The essay ahead is a tough one, I could not finish it the way I intended. It is about the death of my cat Jiji. It’s not fun, it is not silly, and it certainly is not whimsical - so don’t feel pressured to read it. It’s honestly more for me than it is for any of you.

The start of this year was a heavy one. Still, by March, things were finally evening out. It all felt manageable. Until Jiji started breathing irregularly in early April. Even now, three months later, I had to pause after writing that sentence - knowing that no matter how badly I wish it and will it, I cannot change what happened next. I cannot write her back into being beside me right now.

The day her breathing changed quickly snowballed into a nightmare that I have finally accepted as my reality. A trip to the urgent vet turned into a trip to an emergency vet hospital where Jiji stayed overnight. The next day, a stranger delivered the news over the phone: Jiji had late stage congestive heart failure, a result of severe Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy that could have been going on undetected for years. I wrote as much as I could down on a napkin, my tears smudging the ink just like I had seen in the movies. It all seemed so final. Her heart was failing. Fluid was in her lungs. She had a blood clot already, a sign that she would likely develop more.

When I went to pick her up, I spoke to the cardiologist who had seen her. Suddenly, all of the horrible news I had received earlier, didn’t sound as bad. Yes, she was one of the more advanced stages they had seen, but at the same time, the cat cardiologist thought with the right medications, she could manage it for maybe 3 months, maybe 6, maybe a year. All she had to do was take 3 medications (two twice a day, so 5 pills total), and then see in two weeks if her kidneys could handle the meds. If they could handle it, we could add another pill! Or she could get another blood clot and die an incredibly painful death at any second. Or she could be fine for a while and live a comfortable life! Or she could have a heart attack! Or I could have hundreds of more snuggles with her! Or, or, or… None of those “ors” mattered the minute I heard her meow as they finally brought my darling to me at the front desk. Even the $4,000 bill didn’t phase me. Because, in that moment, I still had my Jiji, and she still had me.

For those who hadn’t met her, Jiji was fiercely independent. I adopted her three years ago from Richmond Animal League - a group that partners with local shelters to take in animals that may be less likely to be adopted. I cannot imagine how Jiji ended up in their shelter, considering she was the most perfect cat in the whole world. She was a black cat (although sometimes in the brightest sun, patches of her fur revealed themselves as a deep, velvety brown), older (initially she was thought to be 16 years old, but her dental records put her at closer to 10), and blind. The complete package. I saw one picture of her online and knew she was meant to be with me.

I will never forget the day I came home to find her sitting peacefully on top of my bed. It was only about a week after I adopted her. She couldn’t see and had been brought a new home, with new smells, and new people. Still, she managed to figure out where the bed was and how to get on it. I watched in awe as she jumped off it, somehow gracefully landing, meandering over to me to say hello. I would spend the next three years continuing to be amazed by her.

I didn’t realize until she was gone how much her presence calmed me. I have a disorder where my mind tries to turn every small thing into a matter of life and death - OCD thrives on my body not being able to regulate itself. Being around Jiji, I often had no choice but to stay calm. She slept so peacefully, I couldn’t thrash around my bed when my brain played tricks on me about what was hidden in shadows. She only wanted to be pet slowly and thoughtfully, so I had to stay present when she snuggled up beside me. And, on the rare occasion when she climbed into my lap or on top of my back as I laid down, I stayed as still as I could, hoping to linger in that moment as long as possible.

On days I was unusually anxious, she could tell. She would grow stressed, walking around restlessly, eating less, peeing more - the whole nine yards. It forced me to take moments to calm down and recenter myself, in hopes of calming her down as well. I didn’t realize until she was gone how much of my deliberate quiet time revolved around her.

When we got home from the animal hospital, I gave Jiji her 5 medications and ordered hundreds of dollars worth of special food, medicine, and cameras (to set up while I was at work so I could monitor her constantly). The shortened version is that I spent that week not sleeping, not going into work, barely eating, throwing up what I did choke down, and worrying every second of every day. It was the worst week of my life - my past OCD episodes were serene lakes compared to unrelenting waves of pain, confusion, and grief constantly threatening to pull me under. Five days later, I had lost 10 pounds and couldn’t leave my apartment without panicking about what would happen while I was gone. I realized I couldn’t live like this and neither could Jiji. The only slight comfort throughout that week was the fact that Jiji was still there - finding a small sun spot, eating her favorite treats, and letting Jack sing her silly songs (step-dad of the year award right there).

Eventually, after a discussion with her long-standing vet and many, many friends, I made the impossible decision to put Jiji down. The decision making process destroyed me and the euthanasia was traumatizing to witness and hold responsibility for. I stayed with her the entire time - telling her how loved she was and how lucky I was to share time and space with her.

In the days after, my thoughts grew incredibly dark. I could understand them for what they were for the most part (reaction to grief and trauma), but it was scary and isolating. I still feel guilty and question my choice some days. I doubt I will ever be sure if it was the “right” choice. I am sure that I loved Jiji more than anyone else ever could have, and I sincerely hope that she felt that. Through it all, I had my friends and family and partner beside me. Taking care of me when I could not take care of myself. I also knew that my body and heart would protect me and that the intensity of the pain would not last forever - that over time, it would fade. Never gone, but not as all-consuming as it once was. In moments that felt unbearable, I remembered this. Remembered that my body, my mind, my heart are resilient. Remembered that, above all, they will protect me.

I want to be clear that I am not writing about this for sympathy or to make people feel sad, I am writing because I have to write about her, and her death and the grief I’ve felt. I don’t even need a single person to read this - I just need to get put it into words. It is uncomfortable and hard and difficult. But it is also necessary to be able to talk freely and openly about death. It’s a topic that has terrified me for years, but I have had no choice but to tackle head on in the past few months. Just last week, over three months after her death, I attended a pet grief group in my community. I sobbed in front of strangers (in a way, what I am metaphorically doing now too) as I continue to process the impact Jiji had on me.

I also am writing this so as many people as possible can know about how special Jiji was. In just three years, she changed my life forever. After I lost my childhood cat Allen, I never thought I would bond as strongly with another animal again. Jiji proved me so wrong. Our relationship was different, but grounded me in the same ways. It is the most sacred feeling to know that another creature has put the trust of their life into your hands. It is a responsibility and a privilege. It was truly an honor that Jiji trusted me to keep her safe. I hope she knows I did the best I could do.

