with Lou. We even see this in a later scene with Daniel, after the two are living together. The way she tries to re-create her and Lou’s relationship here. Margot says “I wuv you,” to Daniel. Baby talk is something she and Lou shared but not Daniel. He doesn’t respond. While Daniel eventually returns the sentiment (subbing wuv for love) it’s clear that Margot is missing Lou in this perhaps subconscious attempt to recreate what they had. To seek comfort in the nostalgia of what once was.

That’s one of the most painful parts of Lou and Margot’s demise. In their marriage, before she leaves him, we see her attempts to re-connect with Lou, to pour herself into her marriage instead of Daniel, but they just can’t get on the same page. Lou, for his part, probably hasn’t changed at all. But Margot has. And that’s made all the difference in the outcome of their relationship.

If this were a rom-com, Lou probably would have been a monster. Their divorce would have been something we rooted for. Daniel and Margot would live happily ever after. And that does happen, sort of. The film winds us through the first year or two of Margot and Daniel’s new relationship, taking us through the intoxicating excitement of their early days through to the mundane day-to-day that mirrors, quite beautifully, the life she had with Lou pre-divorce. It’s shown in small ways like the rather gratuitous sex scene with a time-lapsed of them building their home together. What starts as the two of them sharing a bed (and a couch and many other pieces of furniture) evolves into threesomes, presumably, to depict that even sex has become routine. What was once new and exciting, is now old and familiar.

When a family emergency with Margot’s former sister-in-law calls Margot back to the home she shared with Lou, we get one of my favorite moments in the film. By now we know Margot and Daniel’s relationship has cooled off and Margot regrets her decision. She broaches the subject of getting back together with Lou, who kindly, but firmly shuts her down. It’s agonizing to watch the potential slip away, even as we understand why.

Just as Margot’s leaving, nearly out of ear shot, Lou calls to her. Tells her he just got a new melon ball peeler and he’d like to gauge her eyeballs out.

Their subtle way of saying I love you.

Even with all the love still held between them, it can’t be repaired, and maybe it shouldn’t be. The trust is gone, but beyond that, the thing that drove them apart is still there. Nothing’s changed. Sometimes, love really isn’t enough.

I read a great review of this movie that referenced the idea that we all have a baseline level of happiness and that, although we may spike from time to time, we always return to that baseline no matter how good things get. As someone who is perpetually seeking, I really identify with that. And I think that’s why I do identify with Margot so much. Not just because I want Luke Kirby (and Seth Rogan, let’s be honest) to look at me like they look at Margo. Certainly not because I condone cheating of any kind. Not even because part of me is always teetering at the edge of should I blow my life up or do I just need to introduce a new hobby? But because of that restlessness. That never-ending searching and the lust for something more. Which is why the way the movie ends is so brilliant.

The closing scene has us back at the Scrambler with the Buggles. This time, Margot is by herself. As it starts to spin, hair whipping in the artificial breeze, the laughter pours out of her. And, I don’t know, I can relate to that too. Because at the end of the day, maybe even with all the love and attention and privilege of a life well lived, it’s still never going to be enough. Maybe that’s just the deal with being alive.

Restlessness isn’t inherently bad. On the contrary, I like to think it’s good. Necessary for a fulfilled existence. But we can’t go around blowing our life up every few years, so we have to find a way to push towards danger without constant exposure. To find a way to feel seen, even when no one really does.

So that’s the beauty and the tragedy of it. That no one will ever see us, not really. Not forever. How could they? To let someone in that deeply, that permanently, is impossible. We’re too fragile, too afraid to be so constantly vulnerable. Who could blame us?

Still, perhaps this is the biggest tragedy of it all.

When I was young, I thought the only kind of love was the Mr. Big/Carrie love and while adult me sees that as problematic for many, many reasons, it’s also very ingrained. To love is to suffer, and suffering means love.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ll admit I still feel that pull towards a “ridiculous, inconvenient, consuming, can’t live without each other love”, as Carrie would say. But I also feel the power of the quiet moments. And I appreciate that love can come in forms that aren’t romantic, and aren’t transactional, or even reciprocated. That they can be light, and meaningful, and they can pass, without any judgment or even any required action.

This was what the novel I originally set out to write in 2022 was, and in many ways, it’s what this Substack has become: love letters to all the people I never got over and the moments I never stopped surrendering to. The memories that had no place in my Great Big Book of Love, but that I also couldn’t let go of. I am so nostalgic; I fear I’ll never get over the feelings that live inside my body. But maybe I don’t want to. And maybe I shouldn’t.

Because there’s so much love in there, and I can see the proof every time I close my eyes. It’s in the kind eyes of a stranger and the way he always helped me forget about the stresses of the day. It’s in the compliment that changed everything, and the voice it was attached to. It’s the way she always knew what to say, and the letters he responded to; he really didn’t have to do that. It’s the crossing guard who gives my dog treats and the neighbor who hugged me when I lost Sawyer; we’d never spoken before that moment. It’s the boss who believed in me at fourteen and who really should have made me pay for that mirror I broke. It’s in my mentors at eighteen, twenty-three, and twenty-seven, and in that smile that could still light up my whole heart. It’s everywhere—love, in little vignettes.

If 2024 was the year of heartache, 2025 was full of healing. And I know, gross. But it’s true. 2024 was brutal. 2025, despite its own set of issues, put me back together. I put me back together. And I wish I could say it was intentional, but the truth is, it just sort of happened. By putting one foot in front of the other every day, I somehow managed to progress. To find new passions and let old ones go, to embrace the things I wanted and stop overanalyzing so much. That alone is cause for celebration.

And really, the best way I can describe 2025 is that it felt like a series of lives lived, all woven together over the course of a year.

The winter was full of grieving my dog of fifteen years, Sawyer, and to combat this, my husband and I traveled to try to get out of our own heads. It had been years since we’d been on a trip, and so we booked a three-week adventure through the Alps. I know. From one extreme to the other! But we had so many incredible moments on that trip. Most of them ones I fought for no reason at all, and they turned out to be the best. This tracks, by the way. I am always shooting myself in the foot with my own happiness.

The odd thing is, these moments still feel like they were lived by someone else. Helicopter ride around the Alps, pasta in six different countries, Big Ben and Kensington Market, poutine in Quebec City. I’ve been so lucky to travel so much this year. And I would be remiss not to mention that while I’m often the one to ensure we travel and have these new experiences, my husband is the one to orchestrate the more once-in-a-lifetime experiences once we’re there. We’re a good team.

But there was also the heartbreak of losing my grandmother and all the complications of the last year of her life. How my aunts and uncles kept her away from my mom and I, the people who had been there through every major and minor moment of her life up until then. How they lied to her and moved her out of her home, isolated her, controlled her. How the police wouldn’t help. How elder services wouldn’t help. How the system is so poorly set up to combat these things. How some people really are just evil.

In the end, I got to see her in her last days, and I know that whatever they took from me, I will always have our thirty plus years of weekly visits, our inside jokes, and the gift of knowing her more deeply than they ever pretended to. I miss her, so much. But these memories are still mine.

And then there was the joy of finding Ollie. Of walking into the shelter “just to look” on Father’s Day and coming home with 100lb St Berdoodle. The fun of spoiling him with puppacinos, endless toys, snacks, and new experiences. How the summer was filled with lakeside retreats and teaching him to swim—his puppy lifejacket a personal favorite. How really, everything has been crafted around his well-being, and how I kind of love that. I’ve never wanted children. But I think I was always meant to be a dog mom.

Then there were fire pits and s’mores and long walks through rural countrysides. The quiet song of the woods and the followed through urge of cuddling up with a cozy book on one side, Ollie snoozing lullabies on the other. I’ve so loved making room for him in our life and the way he’s grown in confidence.

There was querying my book, getting full requests and so many rejections. There was checking my querying inbox only twice a day (hurrah!) while trying to work on the next book and wondering if I’d ever be able to write again because there is such a crushing weight once you know what it takes. That there are never any guarantees.

But then, recently, there was finding my voice again and discovering the next novel that wanted to be written. And it’s so corny I know, but I’d tried to force one idea for so long, one I’d been genuinely excited about, but that just didn’t flow. So I stopped. And I switched to a new idea. And now I’m 4k words down, maybe 400 of them good, and I’m excited. I’ve already signed up for a six-week Novel in Progress workshop at Grubstreet for February. I can’t wait to meet new writers and get back to the structure of a class. I miss it sometimes.

