Shorts are just shorts, until we give them meaning. And I’m guilty of being sentimental. “Gifts” are not exactly my love language, but quality time and physical touch are, along with thoughtfulness, but that’s not exactly one of the five.

Don’t get me wrong, receiving a nice gift is… nice. Sure. But sleeping with someone, in their clothes, that smell like them, feels like them. Their clothes being torn off in the morning and thrown to the side of the bed.

The soft whisper as you’re about to leave for the day, “keep it, it looks better on you.”

Well. Fuck. They are now my favorite pair of shorts.

So, if shorts, or whatever else from a past lover, has that much meaning, is it wrong to keep? Or, is it wrong to throw away?

New men that I might date never see the keepsakes from the ones who came before them, and maybe that’s why it feels okay to hold onto these tangible memories for now. Little do they know, I have a difficult time throwing away sentimental mementos.

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A Valentine’s Day card from my high school boyfriend. Handwritten, some sketches. Sweet. The lead from the pencil representing the innocence of the time. I really thought he was going to be my “forever”, silly me. Silly kids.

I think my mom may have kept a few things left behind from my ex who almost destroyed me. I remember it hurt too much at the time to look at, and to throw away. So, they’re hidden away in a box somewhere, just like our wounds. We may not see it in the physical sense; we may have healed, but they still remain somewhere. Some souvenirs hidden away in boxes, like wounds, do not need to be reopened again and again.

One of my favorite shirts to sleep in from a guy I dated a few years ago. He really deserved someone who was emotionally available and more invested than I was. And still, he was very kind and patient, I’ll always appreciate that. And his shirt. I hope he’s doing well.

An apron from a chef I was seeing for a bit. The same apron I wore when he showed me how to make pasta from scratch. Who knew that could be such an intoxicating experience. Steam from the boiling water, the pressure from his hands on mine when rolling out the dough, long kisses against the kitchen counter with lingering notes of Barolo on our lips. He always fed me delicious food, and false hope that lingered for too long. I haven’t used the apron since, maybe I will take it out the next time I’m rolling out dough.

A tin box that once held cookies from Milan, given to me by a sweet Italian I was seeing for a few months. We eventually made memories in Milan together, a fun rendezvous. I now use that tin box to hold random little treasures, but every time I see it, I think of him. I think of Milan. I smile in gratitude for the time we had.

A little painting from Florence with a handwritten note on the back from an Italian who could have been a lover, maybe, if I spent more time there. I see this little painting on my desk every day. I think of our motorcycle ride, the laughter and gelato we shared. This little painting reminds me that romance is still alive and out there. It reminds me of my hopes and dreams. It reminds me of Florence, of him. It helps get me through difficult work days. And to him— grazie mille.

It’s always the souvenirs left behind from the most recent lover that hurt the most to see. A bag he grabbed for me because it reminded him of Italy, and how much I adore Italy. Pilates socks because that’s my form of exercise. Cookies, all the time, even with a candle for my birthday because he knew just how much I enjoy them. Thoughtfulness. His shorts that I wore when I spent the night, feeling safe under his sheets, waking up to his warmth. While getting dressed the next morning, folding the shorts to leave behind, he said with a soft whisper, “keep the shorts, they look better on you.”

Because our final goodbye was recent, seeing these keepsakes from our time spent together still stings. I imagine, just like the others, time will help ease the pain. The shorts will just be shorts. Hopefully.

But the same question remains— to keep or throw away?

Always, C. ❣️

I often find myself daydreaming of travels past, and the faces and places that have stayed with me. I think of them often, grieving, yearning, and smiling all at once. Bittersweet nostalgia, but immense gratitude for having the faces or places to even miss. So, here is my series of love letters to the faces and places that will always hold a special place in my heart.

There are Osterias, and then there is the Osteria tucked into the busy streets of Firenze. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been, but I do know it has been multiple times over three summers. My favorite Osteria, my countertop (I’m territorial), and some of the most special, welcoming people that really bring it all to life. I’m not able to visit this year, and since I’ve been last year, they have now expanded. Thankfully, my counter is still there.