With Love,

From Cece

P.S. Thank you dearly to Rebecca who organized a fundraiser in honor of Jiji for my birthday this year. It is so special to have friends who understand how special she was.

I have so many conflicting thoughts about you. There has been so much love and so much loss. I don’t know how to balance the two together. I’m reminded deeply of a poem by Rumi my dear friend Alice (bonjour sweet Alice!) shared with me. I’d like to start this year’s letter with that poem.

The Guest House
by Jalaluddin Rumi

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
They may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

I have experienced a cacophony of conflicting emotions this year - intermingling with one another, knocking on the door concurrently, needing to be welcomed in on the same day. The best I can do is try to summarize some of those coexisting emotions and hope my guest house can contain them all.

Immense Hopelessness paired with Overwhelming Awe and Gratitude - My ability to hold onto hope was challenged in the face of the unrelenting cruelty and violence enacted at a federal level. Federal agents ripping families apart, literally, often in front of young children. Dehumanizing as many as possible with the goal to break people. However, I remain truly amazed and inspired by the community members I’ve met this year who want to support families in any way they can - through legal guidance, financial help, and emotional support. I am so grateful to have met so many caring people in my community.

Anger and Despair paired with Appreciation and Excitement of New Connections - The lack of compassion from so many people and the eagerness with which people want to watch others fall (sometimes directly pushing them down) has been disheartening to say the least. Ego and hate seem to be qualities we uplift in leaders these days, and many are quick to follow suit. However, for all those hurtful, evil comments and news articles I see online, I’m met daily with kindness from friends and strangers alike in my community. I am grateful for the moments of a shared smile on the bus, the blossoming of a new friendship, and the warmth of a hug from someone I love.

Hard Goodbyes paired with Fond Memories - This year, my family said goodbye to our beloved dog Stella, who had been with us for the past 13 years, Her death was bittersweet, as I never wanted to say goodbye, but her declining health was clearly taking its toll. I took comfort in watching her eat a last meal of a bacon cheeseburger and cup of whipped cream. Stella taught me a lot about patience and tenacity - she’s the only pet I’ve had whose love I had to earn, and I felt very honored to have been loved by her for so many years. And, I felt so lucky to spend the holidays surrounded by my family, reminiscing on all our wonderful years with our sweet girl.

Deep Grief paired with Deep Love - Just days before the end of the year, an unexpected and senseless loss shook my city. I am still processing the loss of a beloved and multifaceted mentor, whose life was tragically ended while he was crossing his favorite street in Richmond. This is a death that I will be processing for a while - I don’t have many gathered thoughts about it yet - aside from the fact that I cannot believe the outpouring of support and love my city has shown for him, his legacy, and all of us who worked alongside him. Strangers, acquaintances, friends, and family have been reaching out, and checking in.

Overall, 2025 has been a year of unmeasurable loss, brutality, and hatred. The people of Palestine continue to be denied necessary aid, leading to suffering that is unimaginable for those of us who know where our next sip of water or bite of food will come from. Families throughout the United States are being torn apart - with people missing for days, later appearing in facilities states away (or sometimes countries away) with horrific conditions and no ability to give their spouse or children a hug goodbye. Transgender folks being further vilified and attacked by the government all for wanting the basic human right to be themselves. All of these injustices go on, while the actual criminals, sex offenders, and assailants continue to manipulate and further divide our communities.

With all of this ongoing, 2025 has also been a year of recovery, love, and growth in my own life. My OCD has turned into something manageable, and I’m no longer losing hours of my day to relentless intrusive thoughts. I’m leaving my apartment regularly, and I’ve had experiences that would have seemed impossible a year ago. I (re)met a wonderful person who allows me to be my truest self, and my love and respect for them and our relationship continues to grow. I also connected with people who are working to make my community a safer, better place for everyone. And I’m working in a job that only a few years ago felt unreachable.

Although you may not realize it from my lack of posts, I’ve also kept up with my writing this year - taking more classes, meeting amazing writers who are also wonderful people, and even submitting to a couple of literary magazines (check back in in 6-12 months).

While I can only hope that 2026 will trend positively, I’m not naive to the realities of the cruelty of the world. I am, however, also not naive to the unrelenting working being done to resist this cruelty, and as such, I remain hopeful.

Each year, instead of a resolution, I try to pick a word to guide the year ahead (thanks Leah). My word for 2026 is Analog, which sounds much nicer than my original idea of “neo-luddite” (thanks Lily). What’s your word?

As Always, With Love,

From Cece.

Keep reading below for a round up of some favorites from 2025!

Best Reads (in the order I read them):

1. The Art Thief - Michael Finkel

2. Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, reread

3. The Westing Game - Ellen Raskin

4. The Midwich Cuckoos - John Wyndham (favorite of the year)

5. The Housemaid - Frida McFadden

6. Dracula - Bram Stoker, reread

Songs I enjoyed this year (in no particular order)

1. Man of the Year- Lorde

2. Train - Sylvan Esso

3. On & On - Manatree

4. Metal - The Beths

5. Forever is a Feeling - Lucy Dacus

6. WHERE IS MY HUSBAND - Raye

7. First it was a movie, then it was a book - Florry (fave artist)

8. The Loneliest Time - Carly Rae Jepsen

9. Lover Girl - Laufey

10. Past in Present - Feist

It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I apologize for the silence - an apology directed both to you and to myself. When I break from writing, I forget what it feels like to transform the untamed mess of my mind into something tangible. Right now, I am cutting through thick layers of kudzu that have climbed, coiled, and rooted their way into my thoughts and words. So, please bear with me if my writing is a bit rough around the edges today. (The answer is yes, I did have to look up if it was “bare” or “bear.”)

Before I get too far into the rest of my letter today (which will mostly be personal reflections, and it does get a bit sappy), I want to highlight the work of the Richmond Community Legal Fund here in my hometown. This org is working to support families impacted by ICE kidnappings, as well as a myriad of other legal issues people are facing as a result of the federal attacks on people’s lives and civil liberties. I highly encourage getting involved in local ICE watches, immigrant support networks, and any type of organization working to uplift people in YOUR community. There is work to be done by those of us who are not in constant fear of ourselves or someone we love being taken with no warning and with no goodbye. I cannot imagine what that feels like, and I am thinking often of Toni Morrison’s quote: “the function of freedom is to free somebody else.” And I suggest you keep that in mind too.