And photography, how could I forget photography?! Getting curious behind the lens, dipping my toes in slowly, only to become fully immersed by the Summer, ending the year with thirty weddings, elopements, and proposals in the books and feeling more sure than ever that this is what I want to spend my time pursuing in 2026. Alongside my writing, this is the freest and happiest I’ve felt with work in years.

There has been so much to be grateful for in 2025. Most of it things I didn’t even know I wanted. I didn’t plan for any of this, but I did keep trying. Showing up. Refusing to disappear, or quit, or feel bad about my failures. I am so good at failing, and I’ve always thought that just meant I was mediocre. Good but not great. And maybe it does. But maybe it could also be a good thing. Maybe, it means I know how to charge on.

I guess Nick Carraway was right about that.

And I guess, in the end, that’s what did it. I can only hope 2026 is just as good.

We adopted a small moose over the summer, a cuddly 100lb St Berdoodle that we found at the shelter when I said, “let’s just have a look…” and we knew we wouldn’t be leaving him for trips anytime soon. So, the question became, how do we travel with this miniature horse?

While I am a lover of road trips, having driven cross -country several times and basked in the simplicity of experiencing middle America and mountain towns and rural nowheres with nothing but a Subway and a Dollar Tree, my husband, sadly, is not.

But. He does love to travel. So we made a compromise.

We’d start with NYC, a logical first stop from Boston, and one my husband loves to visit. We’ve been there more often over the last two years, so we knew what to expect—I’ve found this is key to a successful road trip when one partner is more keen than the other. It helps to start on familiar, enjoyable ground.

We spent a few days in SoHo eating, walking, and basically that’s it, because I’m a clingy parent who doesn’t want to leave her dog alone in the hotel room. We stayed at the SoHo Grand, which is very dog friendly. Having a dog park for guests around the corner was a huge help, and they even let you bring your pup down to the lounge for a cocktail!

It was a great first stop. I even did some novel brainstorming over a dirty martini and feverishly sent a five-minute rambling audio message to my writing buddy outlining the idea for my next novel.

And listen, when I say we ate, I mean we ate. One thing about me is that I’ll never turn down an opportunity to devour something I can’t get/make/dream of at home. And when you’re on vacation, anything is fair game.

Oh, and did I mention I brought the Polaroid on this trip? A scattering of NYC memories:

Montreal

Next, we headed to Montreal—somewhere we’ve both been, but not together. If I’m being honest, Montreal has never wowed me. But, with my only experience being as a stopover on the way to Toronto a decade ago, I thought it was time I gave it another chance. There’s just something odd about Montreal that I can’t quite put my finger on, and that held up this trip. But I will say, they had the most adorable Christmas market and our dog Ollie elicited lots of cooing from the locals. And why wouldn’t they? He’s adorable!

Except in this family photo, where he looks like Grumpy Cat. Still, that didn’t stop strangers from taking his photo which, was sort of sweet.

The food was pretty hit or miss—mediocre to outright bad coffee, delicious bagels, so-so sandwiches, and finally, a delicious feast of creative Mexican food like (vegetarian) gyoza nachos and cauliflower tacos. We also tried the two so-called best bagel places in the city, St Viateur and Fairmount, because it was the responsible thing to do.

Then, we set off to Quebec City.

Quebec City

Personally, this was the part I was most excited for. As an American who has spent a lot of time in Ontario, I hold my prejudice, and the prejudice of every Torontonian I’ve met, that all French Canadians are snobs and hate Americans. And while I do not begrudge them the second—we are really not making it easy—I always feel sort of out of place. Bad for not speaking French, worse for always appearing so culturally ignorant despite my best efforts. And while I expected Montreal to be rather English-speaking, I was worried about Quebec. Turns out, at least in this very touristy part of town we’re staying in, I needn’t have worried.

This did change as we got further out, but for the most part, it wasn’t an issue. And honestly, we didn’t really leave Old Quebec because I just wanted to cozy up in this snow globe of a town and read, write, and daydream for the full length of our stay. So if you’re wondering if it lived up to my expectations, then let me spare you the suspense, dear reader. Being in Old Quebec just before Christmas, has been nothing short of magical. The German Christmas market is right outside our window, and while it is absolutely packed during the day, the quiet, snowy mornings have provided the kind of slow, gentle strolls that I’ve been craving. It’s the first time I’ve taken my camera out for a non-wedding shoot in months, and it felt not just right, but necessary. I’m not ashamed to say Christmas music played in my head as I took these.

Food has been better than I expected, too. Nachos from Archibald’s scratched an itch few nachos outside my own can, and for lunch today, we had a Lunch of Snacks, made up of some of the tastiest vendors at the Christmas Market. Walking Fondue (I don’t know what it’s actually called, but it’s fondue in a hollowed-out roll and I LOVE it), churros with Nutella, two kinds of popcorn from Mary’s Popcorn, and finally, to top it off, hot chocolate and assorted treats from Érico.

Tomorrow we make the long drive back to Boston, and part of me is already dreading it. We’ve got an audiobook to keep us company—”You Deserve to Know” by Aggie Blum Thompson—and plenty of snacks, but it’s the going-home bit that feels a bit like giving up. Or letting go? I don’t know. It’s hard to explain but, this trip has only reminded me of how much I thrive on the road. How unsettled I am at my core, despite the need for routine and structure. I know it’s vacation and that’s not the same as real life, if only because we can’t eat like toddlers every day and not die (probably), but, still. This was my life once, wasn’t it? City to city. Neighborhood to neighborhood. Endless exploring and wanderlusting as I made each new city my home for a few days, or weeks, or months. Discovering it, along with myself.

So why couldn’t it be again?

Anyway, it’s been a lovely, if fleeting ten days. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, and I hope you’re cozied up with all your favorite things for the next few days. Thanks for reading and let the countdown to Christmas continue. ❄️

What I didn't anticipate, but really should have, is that the community bathroom, a mere five-minute walk, would bother me so much. I didn't think, though really I should have, that there would be mosquitoes. I didn't anticipate children and other dogs and ten dollar firewood and the fact I can not, despite spending my early years as a Girl Scout, start a fire. (Too much time spent eating cookies, I suppose).

But you know what? It was lovely.

Our tiny home

I’ve been on a tiny home kick lately. I don’t know why. Maybe I just miss taking roadtrips, or maybe I’m craving a simpler time. But I’ve had it in my head for the last month that we should rent a camper and do a proper coast-to-coast road trip. Me, my husband, and our 100ln St Berdoodle.

My husband on the other hand, whose clothes are currently taking up our entire guest room and some of our hallway, does not share this sentiment. Nevertheless, he agreed to the tiny home. And you know what?

He didn’t hate it.

Our menu

Fully committed to this whole camping thing, I insisted we do campfire dogs for dinner. Breakfast and lunch could be made up of local flavors, but the nights were for roughing it.

We found an adorable food truck down the road and grabbed lunch there on our second day. The wait was abysmal, but the food was delectable. My dog, who is an incredibly picky eater, devoured his dinner once we added scraps of my husband’s pulled pork sandwich.

And of course, there were s’mores. S’mores and roasted mallows and this incredible peanut butter pie that I’m still dreaming about.

Our itinerary

Read. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. This was all that I wanted, and for the most part, I achieved it. What surprised me is how restless I was. I never consider myself a person who needs constant activity, but it turns out, I am. Somehow, I continue to be surprised by this. I can quiet my mind for the right activity — reading, writing, TV — but I felt constantly on alert, not knowing what was coming next.

Type A and all that.

Have you ever been camping? Glamping? Tiny home-ing? Is my RV around the country idea crazy? I’m currently obsessed with this:

<3 Angela

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And then there’s me, running my music blog, always looking for interns in need of college credit. It’s a massive undertaking, and mostly, we’re all here for the free concerts and feeling of solidarity; to tell friends and family that we’re in the music industry, a phrase only impressive to those not actually in it. But it’s more than that. Deeper, I think. The hustle is alive and well, and the only way to make anything of yourself is to toe the fine line between harassing everyone you know and actually being good enough.

“You’re good,” he’d said. “But I think you can be great.”