I’ve become friends with most of the people who work there. I’m greeted with big smiles whenever I go, and big hugs to match, “Christina! Ciao!” Ah, honey, I’m home. I take my place at the counter and observe, taking everything in around me. My senses live for this kind of journey. I watch them cut bread and prepare appetizers, and they often share any extras with me along the way. Chunks of Parmesan here, some beef carpaccio there. Happiness everywhere. Wine glass never runs empty. Intoxicating aromas coming from the kitchen that fills in the entire space; meanwhile, at my counter, I get whiffs of fresh basil and arugula.

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Pictures on the wall I’ve come to memorize. I witness everyone coming in, leaving, getting turned away because they don’t have a reservation. I drink in the smiles, the laughs, people’s eyes widening because they took their first bite of something obscenely good. The sharing of plates, kisses, and pure joy. Time stops there.

I don’t know these guests that come and go but it almost feels like I do. Tommaso loves Madonna, and Giancarlo always has a great playlist in the background. So naturally, everyone (myself included) is dancing in their seats ever so slightly. The food will be difficult to describe in only a few sentences, I could write a whole novel about it. But one bite of their green pepper steak filet, or pappardelle with duck sauce, and I’m transcended into another dimension. It’s actually magic, it’s insane. And, they know my order there. So that’s just all the more special.

I don’t think I ever left at “closing time.” I usually stay later, chatting with my friends who work there, laughing with Fidi and Ana. They all have such beautiful souls, an energy you immediately feel when you walk, and stays with you no matter how much time has passed. We still talk all the time, and they really do feel like family. Being at the counter, with them, feels like home away from home. I feel so safe, so myself. I miss them dearly. I cannot wait to return to them, and to my counter.

Until we meet again. Always, C. ❣️

I was in 5th grade when I had my first crush. I still remember his birthday. He’s the reason why I got in trouble for the first time at school.

We were by the jungle gym, I was minding my own business on the monkey bars, competing with myself as usual from the day prior. He came over with some mutual friends and pointed out the dark circles under my eyes. Making jokes, laughing. A part of me knew, even then, that he didn’t know any better. He didn’t know I slept on the floor, or rarely slept, in that case. Always tired. He didn’t know I stayed awake at night, observing, always. Constantly scanning the environment. Still tired. I stayed quiet while others laughed, I knew they didn’t know any better, how could anyone know the secrets we keep behind closed doors. I also knew that I couldn’t tell them why I had dark circles under my eyes, because then the teachers might find out, and then the secrets at home may be exposed. Secrets that would lead to more chaos, stress, trauma. So, I kept quiet. Observing.

How’d I get in trouble then? Well. He continued to pick on me the next day. This time, alone. I was eating pistachios, minding my own business, observing the birds circling above. I grew up with uncles, male cousins, my older brother, my father who was a black belt, and Bruce Lee movies on repeat. I was built to be tough. A quiet, toughness. My crush didn’t know that, either. As he continued to pick on me and my dark circles, I grew impatient. So, naturally, I rubbed the round part of the pistachio shell on the hot, black concrete, making the shell just as hot. I then pressed the shell on my crush’s arm for a few seconds, burning his skin, leaving a scar. He ran with tears in his eyes and told on me. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me…

I was then sent to the principal’s office, my parents were called, and my father picked me up. I told him it was self-defense, and that’s all he needed to hear. He told off the principal and said he was proud of me. We listened to Tom Jones in the car, singing together, and he treated me to frozen yogurt. I wonder if he remembers that, I’ll never forget it.

Funny enough, a few months later, that same crush brought me a chocolate rose for Valentine’s Day.

Decades later, he took me out to dinner, with the same scar on his arm.

I think he’s dating someone now. He still has the same boyish grin from his pictures on social media, just older. He seems happy, and I’m happy for him, genuinely.

I still don’t sleep. Still constantly observing my environment. Pistachios are still my favorite variety of nut, even pistachio milk and pistachio gelato. I haven’t listened to Tom Jones in years. I hope my dad is still proud of me. Some things from childhood don’t change, some do.