Sometimes working to enact change can feel both insurmountable and futile, and I can’t help but wonder if Sisyphus would find any peace in the fact that his eternal torture is so relatable to so many. (Carrie Bradshaw thought: I had to wonder - if Mr. Big was Sisyphus, was I waiting at the top of the hill? Or worse - was I the boulder?) Of course, feelings of futility and hopelessness are what those in control want us to feel, so we must continue to resist (and rest when needed). We are not Sisyphus!

You may be a bit confused by the out-of-place Carrie Bradshaw quote (although if you’re familiar with Carrie’s writing style, you probably understand the “I couldn’t help but wonder” reference). However, the rest of this letter will be veering into Carrie’s topic of choice (relationships). So, if you’re not interested in the whimsical nature of my heart, I understand! Now’s your chance to tap out, no questions asked. But, if you would like to read about my musings on finding love, I invite you to continue along.

I am forever amazed by the resilience of the heart - as dramatic as it sounds (and trust me, I know how it sounds), I genuinely thought I would never be in love again. A bad relationship, an even worse break up, and deep-rooted fear of people (at its worst, my OCD made even brushing against a stranger feel like life or death) led to a period of isolation in my life where I slowly accepted that I would never so much as hold hands with someone new again. (Spoiler: I did indeed hold hands with someone new…ish again.)

However, with time, therapy, and medication (shout out sertraline!), I began a slow and steady healing process that brought me out of my solitary mindset. Which was a huge relief because anyone who knows me well, knows that I am a hopeless romantic. I constantly watch and read rom-coms, I daydream freely and often, and I never take the immense awe of falling in love for granted. So when my heart took a break from its status quo of yearning, I felt extremely separated from my sense of self. Luckily now, the yearning continues (that happens to be the name of one of my favorite playlists I’ve made).

To open up your heart is an act of courage that is often overlooked. There is no guarantee for reciprocity, kindness, or even acknowledgment. And, as many before me have noted, if someone opens their heart back up to you, you now carry the omnipresent, looming threat of losing love. (Although, can love really be lost? Perhaps a topic for another day but hopefully you get the point.) To me, that has always been well worth the risk. And thank goodness for that because (if you haven’t caught on yet) I am, indeed, in love. And I do, indeed, want to tell everyone about it (which in this case, is you).

Imagine this: Ten years after graduating high school, you match on tinder with the cool (former) upperclassman who was the lead singer and guitarist in a band (aka they were cool). It’s a rare instance where the conversation is actually interesting and easy, so when they ask you out, you say yes (duh!). Before your first date, you almost vomit because you suddenly feel 15 again and are terrified of embarrassing yourself in front of your high school crush (to be fair, you had many high school crushes). But, you know it will be fun (hopefully), so off you go on a unseasonably warm March evening to sit and talk with an almost stranger (who you feel much closer to than you probably should).

On that first date, you definitely don’t mention that you still regularly listen to one of their songs. And certainly, you don’t bring up the fact that you once told your best friend you wished they would ask you to prom. Instead, you spend the evening realizing that your idea of who they were in high school, which is your only understanding of them up to this point, was wrong (… because duh…) and that this isn’t some case of mutual adolescent pining realized in adulthood.

Instead, it is a very normal, fun, and enjoyable first date. So, you go on a second date (which in some ways feels like another first date, since you have now let go of who you thought this person was, and instead are learning who they really are). And you very quickly realize that they are far more wonderful than you could have ever imagined. The dates continue, months filled with laughter and music and silliness pass, and after what feels like both forever and no time at all, you look into the warmest, bluest eyes and mumble “I love you.” To which they reply, “what?” Not because they are thrown off or confused or worried or upset, but because they truly could not hear you. So, you lift your face up and say it again. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

I am very lucky because I don’t have to imagine this. I get to live in this sweet, sappy love story every day, and I do not take the beauty and awe of being able to love freely in this moment lightly. I am so grateful for my silly putty heart for shifting and smushing and sticking back together to make more room everyday for all who I love, including (of course) you all taking the time to read this. If you ever want to share your thoughts on love, I’d love to listen :)

As Always, With (LOTS of) Love,

From Cece

P.S. To my darling JJM: I love you, you’ll always be famous in my mind ;)

Song of the Sub: Friday I’m in Love by The Cure

My decision to crawl into bed before 10pm on a Friday is in part due to my decision to implement what blogger Karlee Flores named “Gentle January.” Gentle January is a pushback against the idea that January should be a time for steadfast resolutions and militant self-discipline. Instead of trying to hold yourself to new standards with the start of a new year, give yourself time to recover from the last one. If my past year was a mountain that I spent months climbing, why, now that I’ve reached the top, would I sprint off to the next climb? Shouldn’t I stay and enjoy the view for a bit?

Clearly, based on the fact that I am sending this post at the end of February, I have been quite liberal with the application of gentle “January,” expanding the concept to last much longer than one month. However, the constant reminder to be gentle with myself and with those around me has helped to ground me in a way that I intend to carry with me throughout the year.

Recently, my day to day life has felt increasingly Sisyphean (I’m so glad to be writing that word instead of trying to pronounce it). It seems that with each task completed, another immediately appears on the horizon, with no real end in sight. I spend hours and hours pushing a rock up a hill in an effort to create time for myself, just to be immediately crushed by the suffocating weight of having free time and the guilt that accompanies not using it efficiently (perhaps that concept is a focus for another day…). There will always be more friends to see, clothes to clean, community work to do, songs to sing, drawers to organize, books to read, and substacks to write. However, being gentle allows me to take a break at the top of the hill. Nothing will stop the rock from sliding back down the hill and, on some days, crushing me (metaphorically of course). But, taking time to be content with what I have accomplished has allowed me to feel grateful for the ways in which I take care of myself.

I’m going to be extra gentle with myself in this moment by deciding that what I’ve written so far is enough for now… How are you staying gentle with yourself these days?

As Always, With Love,
From Cece

P.S. GO BIRDS!

When the ball dropped a year ago, I was sitting in my apartment with Emma (my very chill and cool roommate), thinking about the year ahead. I expected, and hoped, that 2024 would be a year of stillness, since 2023 had been a pretty intense year in terms of pushing me outside my comfort zone. (You can read last year’s recap here.) Instead, it was filled with chaos, tears, laughter, unrelenting fear, and, thankfully, more love than I sometimes knew what to do with.