#

It began with a recommendation from my ex to join the music startup he worked at, as all great love stories do. We were six months removed from him hanging up on me, and I was about twenty-six dollars overdrawn on my bank account. Saying yes was as much about my need for approval as my pithy financial status. I was twenty-three, wildly insecure, and happy to give my love to just about anyone who paid me attention. Besides, I had a plan. I’d wow the team at my new office, earn their respect with my unrelenting work ethic, and by year’s end, we’d either be engaged or he’d be blacklisted because of his weird box fan fetish and that thing he did at Warped Tour. Simple.

I remember it as Autumn, but I remember everything as Autumn, so it’s impossible to say. As time went on and I found my footing at the company, M just sort of faded into the background, like an annoying gnat zapping at your knees. He kept circling, I kept swatting, and eventually, our enemies-to-lovers ran full circle. He aimed to make my life miserable; I aimed to keep my head above water.

Working with M was a mistake in almost every way, except one.

For years, I’d felt like an imposter in the music industry. While friends quoted Almost Famous and cited coming out of the womb craving an industry job, all I’d ever wanted was to crawl inside people’s brains and take up residence. It’s just that interviewing bands seemed like a less jailable offense. I could use these interviews as a disguise for my psychology-obsessed brain. I could write album reviews that allowed me to explore my trauma under the guise of song lyrics and well-researched journalism. I could show the world who I really was, without ever having to get vulnerable.

#

I would spend the next year and a half trying to earn some unnamable reward at the start-up. My appetite for approval has always been insatiable, and I quickly devoured compliments, one eye trained on the next obstacle. What could I do better? What impossible thing did I still need to achieve? The list was long. I wanted to earn a key to the office, so I could stop pilfering Wi-Fi before hours, waiting for someone to let me in. I wanted to earn an invite to Bertucci’s for team lunches, so I could stop hiding in my car eating sad cheese and chip sandwiches. I wanted to earn a byline on the top stories. I wanted M to stop berating me in the team Skype. An invitation to someone’s show might be nice. A smile in the hallway, if I was really lucky. Friendship. Love, in the platonic.

I savored that job with such ferocity, it scared me. It was the first thing I’d ever loved more than a boy, more than my blog, more than anything. It didn’t matter that we were never paid on time, that I was barely earning enough to justify the hour-long commute. That my own ambitions got pushed aside, that every day I showed up, craving more, wanting more, expecting more. I have so much compassion for that version of myself. Because I was so happy. And I was so, so foolish.

#

“We’ve had to make some changes.”

The call came on a Wednesday, a few days before Valentine’s. I remember because of the snow and the way my boyfriend’s room looked before and how it felt after, and the way the words caught in my throat when I asked if this was forever. Of course, it wasn’t over, not really. Nothing ever is if you badger it enough.

“The company’s just going through a shift. We should have you back on full-time within three weeks.”

But it was the beginning of the end. Eventually, they stopped paying us at all. It didn’t matter. I would work another three months without a paycheck. Even when I stopped, it wasn’t by choice. I had to be forced out. Furlough. Restructuring. Grown-up words my love-lorn brain couldn’t process.

I spent the next twenty-one days eating spaghetti in the dark and refreshing my email like I was at the casino and it was last call. They never emailed me. They never called. When it was clear there was nothing left to lose, a few of us threatened to sue the company for months of unpaid wages, eventually settling out of court. In the end, I got less than they promised, more than they said I deserved. It was, like all youthful loves, a disappointment.

But you know, even now, I wouldn’t change a thing.

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If there are fireflies, that can only mean good luck.

You’ll need:

• One jar of Fluff

• One holiday-shaped Reeses (or candy bar of your choosing)

• Graham Cracker

• Campfire + starter. This is important—if you think it’s as easy as stacking wood and lighting a match, you’re wrong. Get the campfire starter. It’s not cheating. It’s just efficient.

1. Skewer your Reeses then dunk it in the fluff. Probably it will fall apart. Ok definitely it will. You might need to spoon the fluff onto the Reeses first. That’s ok. This will be worth it.

2. Carefully roast over (not in!!) the fire until reaching desired crispness. If you think flipping it over might melt your Reeses and send it spiraling to a fiery death, you are probably right. Take what you can get here.

3. Slide onto a graham cracker

4. If you are extra greedy like me, roast marshmallow for an extra gellatinous treat.

5. Enjoy!

P.s. if you try this with other candies, let me know! I’ve done Reeses and Hershey but suspect butterfingers would also be delicious.

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“Here,” he says, sliding a whisky in front of me. “You’ll like this.”

Benedict, not his real name, but by far his most arresting feature, being that he looked like the famed actor, first met me at a Cafe Nero. It had become my go-to date spot for its easy ambiance and the fact that I could get my coffee in a cardboard cup and be out of there in five minutes flat should the date go south.

I meet Benedict in a cozy side booth, tucked between BU students cramming for Fall exams and couples who no longer worry about having crumbs on their faces. I’d arrived twenty minutes early to secure a booth and avoid any awkward small talk while we waited, a plan which, ten minutes into anxiously Googling “things to talk about on a first date,” had backfired. When a bed of dark, wavy hair and deep cedar eyes peeks over the rail at me, I’m in love.

“Hi, there,” he says, and in this moment, he is Sherlock, down to the wool tweed coat and troubled gaze that my trauma-obsessed mind is drawn to. This is what I text my best friend J while he goes up to replenish us. He orders a triple espresso, just a hint of milk. It’s six in the evening.

Later, inside his Somerville apartment as we wait for our homemade paneer to chill, he’ll drop the knowledge that sometimes, just for fun, he wears a nicotine patch. “Though I’ve never smoked,” he’ll say matter-of-factly, as though this is the alarming part. When he checks on the paneer, chilling in its clothbound nest, I’ll find a half-empty bottle of uppers while pretending to use the bathroom.

Here, inside the Nero, he tells me about his job as a professor, a word that holds as much sexual tension as it does authority. I cling to the fantasy, fever texting J from the toilets. When he asks me if I like rock climbing, I say yes. I don’t share that the last time I went was five years ago, and it was because there was promise of a sandwich afterwards. I want to appear adventurous, not hungry. I also say yes when he asks if I like hot pot, though I’ve never had it. On our third date, he invites me back to his apartment. I’m not ready for what this implies but I am ready to forget the last time I was in this situation, to regain control over my own body, and so, I again say yes.

“She’s never around,” he tells me of his fifty-year old roommate. “So it’s like living alone but for $600/month.” And I am twenty-eight and enamored with his hair so, I take this for what it is.

The next morning, he’ll hold me in his lap after a night that satisfied no one and ask, “Do you think if we all donated fifty dollars, we could save BoJack Horseman?” He’s rubbing my back while I stare out a three-panel window, fixated on the neighbors and their tan dog.

“Probably not,” I say, and then, because this is a stupid conversation, I climb on top of him, and let him fumble around under my shirt until eventually he says something insensitive or I ask too much of him, and eventually, I start to cry. I don’t even pretend to be embarrassed, as one should be after three dates and one cataclysmic cry, but instead I just sob about things that have nothing to do with him until he holds my hand and very gently, like a negotiator to their hostage, tells me we can’t ever see each other again.

It takes three tries to get me to leave.

It will be months before I realize what happened, the trauma that followed me unwittingly into that date and every date after. It’s probably better that way. Someone with hair like that can really break a girl’s heart.

A decade later, I’ll try to look him up while procrastinating on some all-too-important project. Despite my patchwork attempt to make sense of the little I know — likes hot pot, has a large collection of bitters, made a brilliant paneer masala—I will be unable to locate him. My best friend will ask what I’m doing and I’ll say, not completely untruthfully, “Research.”

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And I don’t know if it’s me and my curmudgeonly outlook, but the last few months have felt weird here. I think a lot of people have felt the same overall sadness that I have as a result of the (very terrifying) political climate here in the US. Though I will say, waking up yesterday morning to the news of Wisconsin maintaining their Liberal majority, despite Musk’s $25 million spend, felt like hope. For the first time, in a long time, it felt like maybe, just maybe things could get better.

Which brings me to the protests. I’ve been toying with attending these April 5th protests but am, for the first time, genuinely scared to? I live in a pretty blue state, and even still, I find myself worrying horrible thoughts. Will someone show up with a gun? Will someone bomb us? Will I get hurt? Will I be safe? Will my mom be safe?

I’ve attended protests before and never felt this kind of hesitation. It’s awful.