I hope to leave a mark in the world somehow (not an actual scar). And I’m not sure what the point of this post is, maybe just random ramblings. Maybe a reminder to never underestimate the quiet ones, to never underestimate myself; to have the same fighting spirit I had as a child, that I can protect myself when needed. Maybe it’s time to play on the monkey bars again.

Always, C ❣️

I often find myself daydreaming of travels past, and the faces and places that have stayed with me. I think of them often, grieving, yearning, and smiling all at once. Bittersweet nostalgia, but immense gratitude for having the faces or places to even miss. So, here is my series of love letters to the faces and places that will always hold a special place in my heart.

There is just something so healing about swimming in these waters. It feels like a complete surrender, while also feeling completely held at the same time. Held in silence, acceptance. The sun glistens on the sea differently there, as if every sparkle from the sun kissing down on it is actually a diamond, and the water itself is liquid gold. My skin and hair even feels better to the touch after a day of swimming in those special waters, that liquid treasure. My bones feel stronger, and lighter, all at the same time. I feel cleansed from any shame, grief, or doubt.

My favorite thing to do is to swim along the sand on the bottom of the sea floor, keeping my eyes fully open, and being surprised by how long I can hold my breath. Maybe because there, holding my breath doesn’t feel like bracing for danger as it does on land. It feels calm. Quiet. Peaceful. I feel embodied, whole.

Coming out of the water to lay across the hot sand or a rock, or even a boat if the day calls for it, and letting the sun melt over me feels like I’ve been to heaven and back. Swim, melt, repeat. A special feeling of home that can only belong to the sea of the Mediterranean and Adriatic.

And every time I swim to the bottom, and graze the sand with my fingertips, I leave a piece of myself there. I close my eyes and visualize swimming there whenever I feel like I’m bracing for danger and need to hold my breath on land. The sea offers unconditional love when you are open to receiving it, and I’m counting down my breaths until I can receive it again.

Until we meet again. Always, C. ❣️

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I often find myself daydreaming of travels past, and the faces and places that have stayed with me. I think of them often, grieving, yearning, and smiling all at once. Bittersweet nostalgia, but immense gratitude for having the faces or places to even miss. So, here is my series of love letters to the faces and places that will always hold a special place in my heart.

When I booked this horseback riding tour last summer on GetYourGuide, I didn’t know just how special it would be. Thank goodness I was able to request a ride pickup down in Tropea because the tour itself was up in the mountains. And it was the most perfect, Italian ride pickup ever. A small car, an older Italian gentleman with the biggest smile on his face, waving me down to join him. If this happened in the States, people would be concerned. Not here. Here, I knew I was in good hands. Ciao, Philipo! Andiamo!

So, Philipo and I drove up the mountain and through the winding roads of Calabria. We used Google Translate along the way as he would point to pretty views in the distance, and share some history of the region and the olive trees. We bopped our heads in rhythm to the Italian music playing through the static of the radio.

Side note: it reminded me of how my Albanian grandfather and I would communicate. We didn’t use Google Translate, but we would point at things, use hand signals, and smile at each other because we just knew. We had our own language; we just didn’t have the words for it. A shared understanding, and something we were both fluent in.

We eventually arrived in Francica, where Philipo lives with his wife, Maria, along with their horses, and olive trees. I felt like I was home. Maybe because I was literally at their home. Maybe because he reminded me of my family members. Another woman named Ashley also works on the ranch during the summers to assist with the horse back riding tours, and her childhood friend was visiting at that time as well. Family.

The four of us, Philipo, Ashley, her friend, and myself, got acquainted with our horses and took off into the vast forest of olive trees. I’ve been horseback riding plenty of times (I love horses!), so that felt very familiar. I’ve ridden throughout California, even in the mountains of Wyoming, but this felt different. This was their land, and they were sharing it with me. I felt incredibly honored.

Throughout the ride, I learned how Ashley began working there, how the tours started, life in Calabria, and the beauty and pain that come along with harvesting olives. Not only did I feel bonded to the three other humans and the four horses, but to all of the hundreds of olive trees as well.