The year started out with promise. I had just returned home from an incredible month-long visit to Seoul to see my best friend Rebecca - a once in a lifetime trip for me. I left a job that drained me in all the worst ways. I finally felt the relief of healing heart. I was ready for something new.

And something new found me! In March, I received an offer for a full time job in education at a local history museum. When I turned 26 in May, I thought I was on the verge of the best year of my life. I spent 25 learning about myself and the life I wanted to lead. So, 26 felt like the year I would actually start living that life.

However, my darling, dearest brain synapses had a different plan for me, and I steadily spiraled deeper and deeper into what I would soon understand was OCD. The thoughts were just whispers at first, but by July, I was in the most difficult time period of my adult life. As it so often goes, from the outside, everything looked fine. I went to work, spent time with friends both old and new, played in my four square league, went on dates, took a writing class, and even traveled internationally.

From the inside, it felt like my brain was constantly on fire, and no matter what I tried, nothing could put the fire out. Everything I came in contact with - door handles, people, streets, clothes, bathrooms, animals, anything - was a threat to my brain. I spent most of my days (unsuccessfully) trying to convince myself that basic tasks were not going to cause harm to me or people around me. Or that I hadn’t done something truly horrible and forgotten about it. Or that the food I was eating wasn’t a carrier for some disease. Or that spots and bumps on my body were not from unseen poisonous creatures or signs of cancers. Or, or, or… I think you probably get the point. Every day ended in exhaustion, and truly I could not imagine a single day without these thoughts burning up my brain.

(If you want to know more about some of what I was experiencing, check out this post.)

I am beyond relieved to share, after months of targeted ERP therapy and medication management, I do go days without my brain feeling like it is on fire. I can do things I could not even dream of doing this summer - shop at thrift stores again, hug my dogs, kiss my cat, and even eat peanut M&Ms from a 20-lb tub (if you know, you know). I definitely still have moments, sometimes even days or weeks, where the fire burns without stop, but I know it won’t last forever.

In the midst of this chaos, my friends and my family supported me without fail. My parents let me (and Jiji of course) stay with them for a couple of weeks when things were truly unbearable. They read articles and watched movies and listened to me cry to understand my brain as best they could. My brother checked in on me from states away - always managing to make me laugh even on the worst of days. My friends, (some of whom I had known for years, some of whom I had known for weeks) listened to me without judgement and made me realize I did not need to live like this. I even found out a couple of my newer friends also had OCD, and I’m grateful to them for speaking about their experiences to help me feel less isolated. I can never say thank you enough to all the people who showed me love and compassion this year.

After a year of turbulence, my 2024 came to a close with enough smiles and happiness to make up for the days that lacked it this summer. Some of my dearest friends visited me in Richmond (which I consider to be the greatest city in the world). My best friend Sunita came down for Christmas with her equally wonderful partner in tow, I reconnected with friends I hadn’t seen in years, I spent New Year’s Eve (one of my least favorite holidays) surrounded by the best friends a gal could ask for (yes I have multiple best friends, it’s impossible not to when you know the people I know), and I started 2025 in the most iconic way possible: running into a friend while looking for a parking spot at 1am, which had to be fate because I immediately found a spot afterwards.

To all of my family and my friends who are reading this now: thank you for the love, support, and compassion you have shown me this past year. I have always felt so lucky to be surrounded by such beautiful, loving people in my life. The only things that could drag me out of my spirals were a shared smile over coffee, a phone call, an inside joke, or a cheeky little voice memo from someone who I knew cared about me. I know I can get through anything with you all by my side!

Each year, in a tradition with my friends Leah & Rebecca, instead of setting resolutions, I pick a word to guide me through the year. My word for 2024 was “creative.” I took creative writing classes, wrote a song, and tried to be craftier. In a way, my brain did get very creative in the scenarios it tried to convinced me were real.

My word for 2025 is “intentional.” I want to be intentional in how I spend my time and my energy. I want to be intentional in my words and choices. I want to be intentional in giving myself space to breathe and grow.

Perhaps the stormed has passed or perhaps I’m just in the eye of it, with more to come in years ahead. Either way, I don’t have any expectations for 2025 - all I know is I am excited for the future and that is enough!

As Always, With Love,

From Cece

Keep reading below for a round up of some favorites from 2024 and a final note!

Best Reads (in the order I read them):

1. Wuthering Heights - Emily Brontë

2. The Flatshare - Beth O’Leary

3. Hijab Butch Blues - Lamya H.

4. This Time Next Year - Sophie Cousens

5. Bullet Train - Kōtarō Isaka

6. Yellowface - R.F. Kuang

7. Turtles All the Way Down - John Green

Songs I enjoyed this year (in no particular order)

1. Never Need Me - Rachel Chinouriri

2. Right Back to It - Waxahatchee, MJ Lenderman

3. Brakhage- Stereolab

4. Sweet Tooth - Maya Hawke

5. APT. - ROSE, Bruno Mars

6. God of Everything Else - Porridge Radio

7. Talking to Yourself - Carly Rae Jepsen

8. Good Luck Babe - Chappell Roan (duh!!!)

9. Peg - Steely Dan

10. Diet Pepsi - Addison Rae

…

One final note: I am wanting to become more serious about my writing this year, by taking more classes, perhaps submitting pieces for publication, etc. I was considering opening up paid subscriptions via Substack, but I really don’t like their platform and have heard it can be difficult for smaller publications. So, instead, I’m going to start including links to my PayPal and Venmo at the end of my newsletters. If you decide to support me in this way, please know that I will be investing this money into my writing by taking classes, covering submission fees, and perhaps buying the occasional coffee to kick start my brain… That being said, there is ZERO pressure to financially support my writing, just having people read my words is so beyond special to me! Wishing you all the best in the year ahead :)

Find my Venmo here

Find my PayPal here

This past spring, I was diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD). While the diagnosis is recent, I have been experiencing OCD symptoms for almost a decade without having a name for it. Since getting diagnosed, I have been learning a lot about the disorder. Notably, I’ve learned that it takes most people over a decade to get a proper diagnosis and begin treatment for OCD because it is so misunderstood.