On the flip side, so much of what I see on Substack these days feels artificial. I don’t know if it’s that I’ve dropped off reading as much because life has felt so chaotic, but I crave a strong mix of joy and reality in my reading and I feel like that’s missing. There are panicked posts, and there are joyful posts, and there is no in-between.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I love lists like this by that give me new playlists, recipes, and things to look forward to. Reading lists and joy lists and happiness lists are an essential part of my Substack experience. We need more of that. I need more of that. But I also feel like we, collectively, are scraping away from the edges of reality, and what I’m really hungry for, is something deeper.

It’s why I’ve always followed writers like or . Maybe I just need more people like that to follow. Hello, is that you? Can we be friends?

Please don’t misunderstand. I don’t want to be sad. Not really. It’s just, I want to feel what you’re feeling, the good, bad, and especially the messy. I want to sink my teeth into the complexities of this time we are living through and feel like there’s someone else out there feeling it all. Political yes, but also relationships and career and being thirty-something when you still feel twenty-seven. I want to feel like I’m reading your diary, like we’re cozied up by the fire, swapping secrets over hot chocolates, like you can trust me with anything. Like we’re in this together. Celebrating the wins while staying rooted in reality.

Is that weird? Is that wrong?

And so, in the least smooth transition, I’m offering my own update; all the ways I’ve been pouring into my creativity.

Writing: Not here of course. Whoops. But I’ve been working on novel edits, a slow but rewarding process that most days has me excited to dive in. It goes like this: spend two weeks feeling like I’m positively CLEVER, followed by ten days of being sure I’m the worst writer alive. Rinse, repeat. I’m on a schedule of editing at least two hours a day and trying to set goals like “get through (arbitrary percentage) of book by end of week.”

These goals aren’t easy, but they are helping me to resist editing the same sentence until it’s Frankensteined into something much worse than when I started.

Photography: Back in November, I picked up my camera after decades of leaving my interest in photography to lie dormant. I started with street photography, but before long I found a style of couples photography that really resonated. Cinematic maybe. Documentary style. I like to call it photos that feel like they’re ripped from your favorite rom-com.

And in true fashion, I’ve decided that no, this cannot be a hobby, it must be a second career. I’ve talked about wanting a life filled creativity and this fits perfectly into that notion. Earning income from a myriad of activities I love—my work in PR, my writing, my photography—sounds thrilling.

So , I've been tackling this one head-on, emailing every Boston-based photographer I can find who does wedding photography and asking to shadow them. I have my first wedding shoot next weekend with someone whose work I really admire, and I am beyond excited to have the opportunity to learn and even get some wedding photos for my portfolio!

So, uh, hey, if you’re in Boston and you want to do this, I’m super cheap right now and would love to work together!

Reading: Currently, I’m flipping between three books. My audiobook (One Day in December by Josie Silver), my physical book (Better Left Unsent by Lia Louise which is turning out to be a potentially really good comp for my novel) and a friend’s manuscript (an incredible Women’s Fiction novel that I can not wait for you all to read). It’s reminded me how much I love editing and has sparked dreams of one day working in publishing alongside my author career. As an agent perhaps? Editor? Publicist? Who knows! But I say author career because I’m doing my very best to look at this as a Very Real Thing that is Definitely Going to Happen.

What’s up next:

Who knows? Just kidding, I basically always know because I’m Type A. Some things I’m looking forward to:

• This wedding shoot coming up

• A TFP shoot I have planned for this weekend if the rain holds off + a paid shoot (would be my first!!) tentatively scheduled for mid-April.

• Start reading The Blue Sisters by Coco Mellors. I’ve had this on my TBR for a really long time and avoided it because, quite frankly, I’m worried I don’t have the capacity for any more heaviness. But a friend has just recommended it, so I’m going to give it a go. I know the writing is beautiful, and I’m hoping that’s enough to keep me from wanting to cry 24/7.

• Possibly learning Photoshop now that I have a decent handle on Lightroom.

• Trying my dad’s old film camera as a way to stop myself from spending more money on another hobby I don’t have time for. But come on. Film is gorgeous. How can I not?

• Getting to the halfway mark in my book’s edits. This week is supposed to be the week. Maybe I will incentivize myself with champagne if I can actually do it.

I hope you’re having a good week. Thanks for being patient with me as I navigate all of this. <3

This is a recent post I made to Threads. While most of the responses were kind and filled with patience and understanding for a young photographer learning her craft, there was a lot of gatekeeping. Gatekeeping, which I recognized, as I myself have unintentionally done this kind of oblique complaining in my own industry. On the one hand, I understand the bitterness. It’s frustrating to dedicate decades to your craft only to have someone come in, guns blazing and still full of passion, asking questions and sharing subpar works with the confidence of a NatGeo photographer. I do get it. But the thing is, I’m just trying to be part of a community. The thing is, we’re all here for the same reason.

So this is a short post to remind you that your work is your own, and you’re under no obligation to share it just because it exists. Likewise, if you want to publish your writing riddled with spelling errors because you just couldn’t wait to get it out or share your half-baked creative concoction of any sort, you should do it. You’re not here to impress anyone. This is your work. Yours.

And, if like me, you’re finding all the noise of socials and the pressure of performing exhausting, step back. I think about when I first started my PR company, my writing journey, or my photography, and how each time I kept it all locked away until I was sure I felt proud enough to share it. I had to be ready, and ready didn’t have a timeline. It was simply a feeling, and the speed and severity at which I felt it varied.

But the important thing is, I didn’t feel the need to tell everyone what I was doing at every second of my day/life/existence, and I didn’t ask their permission.

I created because it was fun.

I revised because it was playful.

I shared because I felt joy over what I’d made.

And sometimes, I wish we could go back to the days of Instagram and their eleven filters, of food photos on the grid and what are Stories anyway? I wish it was Photobucket for life and Facebook albums filled with blurry nights out. We can’t. But we can remember what that felt like, and we should do everything in our power to keep it close. To remember why we create, and to break all the rules when doing so. Even if that means staying off social, or not sharing every minute detail, or keeping some bits just for yourself.

Happy creating. <3

P.s. still howling over ’s photobucket post and really wanting to do my own. The problem is, I had so many accounts and I can only remember my log in to the most boring one. And did you know they charge you $5 just to access it now?! Anyway. Stay tuned.

Monday, February 17th, 2025

• I wake up already dreading the day because today is Dermatologist Day. Also my eye is freakishly itchy. I’ve been working myself into a tizzy since I discovered a slightly irregular, itchy freckle on Thursday. Has the freckle always been there? Probably. I spent half of Friday trying to determine when this freckle appeared in case they ask. (They did not). Do you know how hard it is to find photos that clearly show the freckle pattern of your upper thigh?

• Drive into Brookline office thinking this will be A) easier than downtown Boston office and B) quick since it’s a holiday. It is not. Because I’ve forgotten to get fuel I spend 3/4 of the ride panicking, choose the worst exit for gas, get turned around, end up in the sketchy part of town and hope I don’t die.

• Ready to claw my eye out it is so itchy. Eyedrops, useless.

• Arrive at Dermatologist with three minutes to spare. Somehow go in the wrong office building. Now am late.

• Finally find my way in. Sabrina Carpenter’s “Espresso” is playing. The receptionist is grooving. It’s that one part I really like “Cuz I’m a singerrrrr”

• Probably it’s not melanoma, the doctor says. But we’ll biopsy it anyway.

• Get home, phantom freckle still itches.

• Spend rest of the afternoon in a funk trying to work. Eye still extremely itchy.

  Tuesday February 18th, 2025

• Wake up with the knowledge that today is writing day and immediately feel lighter. This is mainly because I’m not yet writing and it’s just easier to be excited about writing when I’m not doing it.

• 7:20am: Prep for my morning workout, contemplate a run, and decide it’s still too icy. Better to exercise inside than slip and die. Pretend to be upset about this, but really, I’m glad for the excuse. Listen to Pod Save America as I do cardio and weep.

• 11am: Break to have important work call. Client reschedules and I accidentally end up spending twenty minutes working on an IG post for my business. I throw a small fit because I love community, but I hate (business) social media posts.

• 4pm: Finally hit a wall of writing exhaustion. It’s been a good writing day, with two chapters fully revised and looking good.