I lost track of time while horseback riding, but before I knew it, we were back home and welcomed by La Signora, Maria. While the four of us were riding, she was preparing traditional Calabrian dishes. I can still remember how fresh and bright the vegetables tasted, and the famous spice from the nduja. Whenever a breeze came through, it brought aromas of hay from the barn along with it. Glasses were filled with wine, and lots of love. We ate, we drank, we laughed, we were vulnerable with one another. We were sharing plates and sharing stories. It was a beautiful day.

It was way past the time the tour was supposed to end, and we had to get back down the mountain. I forgot I was even on a tour; it felt like I was just with my family or friends. And of course, Philipo couldn’t just drop me off at the city center. He insisted on taking me to the local gelato spot first. Still using Google Translate, and enjoying the silence in between, we sat together and had gelato. We didn’t say much, we smiled and nodded, we just knew. He brought me back to the city center. This time, we were both waving as I walked away, “Arrivederci!” I could hear Philipo’s Italian music playing through the static of his radio as he drove off. I remember immediately missing them all.

I still follow Ashley and her friend on Instagram, and I still send good thoughts to Philipo, Maria, their horses, and the olive trees. It’s interesting, really, how our nervous system can feel so comfortable in a foreign place to the point where it feels like you may have been there before, in another life. But here, mine did.

Needless to say, it was really difficult to wrap all of that up in just a few sentences for a review on GetYourGuide. Feel free to message me if you’d like a link to the guide as well, you won’t regret it!

Until we meet again. Always, C ❣️

Before I dive into math (never thought I’d say that), I’ll begin with radical acceptance just in case you, the reader, may not be familiar with the concept. Radical acceptance is seeing the present moment for exactly what it is, attaching no meaning or feelings to it. When we first accept, “it is what it is”, we can then see the bigger picture and respond accordingly. It’s when we fight the present moment, that suffering begins. The suffering we create for ourselves. For example: If we are going through a break up, of course we feel feel sad, disappointed, and so on. If we accept the break-up, and the feelings that come along with it, we can then process the feelings, learn the lessons from it all, and move forward little by little. If we fight or resist the reality of the situation, shame ourselves for the feelings we’re experiencing, now we’ve just created more suffering for ourselves. Radically accepting “it is what is” isn’t saying to give up or don’t try to fix the issue; it’s not saying that you like the emotional pain you may be experiencing. It’s just a reminder that with so many things out of our control, accepting the reality of the situation from a neutral stance allows us to better approach it with more grace and a clear mind to handle what happens next. Resistance to acceptance creates more suffering, resentment, anger, confusion, etc. Resistance keeps us stuck in it, acceptance helps us let go.

Ok. So back to math. A lesson and a concept that has helped me with radical acceptance, and how they interact with each other.

First, a lesson. My friend in high school tried to help tutor me with our algebra homework. God bless her for trying. Of course I can’t remember that equation, but I remember her words. “With math, there is always an answer, a solution.” Simple, really. This may seem contradictory to radical acceptance, but please stick around. Now, a concept: null hypothesis. And for any statistic experts reading this, please read with a grain of salt, I’m no expert by any means. My take away from my statistics class many moons ago is that a null hypothesis is the default starting point, where there is no change or relationship between the things you are testing. So, you continue to test to try to prove the null hypothesis wrong. But sometimes, the end result is null. Even after all of your research, you come to find out there is no relationship between the two. That’s the answer.

Now, the way my messy mind connects the math lesson and statistical concept into a life lesson of radical acceptance. We experience a lot of challenges in life. If there is a problem we face, there is always a solution. Sometimes the solution is null. That can feel frustrating, especially when we’ve done so much “research,” invested so much time into something, thinking it will be a solution. But sometimes, there is no change, “no relationship.” We can either deny the reality of the null outcome, try to force a change, and create more suffering by doing so, or, we accept the null, allow space for our grief, and switch gears accordingly. Begin new research, invest our time and energy elsewhere.