As a pre-teen and teenager, my main exposure to OCD was Emma Pillsbury on Glee - a very clean, orderly person who experiences extreme discomfort when things are not exactly in the right spot. For a long time, this is what I thought OCD looked like.

While this is a type of OCD people struggle with, sometimes called “just right” OCD, it is not reflective of all types of OCD, and definitely is not reflective of mine. I don’t have a spot for everything (ask any of my past roommates, I lose my keys and wallet multiple times a week), and I certainly do not organize my wardrobe or desk in any particular manner. I do share some of her cleaning tendencies (not including wiping off individual grapes, mainly because I don’t like grapes), but overall, I don’t see myself represented in her character.

If you’re new to the world of OCD, or don’t quite understand it, here’s how I explain it to the people in my life. Everyday, we have thousands of thoughts, many uncontrollable or out of left field. Sometimes a thought can be “intrusive,” meaning it’s distressing, weird, uncomfortable, disturbing, or unexpected in some way. Everyone has thoughts like these! They are completely normal. Most people can shrug them off and continue on their way. I cannot. These thoughts amplify in my head until I am unable to think of anything else, and then I must complete rituals, or compulsions, to calm myself down from a perceived threat my brain has convinced me is real. The compulsions can be physical (washing my hands or changing my shoes) or mental (replaying a memory to check if I did something wrong). Someone once described OCD as having a fire alarm that perceives all air (thoughts) as smoke (serious threats) - constantly sounding off warning bells in my mind.

I’ll give you an example from my actual life. (If you have OCD, maybe skip this part! This example specifically revolves around blood contamination. I don’t want to give anyone any ideas of new things to ruminate on.) The other night my sweet cat Jiji scratched me when we were playing. I have been scratched by many, many cats in my day, including by Jiji before, and often handle it just fine. However, this night, I was having a particularly hard time managing my obsessive thoughts. Jiji’s scratch broke my skin, so I was lightly bleeding. I immediately went to the nearest sink, which was in the kitchen, to clean my cut with soap and water - a very normal response. As I was drying my hands and going to get a bandaid, the thought that maybe some blood had dripped off my hand before I reached the sink entered my mind. I didn’t remember seeing anything dripping, and my cut was very minor, but I began to question my memory. From there, the spiral began: Maybe I was bleeding more but I forgot? Maybe I rubbed my finger all over our paper towels or the counter before I washed it? If my blood was on the couch or counter, what if someone came over and came into contact with it? Would they get sick? They probably would get sick because I was careless. It would be my fault. I would have put someone I care about in danger. I cause harm to people around me. I am a dangerous person to be around. I should not be around anyone.

This is a combination of Contamination OCD and False Memory OCD - which is incredibly scary, as it causes me to question my own memory and perception of a situation. I couldn’t stop thinking about the cut - and so, I began performing compulsions to alleviate my distress. I washed the cut multiple times and put on bandaids until I was absolutely sure it was completely covered. Then, I checked all the paper towels, stared at the chair where Jiji had scratched me for 10 minutes searching for any blood spots (there were none), and cleaned the entire kitchen sink and counter with disinfectant spray and wipes. In my mind, my house was contaminated, so I didn’t invite any friends over for a full 24 hours. I left my house during this time, but no one else came inside. Perhaps the most frustrating aspect of my OCD is that I recognize I am acting in a way that does not align with reality. The truth is, these threats feel SO real to me that it truly doesn’t matter if I realize I’m not being rational. I have to carry out my compulsions or else I am terrified something horrible and irreversible will happen.

Unfortunately, moments like this are pretty common in my day-to-day life as I work on management of my symptoms. In talking to my friends about it, I’ve come to find out that many people’s perception of OCD has been shaped not by Glee, but rather by Monk! Growing up, we were big Tony Shalhoub fans in my house (we still are! Tony if you’re reading this - Hi!). Despite having watched a lot of Monk as a child, I was too young to pick up on Monk’s mannerisms or to remember him having OCD. I also recently found out that one of Monk’s creators, David Hoberman, struggled with OCD himself. So, last Friday, at 12:30am, I put on “Mr. Monk and the Candidate,” the very first episode of the series, and settled in. Before I get too far into this, let me say: there are lots of opinions out there on the portrayal of OCD in media, including in Monk, so please note - this is just my take! Someone else’s experience could be very different.

The show opens with Monk at an active murder investigation, using his acute detective skills to piece together a gruesome crime. Almost immediately, Monk gets distracted by the thought that perhaps he left his stove on. (Remember, intrusive thoughts are normal! Many people have thoughts like this and are able to recognize, “I probably didn’t leave anything on. It’s okay.”) Monk, on the other hand, cannot shake this thought. He keeps coming back to it (ruminating), and asking Sharona, his practical nurse, for reassurance (which is a common compulsion and one I know all too well), in the midst of a crime scene. Within the first minute of the show, I was already noticing striking similarities and differences between me and Mr. Monk.

For starters, as my earlier story gave away, blood triggers fear and obsessive thinking for me. This doesn’t seem to be the case for Monk. Even being in the same room as someone who has an active cut can send me into a spiral, so I doubt I would be functioning in an active crime scene. But ruminating on a possible left-on appliance? Now that’s something I have struggled with for years. Back in 2019, I once had to take the subway home from school — approximately an hour round trip — because I was so nervous I had left the sink on by accident. (It was off.) OCD thrives on uncertainty, so anything that is not 100% certain (which is, of course, most things), can lead to a spiral. Monk’s common compulsion of using his sleeves or a wet wipe to clean a surface before he touches it or to clean his hands after he touches a surface is something I do quite often. I sanitize and wash my hands frequently, a habit picked up in 2020 that has worsened recently.

One of the relationships I keep getting stuck on is between Monk and his nurse, Sharona. Let me be clear: I love Sharona. She is an amazing character, full of humor and joy, and Bitty Schram, the actress who plays her, is remarkable. However, from my understanding of OCD, a lot of her actions could be harmful to Monk’s recovery. She constantly provides him reassurance and plays into his compulsions, like always handing him sanitizing wipes immediately after he shakes a hand. Research shows that the more you give into compulsions, the worse your OCD will get because it legitimizes those silly (which can feel very scary), no-good intrusive thoughts! OCD treatment is focused on exposing yourself to the things that scare you and accepting the uncertainty - primarily through a type of therapy called Exposure Response Prevention (ERP). At the same time, Sharona does pull him out of ruminations and force him into some exposures. So, like most things, it’s not all one way or the other. I’m not sure though how much of the show, if any, will focus on Monk’s recovery. But, if it does take that route, I hope to see a push towards accepting uncertainty instead of playing into compulsions.