• 7pm: Collapse onto the couch and catch up on The Traitors (S3 E4) while husband is out. Look forward to the hellish outfits Sandoval wears and wish Wells was back. Eat buffalo quesadilla for dinner.

  Wednesday February 19th, 2025

• 5:45 am. Husband wakes me up: “Hey have you seen this new app that can turn your photos into AI? Look, I’ve been making cartoon Sawyers! They keep getting his paws wrong though…”

  Me: you know we have actual photos of our pup right?

• 9am: Coffee in, workout done, quick email scan, Substack post sent and it’s a writing day again. I promise I do work, but I just had two campaigns end and I’m taking advantage of the quiet before the next start back up.

• 11:30am: Realize I’ve hit that dreaded part of edits where I no longer know where I’m going and thus, have started getting up every five minutes, complaining about being hungry, scanning emails, and generally not being productive at all. Feel guilty about wasting this time and spiral into angry eating.

• Become convinced soundtrack is problem; change to Lofi Girls LEGO building beats.

• Soundtrack was not the problem.

• 3pm: Pickleball! Lose roughly 27 games to husband but do win three and that’s a personal best!

• Decide it’s finally time to act on year-long brownie craving. Brownies are one of those things I do not, can not, will not keep in the house or else I will eat them all. At roughly 5:57pm I decide to test that theory.

• Lick a not insignificant amount of batter off a spatula. “hmmm, is it really fully mixed?”Stir stir. Lick lick.

• Look it’s not going to get any more exciting than the brownie indulgence so let’s just end it for the night here, ok?

Thursday, February 20th, 2025

• Start the day in one of those frantic sort of “I have lots to do and no idea when I’ll do it but also nothing is interesting and so I’ll just float around for a bit on the internet” moods. This leads me down the Kibbe rabbit hole. Do not recommend.

• Decide to finally act on my dream of doing more freelance book editing. I’ve been in beta groups for a while, helped one friend tweak her query letter to land her a few requests including a full, and did line edits/developmental edits on a book that currently sits on GoodReads with a 4.09 rating, so this isn’t totally out of left field. Decide to launch a Fiverr to get started, despite hearing Fiverr is dead.

• On Thursdays I take horseback riding lessons and today was a really good one. I got to canter several times around the ring + go through a set of poles at the canter, in preparation for learning to jump. It was very cool!

• Spend roughly 40 minutes packing for upcoming trip, and am v. excited to try out my new Quince suitcase and compression cubes for the first time!!

• Compression cubes are magic!!

• 6:09pm: Exhausted. You will get no more from me tonight, my energy is GONE. Time to read with a glass of lemonade an wait for it to be dinner time. Night Night.

Friday, February 21st, 2025

• The very best day of the week for Fridays are WRITING DAY!! I know what you’re thinking—Angela, hasn’t every day been writing day this week? Kind of, but on Fridays I don’t feel guilty! It’s also pizza night, get to hang out with my mom night, and two days before trip night. So this Friday is a REALLY good one.

• ALSO a good one because this morning brought me a new (repeat) client and the release of their song which has major Warped Tour 2010 vibes and I am OBSESSED.

• 2pm: Come up for air after spending about 1.5 hours writing one very bad chapter. The hardest part about revisions is realizing how much you need to change and the fact you can never unsee a better path than the one you’ve currently written.

• 4pm: Worry because doctor never called me back about biopsy. hmmm.

• 7pm: Watch Gabby Petito documentary while eating homemade pizza. Weep.

Saturday, February 22nd, 2025

• Brunch with mom and husband at one of our favorite Greek restaurants! Had an absolutely delicious French toast with baklava granola and maple whipped. AMAZING.

• Lounge around, paint nails electric blue, hang with mom. Is there anything better than a lazy Saturday bookended by food you love?

• Not much else to report here, it was a lazy day! Watched the latest Severance with our favorite take out because tomorrow is TRIP DAY!!!!

Sunday, February 23rd, 2025

• By now it’s Sunday and you’re reading this! So I’m doing a little future predicting but if I know myself I’m drinking coffee, trying to relax, and actually freaking out about somehow fitting my 9000 sweaters into my suitcases before we leave tonight for our trip to the Alps. I am SO EXCITED! Stay tuned for beautiful photos and lots and lots of fondue pictures. Hopefully a few new Substack pieces too. <3

Thanks for reading! I know this was a long one but I hope you liked this week in bullet points!

She was fifteen minutes early, I was ten minutes late.

She wore silver mixtapes as earrings, I wore black jeans I wished were skinny. They’re out of fashion now, I told her. I thought we didn’t care about those things, she said.

She ordered a caramel latte, extra whip. I told the barista to make it two.

Soymilk, she said.

Oatmilk, I corrected.

I asked her how she was, she said she was ok, but she’d been worrying about the future a lot. You’re too young to worry so much, I told her. You sound like grandpa, she smiled shyly and tucked her hair behind her ear. This is a source of pride for her; the worrying.

Are you happy? she asked, and I’m reminded that like me, she doesn’t enjoy being in the spotlight. Even if the spotlight is just a conversation with a friend. I allow her to turn the conversation over to me, not because I’m more comfortable, but because it’s what she needs.

I am, I tell her. It’s the quiet kind of happy, the kind that feels ordinary and calm. She frowns at this. One day you’ll understand, I tell her. It’s not always about chasing the lows just to feel the highs.

Are you in love? She asked. I nod and her eyes light up. With that musician?

Which one? I joke, and we laugh because musicians are the worst. I tell her that after all that, I fell in love with a musician anyway. Not that one, I said. Someone better. Someone who understands me and the unique way I interact with the world. Who makes me laugh, even when I’m furious at him. Who is silly and kind and generous. Who will pick the nacho cheese off the tinfoil just like us, and watch 90 Day Fiance, just like us. Who loves me, just as I am. Her eyes mist over at this. I know, I said, reaching for her hand. It took a long time to get here.

But are you successful? She asked. Did your blog take off? Did you start your agency? Are you working for a major record label? I smile at the memory of my music blog, all the adventures it afforded us. In a way, I tell her, our blog set the course for the rest of our life. I’m even writing a book based on some of those experiences now.

But did you do it? She urged. Are you in charge of a huge team? Has your PR agency been hired for the biggest festivals? The most sought-after bands?

Seeing her unrelenting passion sent a slow, pervasive ache throughout. My dreams have changed over time, I told her. I’ve traded band interviews for steady work and late nights chasing musicians for early mornings chasing my word count. You’ll see. But it’s all going to work out.

She frowns at this and pulls up a listing for a warehouse. It would be perfect, she said. For your writing studio, your agency. It could be the art complex we always talked about. You can do it all! See? She has so many dreams for us, I don't want to break her heart.

She brushes her bangs to the side, still framed in Manic Panic pink. I wonder if she knows how special it is that her mom sits with her to touch up the dye. Tell mom I love her, I said. And that I’m really looking forward to our roadtrip in a few years. Her eyes widen. We’re going on a roadtrip?

More roadtrips than you know. I said. And some of them will be tough. But mostly they’ll be amazing. You’ll even fall in love. With new people, new places, new friends.

Where will we go? she asked. Everywhere, I said. California, New Mexico, Montana, Arizona. You’re going to see the whole country. But the roadtrip with your mom to Red Rocks will be your favorite. Because you’ll be with your best friend, and it will all feel so easy. Savor it.

She rolls her eyes but I know she understands. We’re lucky to have a mom that loves us this much.

I better get going she said, distracted by her phone. I peered over, smiling at the name of our college best friend. In this world, we still speak every day.

You don’t talk anymore? she asked, sensing my sadness. I shake my head. It’s hard, being an adult, I tell her. You mean to keep in touch, respond to texts, do it all but…She holds my hand. She knows.

But you have mom still, she said. I have mom still, I confirm. And you’re in love? she asked. And I’m in love, I repeat.

Then it sounds like everything worked out. She stood to leave, and I reached for her hand.

One more thing, I said, don’t wait for your book to come out to tell them how you feel. Tell them now. You don’t know what it could mean to them.

She nodded and slipped her sunglasses over pale winter skin. I suspected she was trying to hide the tears that were welling up, the faces that sprang to mind. It’s the good kind of hurt, I want to tell her. But this, I knew, she had to learn on her own.

I watched her walk out the door, shoulders slightly hunched, head down, long strides. Trying so hard to hide from the world.