If this is a new practice, acceptance can feel challenging. Ah, but once it becomes a way of life, it is so freeing. C’est la vie, que sera sera, it is what it is, whatever happens happens. And to truly become those mindsets, let go of resistance, you’ll be free from your own suffering. That’s the answer.

Just don’t ask me about algebra or splitting the bill.

Always, C. ❣️

A simple sentence, firmly and lovingly spoken by one of my dearest friends who wanted to treat me for a belated birthday dinner.

And of course, my wise friend, knew exactly what to say to get me to allow her to. A simple sentence, calling me the fuck out.

I will give and give. Not because I want anything in return, not because I’m people pleasing, because if I genuinely love and care for the person, giving feels natural.

Receiving? Not one of my strengths. I’ve learned how to receive a compliment, sure. “Thank you so much, very kind of you, I really appreciate it…”

Receiving actions could use some major work. I feel like a burden, undeserving, sometimes even weak or pathetic. And yes, I know that’s all ridiculous and if I heard one of my own clients say that I would challenge their “cognitive distortions.” But hey, I’m human, too.

So, this year, one of my goals is to receive. Receive acts of kindness, generosity, help, time, love and care. Because if I continue to push it away, I know that’s basically telling the universe “no, I don’t want it, give it to someone else.”

And I do want it.

I do deserve it.

Because I’m human, too.

And in case you’re wondering, I did let my friend cover the bill. Still felt uncomfortable, admittedly. However, as she said, she wanted to and that’s how she gives her love and care, and accepting that part felt good. The love and care between us, our friendship and sisterhood, is something I deeply cherish. Something I want to receive and hold on to.

So, universe, if you’re reading this— I’m ready and open to receiving! Thank you in advance.

Always, C ❣️

The wolf ran away without looking back at its captors, without seeking revenge. Even though the wolf has teeth and a jaw strong enough to break through bones with one bite, the wolf knew better. By seeking revenge, there’s a chance the wolf could be captured again. Instead, the wolf’s revenge was freedom. An experience the captors may never experience, but for the wolf, it had a chance to live again the way it is supposed to. Free, strong, and wild.

The wolf’s physical being may have been captured, but its soul could never be. Maybe deep down the captors knew that, maybe that’s why they tried to tear the wolf’s soul apart. Slowly. Teasing the wolf with food, only to take it back moments later. Hit. Pet. Hit. Tease with food. Repeat.

The wolf felt weak, but would never break. Once the cage doors slightly opened, the wolf pushed through and ran free. It was reminded of its strength, its wild nature, the freedom in which wolves thrive. The wolf would never be teased by tempting food or inconsistent affection again.

Even though the wolf has gained its strength, it will never forget. As soon as the wolf may get tempted again, the hairs on their back will rise, their heart rate will increase, their body will remember that temptations are not always sweet.

The wolf lived and learned, and will continue to live and thrive. Nothing can break the wolf’s spirit, not even the captors who tried.

If any part of this resonated, the cycle, the confusion, the slow erosion of yourself, you’re not alone, and you’re not broken.

Healing isn’t linear. But freedom is always possible. Even when it doesn’t feel like it yet.

And if you’re still in the cage, the door will crack open. And when it does, don’t look back.

Always, C ❣️

A scream coming from a place so deep within, carrying so much weight,
that every muscle, bone, cell in my body could finally weep.
A scream for the women who came before me, the me who came before me.
A cry so painful I’m afraid to let even one tear drop fall down now,
as I don’t have the space to scream.
Opening a tiny crack may give way to a complete breakdown,
and I don’t have the space.

But to be in an open field, the vast sea, the top of a mountain
just me, my ancestors, and the all consuming natural force around.
The universe holding me, accepting me, sitting with me,
not being afraid of my “brokenness”, not trying to fix my brokenness,
but knowing that I need to have the space to break open
in order to finally hold my broken pieces with care and rebuild.

The feminine urge to break in order to become.