Despite not seeing a full representation of myself in Monk, there was one moment in the first episode, where I realized that I understood Monk and (suspending the fact that he is a character in a tv show and not a real person) Monk understood me:

Sharona: You're going straight to hell.

Monk: I am in hell.

This quote recognizes that OCD is not a superpower, despite it sometimes being talked about like one by others in the show. It is a cruel disorder that often makes people, myself included, feel trapped in their own personal hell that no one else can see, hear, or understand.

OCD does not mean my room is clean, my shirts are ironed, my fridge is neatly arranged based on food group. OCD does not turn my life into a color-coded, well-organized binder. OCD turns my life into a nightmare. It turns things like walking to work, going to dinner with a friend, holding hands with a crush, things that used to make me so happy - into impossibly difficult tasks that can take me hours to calm down from. Some days, it’s hard to imagine a life where I don’t feel like I do right now. However, I remain radically optimistic that I will get better, because I refuse to accept the alternative.

It’s nice to know I have an ally in Mr. Monk in the meantime.

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This is a bit of a different type of essay than I’ve done before - so let me know your take! Did you like it? Did you not like it? Do you want to know more about my experience as a 26 year old with OCD watching Monk in full for the first time? Are you already sick of OCD content? I’m truly open to all thoughts and opinions.

My dear friends, thank you (yes, you!) for taking the time to read my thoughts. I’m so grateful for the love and support in my life, it’s made this process manageable, and you all are a part of that!

As Always,
From Cece, With Love

P.S. Song of the sub is My Sharona by the Knacks, dedicated to my roommate Emma who is MY Sharona (but in a much healthier way than on the show) <3

In the most true-to-self fashion, I am a bit delayed in writing my homage to you. Despite being a relatively timely and put-together person, I have never managed to curb my inclination towards procrastination. Maybe it is one of my immutable traits, or perhaps I have yet to find the right approach to change it. Regardless, I wanted to spend some time reflecting on all the experiences you brought me over the course of the past year, share some of your unexpected joys, and say thank you and farewell.

You welcomed me with discomfort and an immediate push outside of my comfort zone, which, at the time, were two of my least favorite feelings. However, as you continued, it became clear that discomfort would be a winding thread throughout our time together. Slowly, I started to accept the ways in which you unsettled me, instead of ignoring them. In doing so, I embraced your pushes and pulls and began taking risks I have never felt comfortable taking in the past. After all, what’s a bit more discomfort during an already unsettling time? I shaved my head, adopted a cat, traveled to countries literally on the other side of the world, spent a lot of time alone, had difficult conversations about the unending violence in Gaza and why I support a ceasefire and Palestinian’s right to life (if you’d like to talk about this with me, feel free to reach out), and even started publishing some writings (hi readers! Thank you so much for caring about the things I have to say). I have never been a particularly bold, outspoken, or brave person, so while these things may seem like second nature to some, they took a level of courage from me that I had to work to uncover. And I am grateful to you, 2023, for forcing me to find that courage.

For all that you required from me, you also gave back to me with beautiful friendships (both old and new), lively concerts, charming conversations, exciting adventures, and wonderful time with those I cherish most. I visited my best friend for a month in Seoul and got to reconnect with a friend I hadn’t seen in years in Taipei. I read over 35 books, discovered lots of new (to me) music, and cried at the season finale of the campiest show of all time, Riverdale. And yes, for those of you wondering, I have watched it weekly for years. Sometimes it really is the little things that keep you going, like wondering just how far the writers of Riverdale are willing to take the bit each week. See the P.P.S. for a list of some of my favorites if you’re interested!

So, thank you 2023 for the chance you gave me to work towards becoming the person I’ve always wanted to be. I welcome 2024 with open arms and an open heart.

From Cece, With Love <3

P.S. As you may have noticed, I’m taking a different approach this year to my substack. I’ve always loved letter writing, so I wanted to see if this approach will encourage me to write a bit more!

P.P.S. See some of my favorites of the year below. I’d love to hear about some of your favorites of 2023 or something unexpected you did! Comment and let me know :)

Best Reads (in the order I read them):

1. Ninth House - Leigh Bardugo

2. Love, Pamela - Pamela Anderson

3. Lone Women - Victor LaValle

4. Piranesi - Susanna Clarke

5. The Idiot - Elif Batuman

6. Pageboy - Elliot Page

7. Dracula - Bram Stoker (read via the draculadaily substack, which I highly recommend!)

8. Heartstopper - Alice Oseman

Songs I enjoyed this year (in no particular order)

1. Lover, You Should’ve Come Over - Jeff Buckley

2. HOT TO GO! - Chappell Roan

3. Not Strong Enough - boygenius

4. Kodachrome - Paul Simon

5. 324 - Trap Rabbit (solo by my brother on this track!)

6. PARAD(w/m)E - Sylvan Esso

7. Only a Fool Would Say That - Steely Dan

8. Promise - Laufey

9. Changing of the Seasons - Two Door Cinema Club

10. Wawa by the Ocean - Mary Lattimore

11. Anything But Me - MUNA

12. Faith Healer - Julien Baker

13. Cut Your Hair - Pavement

14. High School Gym - Dougie Poole

15. I Fall In Love Too Easily - Chet Baker

Favorite Watches (also in no real order)

1. Bottoms (film)

2. Ugly Betty (TV)

3. elle literacy (YouTube)

4. Past Lives (film)

5. Riverdale, season finale (TV)

6. Pieces of April (film)

7. Empire Records (film)

At the time, it was a pretty low blow. But I got over it pretty quickly when I realized that getting cut meant I could hang out with my friends after school, playing Rock Band and walking to Kroger to buy Ben and Jerry’s (phish food, in case you were wondering). My mom, however, is still not over it and likes to tell me how I could have been a track star if I had the chance… I’m not so sure about that one, but I appreciate her confidence in me.

While my morale quickly recovered, I remained wary of school sports throughout middle and high school. To be fair, my high school track team did accept anyone, which is something I really admired about that program (clearly, not enough to actually join, but still). By that time, though, the athlete ship had sailed, and I was set on spending my time after school involved in the drama program. Be honest, could you tell I was a high school theater kid? (just kidding, no need to answer that… please). Anyways, all to say that running has never been my strong suit.