I love you! I shouted at the last minute.

She paused and I worried I’d scared her. She’s not used to this kind of declaration from me. I love you too, she finally said. I’ll see you around, ok? And I could tell by the way she said it, that maybe I’d disappointed her. That I wasn’t all she hoped I’d be.

So I sat there for a little while, and I sipped my latte and read my book. I scrolled my phone for hits of inspiration and reminded myself of nacho night and the quiet love of a strong partner. 90 Day Fiance and a full writing day waiting for me. I ignored my emails. I delayed responding to friends. I tried not to think too hard about the future. And I waited for the dull ache of missing her to subside.

Let me tell you about a little thing I’ve been going through called my whole career is crumbling in front of me, and yet I’m feeling more creatively alive than I have in ages.

Here’s how the story goes.

Ten years ago, I started a PR company. I didn’t know anything about niching down and most days I wish I could go back to that level of naivety. Being naive makes most things more enjoyable. Even still, I chose to work exclusively with indie musicians because that was my passion. I had the connections from five years of running a music blog, but that’s about it. Luckily, I was 25, so reason didn’t stop me from going after things I was not qualified to pursue. And you know what? It worked. A decade later, my little PR company has allowed me a life of freedom, to live in 15+ North American cities, travel on a whim, take off on a random Tuesday to get bagels, or generally do whatever I want so long as the work gets done. More than that, I’ve genuinely enjoyed the people I’ve worked with and the paths it’s taken me down.

I’ve always felt really proud of myself for building something out of nothing like that. For finding a gap in the market. For making it my own. For not waiting around for someone else to give me a chance but instead, making my own opportunities.

But now, I feel like I’ve failed.

Lately, all the work has dried up. The writing has been on the wall for a while, but with 2024 being the colossal nightmare it was, it didn’t register that this was actually it. As in, you better figure out a Plan B because you and your life’s work are now obsolete. Useless. Unwanted. Or maybe, more accurately I just didn’t want to see it for what it was. It’s not easy to admit your entire life is about to go up in flames when your life is already up in flames.

That being said.

Although life has been fully in the toilet for a while, I have never felt more creatively alive. I feel like my neurons are firing on all cylinders, like everywhere I turn, I have a new idea. Like I am the embodiment of Elizabeth Gilbert’s Big Magic. It’s as though my mind is so primed for soaking in any and all opportunities that it’s working overtime. Things I would generally scroll past are jumping out at me. Emails I’d normally delete are becoming beacons of creativity. I’m grasping at ideas like those gooey vending machine hands you throw to the wall, just to see what sticks. I thought spending hours and hours of my day looking for work would be exhausting and sure, the stress of watching my decade-and-a-half-long career fall to pieces definitely is, but also, if I can just ignore that for a moment, it’s kind of incredible watching the way my mind is hustling to fill in the gaps. My mind is a hustler. Who knew? But everywhere I turn, it’s like, “Oh well, what about this?”

Suddenly, my focus is turned up to a thousand. I’m getting more done. I still have client work, and the same responsibilities and commitments as before. And yet, somehow, it feels like my time is more my own. I’m getting more novel writing done, I’m packing in a ton of lead generation, and I’m still getting client work completed all before I wrap up and read (or ok, play Luigi’s Mansion 3) for the day. I have somehow found time I never thought I had and it’s thrilling! I mean, in many ways, it’s not because it’s due in part to not having enough work which means I’m stressed all the time, refreshing my email, and sending a thousand inquiries a day, but ALSO, it’s kind of great to feel like somehow this has put my efficiency into overdrive.

And then there’s the creativity. It’s no secret I’ve been struggling with my novel for the last few months, but lately, it feels like I’m finally back on track.I’ve been crediting this to my decision to lay off the pressure and go back to what was working, what I loved, but I think it’s also just that my brain is in its Picasso era, making beautiful art out of nonsense.

So where does this leave me?

Welp. Your guess is as good as mine. I’ve been applying to copywriting jobs like an absolute fiend, desperate but determined to turn something I love (writing) into my career while I watch the music industry slowly dissolve. It’s terrifying, having devoted my whole life to this thing that no one seems to want anymore. At the risk of sounding like a total baby, it hurts my feelings. I feel useless. Mostly, though, I’m just scared.

But I’m also emboldened because I’m finally being forced into a corner, and if there’s one thing I know about myself, it’s that I always come out swinging. I’ve been wanting to make a change for years, but business has been just ok enough to ignore what I knew was inevitable. But these last few months have forced my hand. And now I don’t have any other choice.

So I’m applying to jobs at an insane rate, and every job description gives me a new idea, a new memory, and a new unearthed depth of myself that I thought I’d forgotten. I’m not being precious about any of it. I want to give copywriting full-time a go, even though, it too has been said to be a rapidly dying field, (is this my niche??) Just when I think I’ve applied to every place out there, I see another application, and it sparks a fresh idea, something brand new to get excited over.

I am exhausted.

But I can see the potential.

And it’s good to feel alive again. Even if I do sort of wish I could just pay my bills without worrying.

But if I have to find a silver lining, it’s this. I’m motivated in ways I haven’t felt in years and while sure, I spend a lot of nights up at 3am worrying, I also sometimes wake up and have a new idea. Send what I hope is a career-changing email. I’m taking risks again. I’m allowing myself to feel excited. I’m shaking things up.

I’m coming out swinging, just like I always do. And I hope that this will be enough.

Where are my other freelancers/entrepreneurs? Please commiserate with me. You know misery loves company.

P.s. know anyone that needs any of the following? Send ‘em my way!

• Copywriting/Ghostwriting

• One off article writing (IE published essays/articles in your favorite outlets)

• Executive profiling/media training

• Publicity/Marketing

• Brand identity

• Also available for speaking gigs and workshops on the above

• Someone to test all the chocolate in the house. Kidding. Sort of.

Recently, I’ve been learning photography, stumbling through and trying to find a style. It’s honestly much better when you don’t know anything, because everything feels like an accomplishment. Every photo is a win, every edit is progress. It’s linear that way. Once you start researching and learning and god, following other people who are better than you, it’s over. You will never succeed at the comparison game.

On a whim, I responded to a photographer’s Thread.

This, it turns out, was also a mistake. I picked a handful of my favorites along with the very first shoot I did (oh how far I’ve come) and told him that I was still trying to find my style, and that I found his —desaturated, pops of color—inspiring. His response came almost immediately.

And I latched onto that first one like a passenger stranded, the lifeboat finally within reach.

Cinematic. I felt so relieved to be seen. Yes. I’m cinematic. I began brainstorming all the ways I could be that. More dramatic lighting. More contrast. More colors! I’ll have to watch more videos on how to edit in this style! I bet I can go back and change my existing photos! Now that I had found my label, I would do anything to make it stick. To make it me.

And I know how messed up this is. That this is dangerous. This is how people, and cultures, and whole societies fall. Sixteen year old me would be mortified. Didn’t I used to thrive off defying the status quo? Wouldn’t I mock people who tried so hard to fit into a box? But I’m so tired now. It feels nice to have someone define me, for once. To bypass the anxiety of figuring out who I am and where I fit into this world. To be validated.

Maybe, just once, that’s ok to admit?

P.s. For real though do you think these are cinematic? 👀

We play puzzles by day, write, and relax in claw-foot tubs. We drink champagne by the bottle and calories simply do not count as we take from the never-ending snack basket room service supplies us, countering these moments with long, meandering walks around the woods, snowshoeing or perhaps, some fat tire biking.

At night, we retreat to the fireplace for s’mores and (more) champagne, a tasting menu fit for a queen, wine pairings, and dessert I will miss long after it’s gone. We spill secrets and toast to us, to this, to our life. Share pieces of ourselves that, even after three years of marriage, are still new. We revisit well-worn topics with the kind of excitement made for first dates and we watch the other couples and make up stories about their lives. We laugh. We cheers. We love every moment.

This is Vermont.

You can see more photo essays here. Thanks for reading!

It wasn't their fault. Everyone was doing it, and to be online meant to be free. To have a computer in your room meant to be invincible. Screen time at 10 pm? Don't mind if I do. Hopping on email right after school? You bet. Of course, in those days, being online meant tying up the phone line. It's not that we had a lot of important calls coming through, just that my parents wanted the option of important calls coming through. This meant I had to strategize my chat room follies very carefully.