In college and post college, I had a few brief trysts with running. I’d get really excited about the idea of running, do it for about a week or two, then just as quickly as I started, I would stop. My longest stint was during the summer of 2020, which I’m sure is the same time many others start picking up new hobbies. But even then, I was running because I felt like everyone around me had started to do it, not out of a personal desire.

So, when I decided to sign up for a 5k last month, four weeks before the event date, I knew I would need to set goals and stick with them. I’m the first to admit, I have issues with accountability for personal goals, especially if they relate to hobbies, as opposed to career. This is something I’m actively trying to change in terms of my thought process — I struggle to give hobbies (and aspirational hobbies) the proper dedication and follow through, because they rarely have structures by which I can measure my progress. If anyone has ideas on how to take steps to change that mindset - I am all ears!! Logically, I know that progress does not have to be “measured” or “graded,” but it hasn’t quite clicked internally for me yet.

By having the 5k to work towards, I built in a way to hold myself accountable. Both in that it gave me a set timeline, and during the actual race, I had other runners to help pace and support me. It helped that I had a friend cheering me along all throughout my training. My dear friend Deb is training for a marathon (!!! she is amazing) and seemed to know exactly what to say to help me stay motivated and enthused! I am forever grateful for her daily texts and “Kudos.”

When I first started “rehearsing” (my term for training leading up to the 5k), I was immediately struck by how quiet my mind was when I ran. Call it a byproduct of anxiety, an overactive mind, etc., but I am used to waking up and immediately being serenaded by a cacophony of thoughts and noise in my head. So, imagine my surprise when on my first run, the symphony subsided. Between breathing correctly (my whole life, I have been very prone to side splits), not tripping (I run without my glasses, so curbs sometimes sneak up on me), and bopping to some high energy tunes (thank you Charli XCX), my internal dialogues didn’t stand a chance. Even when I did start to feel a twinge of worry or anxiety, it was just about being able to reach my goal of hitting the next mile. When I run, I shed the immense weight of my fears, stressors, and heartaches. Only for a bit, but that is enough for me.

While I had been jokingly calling my runs “rehearsal,” I was surprised at how nervous I was on the day of the race. I truly had a feeling of stage fright settle in me the whole day. Once I started running, it subsided, but I had the worst side splits of any of my runs, and they started before I finished even the first mile. Side splits couldn’t stop me though, and I finished my 5K, with my dear friends Sophia, Emma, and Kyle cheering me on at the finish line. Sophia even made me some signs!

Ideally, I’d like to work up to longer runs. I don’t think my knees, blisters, or ankles are quite ready for that commitment yet, but I’m working towards it! And, truthfully, I’m really excited about the possibility of lengthening my runs. For now, I’ll appreciate my shorter runs.

Now, I know I’ve gone on and on about running, but please do not think my goal is to write about how everyone needs to start running and it will change everyone’s life. Because I know that’s not true. In fact, I can already tell running for me is a vastly different energy release than it is for some of my friends. I’m more going for the age-old moral of you probably won’t start to really enjoy something until you do it for yourself. So, get out there and do something just for you! And in the meantime, feel free to add me on Strava (I actually don’t know my username… sorry), follow me on instagram, and subscribe to the substack if you haven’t yet :)

Another thing about me, I am not particularly good at dancing. To my credit, I can keep a beat. It’s just that I’m not all that graceful about it.

Given that I didn’t pursue a career in ballet, my lack of poise on a dance floor hasn’t impacted me all that seriously. Still, I tend to find myself with an air of awareness of my own body that I’d prefer to shed whenever I’m dancing in public (which, despite what the last sentence may imply, I try to do as often as I can). It doesn’t discourage me from dancing when I have the chance, it just pulls me out of what is otherwise one of my favorite things to do.

It’s fairly easy for me to get in my head about this sort of thing or any sort of thing (if you read my last substack, you may have picked up on that). But that’s why I started this - to hopefully write away some of my discomfort with myself and to document what clicks for me! And this week what clicked was, you guessed it, square dancing.

~

• history break below! (lots of links to external articles incoming if you’re interested)

  As a historian, I feel like I must note that, much like many staples of American Culture, square dancing has a deep and complex history that is often oversimplified. Predominantly in media, square dancing is portrayed as happening in rural, white communities. As Erin Blakemore writes in their article The Slave Roots of Square Dancing, “What’s the whitest form of dance? You would be forgiven for answering ‘square dancing.’”

  

  While I don’t have the time to do a full research project on square dancing’s history, I can tell you, like in many other instances, the media gets it wrong. Black Americans played a huge role in the development and evolution of square dancing. Indigenous and Native Americans also were hugely influential in both the musical and dance styles of square dancing. Often times, enslaved men were forced to call or musically accompany dances hosted by the white families who owned them. In the 1950s, Jesse Cosby, a Black man from Jefferson County, AL who lived in Waterloo, IA was one of the most well-known square dance callers in the Midwest.  

  

  If your childhood was like mine, you may have learned about square dancing in elementary or middle school gym class. Why would that be? Well, it’s because there was a movement to teach square dancing in public schools in the early 1900s, in part pushed forward by Henry Ford. As in, Henry Ford the inventor and outspoken antisemite. Ford was a supporter of the KKK and published a series of articles called “The International Jew: The World's Problem.” (Both things that textbooks from my youth failed to mention...) Some argue that Ford’s racism is what fueled his obsession with square dancing and white-washed country music. Supposedly, he had a distaste for jazz music and dancing. I haven’t done enough research to make any claims of my own, but it’s compelling to say the least. My inclination is that these folks are on to something and this “revival” of sorts in the early 1900s is what led many people in America, as Blakemore pointed out earlier, see square dancing as the whitest form of dance around.

(history break ending, back to Saturday night!)

~

For months now, my roommate/friend Emma has been alluding to this square dance group some of her friends attend. We’ve talked aspirationally about going, but it was only this past Saturday that we decided to finally lace up our boots and throw on our hats and mosey on down to the town square. (read: put on jean shorts and cowboy boots and drive to a nearby church basement)

As we made our descent into the basement, I marveled at the seven-piece band setting up on the small stage at the front of the room. I had already been pretty stoked by the idea of this whole night, but I hadn’t even considered the possibility of a live band. We scurried on it and sat down in the seats lining the walls. Perhaps one of the most interesting aspects of this event is that it is BYOB, which is how I found myself sitting down in a church basement, PBR in hand, buzzing with energy and eyeing all of the incredibly cute outfits around the room (it was nice to be somewhere where people really committed to a theme).