It meant I had to get crafty.

While my early screen names mainly consisted of people I was obsessed with (namely Catherine Zeta-Jones), I’m sure there were a few references to my birth year thrown in because it was very important the world knew how old I was. Thirty-something me cringes at the pedos that kind of recklessness might invite today, but at eleven, my biggest worry was simply fitting in. And so I went, a/s/l ing my way through chatrooms with names like CZJ Fans or Music Lovers and looking for love and friendships in all the wrong places. Mostly, I was just looking for girlfriends; my school friends weren’t that interested in me, and truthfully, I wasn’t that interested in them.

What I wanted were fantasy friends. Girls who were cooler than me because they lived on the West Coast and spent sun-soaked days reading White Fang under palm trees. Tan, glistening versions of myself who had the benefit of being born under the glow of Hollywood. Boys who might pine after me because I was from Boston. Well, New Hampshire but what’s a little fibbing among friends? I wasn’t picky. I’d let anyone pay attention to me.

It was around this time I started developing an imaginary best friend. I know, it’s embarrassing. Eleven is way too old to have an imaginary friend. But I was also very obsessed with ghosts. My parents like to tell the story of how, when they bought the house I grew up in at six years old, the thing I was most excited about was that it sat between two cemeteries. This is true. I was a creepy kid.

So when I say I had an imaginary friend named Adam, a blonde little boy with bright blue eyes, what I really mean is that I was a very lonely kid who liked ghosts and was obsessed with Greatest American Hero and those things culminated into believing I had a friend only I could see. A ghost friend.

It all sounds so sad now. But when you’re growing up in the suburbs, all you have is escapism. Ghosts, AIM, imaginary friends, it didn’t really matter. What mattered was that you never felt alone.

What mattered, was that you never had to face who you really were.

So, this was a problem. In this way, my parents were probably relieved when I started spending so much time online because at least they knew I was talking to real people. But this only bred a new kind of obsession. When I entered chat rooms, it's not that I was creating a fake identity, it's that I felt like I finally got to be myself. At school, I was painfully shy; I only stood out so far as to be made fun of. There was the incident at camp involving my crush. The locker incident. The having-rocks-thrown-at-me incident. Being online meant finally getting to be myself and being loved for it.

This feeling of being able to create friendships with people I didn't know was exhilarating and, on reflection, probably where I learned to internalize and glorify nostalgia. Where I learned that withholding —answering emails, AIM messages, requests for A/S/L—was power. A way to hold onto that power for just a little bit longer before volleying it back to the other side. It’s probably why I stopped engaging in the present and instead learned to live in the past. When Gatsby said “Can't repeat the past? Why, of course you can.” I felt that. Because I do it every hour of every day, over and over, until the pain of reality slowly fades away.

I hope you enjoyed! I’d love to know your own experiences in the comments. If you’re comfortable, maybe your AIM screen name?

What do you do?

For the last decade, I’ve been a music publicist. If it sounds like I’m making this my whole personality, I am. Sometimes, I’ve wanted this, but mostly it’s what the industry demands. You are nothing if you’re not all of it. At least, from a consumer standpoint. To my friends, family, clients, and prospective clients, I have to be The PR Girl all the time. The moment I start throwing in personal videos or blogs that aren’t related to this, the world gets confused. They want my commentary on the industry, my free how-to guides, my endless (free) advice. When I deviate from this, my identity shifts. My business suffers.

This has never been more evident than over the last few years. As I’ve stepped back from making it my all-consuming personality, I’ve watched clients fall off. At twenty-two, I was happy to be fully invested, posting about it nonstop, working for $500 up to eighty hours a week. Even at 29, I was content to slide into a comfortable 60 hours a week, lose thousands of dollars on conferences, and give away my knowledge for free because that’s just what you do. I was still enjoying it, and I was still getting something out of it.

But I’m not in my twenties anymore. I’m not even in my early thirties. (ouch) I’m thirty-six, and something in me has broken.

***

If I think about it, all of this started a few years ago. It would be easy to blame it on the pandemic but the truth is I was falling out of favor with my industry before then. I never quite fit in with my peers because being in the industry was something they’d wanted their whole lives. It wasn’t like that for me. Music was the vessel through which I shared my passion, but it wasn’t my passion.

I’ve told the story a million times, but the short version is I started a music blog on a whim after falling in love with a local band. I was so struck by their performance that I felt compelled to talk to them. Being that I couldn’t think of a less creepy way to do this, I started a blog and asked them for an interview. It was 2009, and music blogs were not as ubiquitous as they are today. And so, it worked. One interview led to thousands of interviews, including with household names. I built relationships with major labels, and management companies, and throughout my blog’s ten-year run, I interviewed legends like the Dead Kennedys, the Goo Goo Dolls, and Yellowcard. I got to meet personal favorites like Anberlin, Frank Turner, HIM, and Mayday Parade. Not to mention so many indie bands that were just as deserving of the spotlight but would never see it. I loved it. And you know why? It wasn’t the music. It was the stories. The conversations. The community of it all.

When I got laid off from one of my only 9-5 jobs, I saw it as my sign to strike out on my own. I took a handful of freelance gigs from Craigslist, leaned into my music blog, and eventually thought, why not start a PR company? At the time, music PR companies were cropping up here and there but the market wasn’t flooded. I had the experience from being a journalist and I had the connections. How hard could it be?

It turns out, not that hard. At least, not to a twenty-something with the freedom and ambition to make it on her own. I thrived in building my business. I don’t mean to make light of this—building a business is hard work. But doing so in your twenties when you have hardly any financial or societal obligations and building it any other time in life are two very different things. Within a few months, I could pay my rent. More than that, my work felt like it mattered. I don’t want to downplay this part, because even today, that’s the driving force. Does the work matter? Getting these bands the placements I did made a difference. It moved the needle for them, and for me. I saw progress.

But then, the industry changed. Again and again, and again, until I could no longer keep up, or maybe, more accurately, no longer wanted to. Like any relationship, we started to want different things. While I still felt so rooted in the community, the industry was moving towards something faster, flashier, more urgent than I had interest in. Short form videos, TikTok, virality. Pay-Attention-To-Me-Now media. It wasn’t for me, but now, it’s all my clients wanted. They didn’t want to take the slow path, and I couldn’t blame them. Musicians were blowing up with a 15-second clips on TikTok, getting discovered on YouTube, getting on huge Spotify playlists and hitting 100k streams overnight. It didn’t matter that I knew those things weren’t sustainable, that they didn’t lead to a real fanbase, much less a long term career—my clients and would-be clients saw the flash and the promise of vanity metrics, and they couldn’t help but run towards it. They just wanted all their hard work to pay off. They wanted to be seen. I couldn’t blame them for that.

It just wasn’t anything I could offer.

***

I tried to pivot. So many times I’ve tried to pivot my business into what the industry wants. Adapt or die. I believe in that. I get it. I don’t even blame the industry for changing it’s just, I don’t know how to keep up and stay who I am. Each time was fleeting. I often joke that I sit in the middle of everything and this has plagued my career as well. In everything I’ve done, be it athletics, writing, or starting a business, I’ve always sat somewhere in the middle. Never good enough to succeed, never quite bad enough to quit. I make enough to pay my bills, sort of, but I can’t ever save for that vacation. Distant uncles and friends on Facebook are impressed, but the top-tier clients aren’t interested in hiring me. I’m impressive, if you don’t know enough to understand why I’m really not.

I’m in the middle, always.

***

And so once again, this is where I’ve found myself. But this time, I’m not sure there’s any fixing it. The industry has changed so much over the last few years and I honestly don’t know where my place is. It terrifies me. To have dedicated my entire adult life to something that no longer loves me back, if it ever really did. I’m not cut out for short form videos and quick wins. I’m the slow and steady type. I can get you press, and I can build relationships, and I can work with you on a long-term strategy, but no one wants to implement these things themselves they just want it done for them and now. They want quick fixes at cheap prices. They want Amazon level results from small businesses and soloprenuers. I can’t offer that. I’m not sure I even want to offer that.

I feel untethered.

So, what’s a girl to do who has dedicated 15+ years to a career that no longer has a place for her?