This particular night was for first-time callers - the people that lead or “call” the dance. Knowing that there were other people trying something new there made me more at ease with my own new-ness in the space. Any remaining unease was cast away starting with the first dance. From that point on, I was absolutely in love with the night.

The room was filled with people who genuinely wanted to be there and genuinely wanted to dance. There wasn’t pressure of who would be the best dancer in the room or who knew the most steps or who tripped the least. It was just people laughing and hollering and dancing around! Each dance also had instructions, which for someone who always likes to have a plan, was amazing. Still, there was room for silliness and individuality and moments of surprise and shock!

We were encouraged (ordered really) to switch partners and dance with someone outside of the group we came with and plenty of people came solo. I learned to box the gnat, right and left grand, and promenade. I made some new friends and reconnected with some old familiar faces (it’s pretty impossible to go anywhere in Richmond without running into someone you vaguely know). And! I got to listen to live bluegrass music worthy of a Folk Fest stage. My favorite comment was when one of my partners remarked that it felt like we were in Pride & Prejudice, and while the outfits and music may have been vastly different, I couldn’t help but imagine myself at a ball of sorts for the rest of the night. All in all, a pretty incredible evening.

It wasn’t until I sat down to write about this night that I realized I hadn’t felt any of the self-awareness that usually accompanies dancing at bars or parties or events. I hadn’t been worried that I looked weird or like I was trying too hard (at what, I can never quite say). I really just enjoyed myself. Emma and I convinced a couple of our friends to join us as well, and we all unanimously agreed at the end of the night: we cannot wait for the next dance!

In Richmond and want to come? Follow @rvasquaredance on Instagram!

And me too if you want @cece.tries!!

Song of the sub: You! Me! Dancing! By Los Campesinos

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I have always, always, been fascinated with the power that hair has in completely transforming someone’s look. In my tweendom, I would stay up late watching YouTube videos on my iPod Touch of people cutting their own hair or bleaching it at home (often disastrously). Tired of watching others live out my hair dreams, I begged my mom to let me dye my hair red (inspired by Charlie McDonnell, a YouTuber who oddly enough just dyed her hair red again for the first time in over a decade). My astute skills of persuasion must have kicked in, because the night before my last day of middle school, I found myself on my bathroom floor, with my head flipped upside-down in the tub rinsing out my newly dyed “red” hair (really it was more of a copper, but I took what I could get at the time).

The next day, I walked into school absolutely beaming at my splotchy, tie-dyed red hair. Truthfully, hardly anyone noticed any difference, as all I really did was add a slight red hue to my hair. Still, for me it was the coolest way I could have ended eighth grade.

Last year, I finally got the chance to live out my 2012-dream of having firetruck red hair — or for RVA folks, “Bus Only” Lane red hair! It was beautiful and colorful and bright, but for some reason, whenever I saw my reflection, I didn’t quite feel like me. Very notably, I did not do this dye job, my incredibly talented friend Ryanne helped me out, and I am forever grateful to them for bringing my silly little wish to fruition.

Even with all the different colors I’ve had in my hair, I remained curious about the other ways in which I could radically change my appearance. Cue the thought of shaving my head entering my mind…

Even before I understood beauty standards, I knew that the act of shaving your head as a femme-presenting person held significance somehow. When I was growing up, if a woman had a shaved head, there was an assumption by the media surrounding me that she had to keep it short due to a medical condition or that she was going through a mental breakdown (leave Britney alone!). So, when I started to find videos of women shaving their heads simply because they wanted to during my YouTube deep dives, I became increasingly interested in the idea of shaving my head. (side note: obviously women and femme folks have been shaving their heads because of their own desire since forever, it just was not a narrative I was used to seeing based on my media consumption!)

Throughout high school, I had urges on and off to shave my head. However, I (like many teenagers) struggled with insecurity about my appearance, and I felt like I was not strong enough (™ boygenius) to shave my head, especially without a “logical” reason.

A decade later, as a woman in my mid-20s, I discovered that wanting to shave my head for over 10 years still didn’t feel like a good enough reason to do it. If someone asked me why I shaved my head, I wanted a “rational” answer to give them. I didn’t want to give people the space to make assumptions about my identity (namely my sexuality and my gender). Joke’s on me, of course, because people make assumptions about everyone, every day, all the time. I don’t even mean this in an overtly cynical way – it’s just how most people are wired.

It’s silly to think I could have any sort of control over other’s minds, but damn did I do a good job convincing myself I could. I decided to raise money for an amazing organization (the ASK Cancer Foundation) and committed to shaving my head if I raised a certain amount. That way I’d have a reason, and nobody could call me less feminine or tell me it was a bad decision. So, once I hit my fundraising goal, I walked over to my sweet friend Mae, and we shaved my head. if you pause the video at certain times, you’re in for some pretty silly hairstyles :)

As I write this now, I’m cringing at my bizarre need to rationalize my decision past “I just wanted to do it.” So, thank you for indulging me on this journey of self reflection on appearance. After all, hair is just dead skin cells, right? Well, the multi-billion-dollar salon and hair care industries would imply otherwise. In our society, your hair can say a lot – about your style, your status, and, as an extension, you. Really, all I can hope that my hair has said about me the past couple of months is: “wow, she must have wanted to shave her head!”

While I wish I had separated my fundraiser from the big chop, I can’t say I regret raising the money and maybe giving people incentive to donate (I know I’m not the only person watching those hair dyeing/cutting/shaving YouTube videos). It also helped me to hold myself accountable to my own goal! Whatever the reason ended up being, I’m glad I shaved my head - not because it gave me any life-altering clarity about my image of myself - but because I wanted to do it for a long time. Side note: the most jarring experience of it all was not seeing my reflection, but rather my shadow! Even with all my bright hair colors, my shadow remained unchanged until now…

song of the sub: Cut Your Hair by Pavement (because what else would it be…)

Follow the spotify playlist here and follow my journey on instagram here

posts coming soon!

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