I honestly don’t know. I’ve been asking myself this question for years. Starting over at thirty six doesn’t feel as exciting as it did in my twenties. It feels daunting, and for the first time in my life, I truly understand the lost cost fallacy because I’ve spent the last three years living in it. I am clinging onto something I once believed in so much because, once upon a time, it worked. It made me happy. It made other people happy. Now, it feels like a ghost of itself. And even still, I don’t want to let it go. Yet, I don’t know how to reinvent myself in a way that feels authentic, and let’s not forget that dirty word, profitable. So, I’m stuck.

***

I have a few ideas for 2025. I’ve always been a big believer in multiple revenue streams, and over the years, I’ve abandoned that. There was a time when I earned income not only from my business directly but also through guest blogs, teaching online or weeknight courses, and other small gigs. Each only a few hundred dollars here and there, but they added up—and more than that, they keep me creatively fulfilled by tapping into different needs. As industries changed (guest blogs became obsolete with the pandemic, and teaching stopped when I moved away from the area) I’ve dropped those side gigs. But maybe it’s time to start looking into them all again. Keeping my business going for those who still value my slower, more strategic approach but also looking to fill my income gaps in other ways, like I once did. Maybe, for now, it can just be part of me and not all of me. Maybe that would be ok?

***

I’ve been getting into photography a lot more and even plan to set up a Flytographer account by the end of January. I have a few friends I’ll do test shoots with and then I’ll start charging for services. This is how I started my PR business and I think it’ll work for this too. I’ve also been toying with the idea of a few evergreen things like e-books or PDFs, and maybe even leaning into the content creator angle, if only for fun. I have zero interest in being glued to my social media, but I have to admit something is appealing about the community of it. It always comes back to that doesn’t it?

Anyway, I don’t have any inspiring message to end on. But I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Have you ever changed course? How did you know it was the right decision? Did it feel like giving up, or did it lead to something even better?

Let’s share stories. Your experience might help someone at their own crossroads. (that someone is me, but maybe someone else too).

When I started writing my book waaaaay back in Nov 2022 (oh god how has it been two years?!) I thought, you know, probably I should start reading again. And so I did. A notoriously finicky reader it took me a long time to get back into it. I can be fairly intolerable about what books I give my time to, and while I’d never publish my DNF list because I’m not a monster, it’s pretty long. I firmly believe that writers who read absorb everything and thus, what goes in eventually comes out on your pages. Because of that, I try to be very careful about what I read while actively working on my novel.

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So, with that, 2023 saw my book count creep up, and helped me find some of my all time favorites. I had a modest goal of 20 books and hit 17. Not bad for a girl who spent a decade not reading.

2024 In Review

Which brings us to 2024 and my now loftier goal. 30 books. I'm going to spoil it for you right now—I didn't make it.

Thirty books was ambitious for me. I try to read for about an hour four days a week, but of course, life gets in the way. This year, quite honestly, sucked. It was horrible in nearly every way and it definitely depleted my creativity along with most of my relaxation time, and my reading suffered. I tried to make up for it by adding audiobooks into my routine and reading on vacation, but it wasn't enough. I was still five shy of my goal. That said, I did read eight more books than last year, and more importantly, I absorbed and loved nearly every one of them. (Thanks to my stringent DNF policy.)

It’s hard to choose a favorite, but you may recognize some from my Substack over the last year, including a few that ended up on these roundups. Most of what I read were four-star reads for me, but among those that have long stayed with me in my every day are The Rachel Incident by Caroline O'Donoghue, (absolutely amazing), NSFW by , Yellowface by R.F. Kuang (Loved this one on audiobook) and Margo’s Got Money Troubles by Rufi Thorpe (also loved on audiobook). The Husbands by Holly Gramazio is also a delightful audiobook. And I’d be remiss not to mention The Ballerinas by Rachel Kapelke-Dale, which I found beautiful and captivating.

As far as weirdest read of the year, that one definitely goes to Bunny by Mona Awad, which inspired a whole Substack.

I had to stop myself because I’d have just kept going and going with all of my favorites—there were really very few misses this year! Now for the big question: will I aim for thirty next year? Maybe! Or maybe I’ll just stick to twenty-five so I can feel really good when I exceed it. That might be the move.

Ten Women’s Fiction Must-Reads

Making the list this year, are as follows, in no particular order. These are some of my all time favorites and deserve a place on your TBR.

Rachel Incident by Caroline O'Donoghue

NSFW by Isabel Kaplan

Yellowface by R.F. Kuang (audiobook—better than written I think)

Margo’s Got Money Troubles by Rufi Thorpe (audiobook—better than written I think)

The Husbands by Holly Gramazio (audiobook)

The Ballerinas by Rachel Kapelke-Dale

Girls and Their Horses by Eliza Jane Brazier (audiobook)

Dear Emmie Blue by Lia Louis (audiobook)

Ghosts by Dolly Alderton (audiobook)

None of This is True by Lisa Jewell

Bonus: The Idea of You by Robinne Lee (this is NOT romance)

What was on your list this year? Do you have any recommendations now that you know what I read? I am forever looking for new books so please, feel free to send them my way!

There is little else more important than finding a boyfriend. It’s not unreasonable to think you’ll meet Mr Big at fifteen or sixteen, certainly by seventeen. If you’ve gotten further than that without finding him, then you may be alone forever, relegated to the role of “Cool Aunt.” At least you can put that cotton candy pink hair, and cartilage piercing to use. At least someone will think you’re cool for having seen Detroit Rock City no less than a dozen times.

Speaking of Mr Big, this is the ideal. You know that you’re a Charlotte at heart, captivated by the career of a Carrie, but wanting to be a writer doesn’t make you Carrie and the fact you ended up as a publicist doesn’t make you Samantha. You are way too much of a prude to be Samantha and you will never run up the stairs in a pearl thong. I’m sorry, it’s not going to happen. Let’s just not mention Miranda because you don’t know this yet, but she really went off the rails in the reboot and it’s better to preserve her memory. (RIP)

You’ll know a boy really likes you when he fights for you. This can be physical or emotional, it doesn’t really matter. So long as he’s in some kind of anguish over you, that’s love. When a boy throws a punch, crosses the country, stands on his desk to declare his love to you a la Seth Cohen, you will know he’s The One.

Life is for the taking if only you can stop being so anxious and actually live your life. At fifteen this means blasting Green Day’s American Idiot and running away to the playground down the street. It means having a sad sulk on the swings and imagining your life in angsty black and white. Your trauma is a film. You are the only person to ever feel this pain, the side character no one gets. This moment right here, is the most interesting thing to ever happen, an indie film waiting to be made. It is Skins on steroids. No one understands you, and boys don’t return your texts, and even your friends like their boyfriends more than you. You can’t blame them. If you had a boyfriend, you would like him more too.

It’s sad that you’re attracted to the nice guys as much as the not-so-nice ones because, really, they’re all the same. Bad boys masquerading as good guys, pimple-faced and too many hormones, still somehow going through life emboldened by the sheer fact they they exist. They’ll make you feel responsible for their feelings, and you’ll always do everything wrong. To win the approval of a boy is to win at life.

You'll want to get married young, but not too young, maybe twenty-three or no later than twenty-five. You will end up married at twenty-one to the exact kind of nice guy described above. It will last two months. You will not miss him when he leaves. The apartment will feel fuller, your days will feel shorter, and there won’t be enough time to do all the things you now feel so empowered to do. You will relish the independence. You will mourn your past self. But you’re not there yet.

Right now, you are fifteen and in love for the first time. He’s sweet, and funny, and the perfect first boyfriend. The Dean to your Rory. He’ll teach you what a boyfriend should be. He will respect you. Call you when he says he will. Take you on dates. For the duration of your five-month relationship, he will be in love with someone else. This is just what it is to be a girl.

I hope you enjoyed this! I’m going to be doing a bunch of these, nods to Dolly Alderton’s essays in ‘Everything I’ve Know About Love’, taking her topics as inspiration and infusing my own experiences. I first came across Alderton through the audiobook of ‘Ghosts.’ It hit that sweet spot of Women’s Fiction with a touch of romance which is perhaps my favorite genre. Didn’t we used to call that Chick Lit?

Anyway, think of this as that time Julia Powell cooked everything from Julia Childs’ cookbook and blogged about it. My hope is by actively reading this book + having a topic set for me each time I sit down, I can bypass the angsty what do I write about phase and just…write.

Next time we talk about AIM—can you hear the screeching dial up already?