I don’t have the space to scream,
and my body is starting to break down while trying to hold on for dear life.
A grip so tight my jaw is in pain and swollen,
gums bleed from everything I don’t say,
my hair is shedding everything my soul wants to,
I’m losing hair like I’m losing my spirit, my will.
My bones are shifting, my muscles are twisting,
making it difficult to breathe and move fully. Like I have before.

I came into this world fighting for my life,
a month early, 5lbs, pneumonia.
Arriving into a world of chaos and connection to trauma from generations past.
It’s been 33 years of fighting for my life.

I’m tired.

I want to scream with my whole body, throwing myself into the ground,
and let the universe hold me as I painfully weep.

But I don’t have the space. So, I’ll drink my tea, reply with a forced smile and say “I’m fine.”

Ending cycles.

Not just from this lifetime. But for the women in my family who came before me. Women I never met. Women who lived their own silencing, their own longing for themselves.

This break, this rebuild. This is for them, too.

Always, C ❣️

*sigh*

The hard truths no one really prepared us for:

1. All the boxes I checked in my 20s didn’t make me feel aligned in my 30s. They made me feel like I’d been following someone else’s map, and I would get confused as to why when I reached the destination, their destination, that I would feel unsatisfied. Upset. Out of sorts. Lost. Follow your own map, even if the destination is different from others.

2. Feelings come and go. Choices last forever. I know that sounds harsh and probably very invalidating, but it’s true.

3. Not everyone in your circle actually wants the best for you. You feel ‘weird vibes’ around a friend, colleague, partner, look into that more, trust your gut.

4. Your body will start collecting receipts. Rest isn’t lazy, it’s the only thing that makes the next day possible. Rest, recover, recharge like your life literally depends on it. Especially if autoimmune diseases run in your family. You may feel strong in your 20s and think “That can’t happen to me,” but stress is a silent killer. Get ahead of it. Rest.

5. Self-care is a non-negotiable. And not a face mask. I mean moving and caring for your body, taking your vitamins, eating food that’s good for you and works for you (not everyone’s tummy can handle kale, ok?!). More than that, self-care also includes communicating your needs, protecting your peace, chasing after your dreams, speaking your truth, maintaining boundaries. It may feel challenging, but they don’t call it “growing pains” for nothing.

6. Speaking of boundaries, save your life and say “no” to things you don’t want to do. Truly, from the bottom of my heart, imagine I’m your caring sister grabbing you by the shoulders and (lovingly) yelling “Say ‘no’ for fucks sake!”

7. People might not understand you. And that is okay. Be you anyways. Enjoy your quirky interests, read your silly books, listen to your weird music. Change your career. Love who you love. Take that trip that people may doubt or judge. Do you, be you. Authenticity to yourself outlives any kind of relationship to others.

8. Fear can, and will, keep you caged in if you let it. Yep, if you let it. Read that again. That little thought saying “What if I fail?” “What if I’m not good enough?” Blah blah blah, bull shit bull shit bull shit. Once you sit with it instead of obeying it, you’ll be able to decipher if there is a real threat or a perceived threat. Then it’s up to you on how to proceed. Will you let it cage you in?

9. There may be days that are hard. Really fucking hard. Don’t compare your hard days to someone’s highlight reels. Treat those hard days like sick days and take care of yourself. And once the hard day passes, look back and remind yourself you can, and will, do hard things. You’ve got this.

10. We might never get answers or closure, and we have to accept that there may be things we may never understand or know. Resistance is how we create suffering for ourselves, radical acceptance for what is and working alongside that is how we become at peace with it, and hope for tomorrow is what keeps us going.

11. Stay curious about everything and everyone around you. Observe, don’t absorb. Build a solid foundation within yourself so others can’t shake you. Be the force you came into the world with. That never left you, you just have to find it again and let it fucking shine.

I still have a lot to learn, and I know there will be many obstacles and challenges ahead of me. I also know there will be a lot of laughter, days spent in the sun, kisses from my dog, good meals, adventure, and gaining wisdom as I go. Life is bizarre, just roll with it. Just be.

Always, C ❣️

My religious background is confusing. Born Jewish, baptized Catholic as a baby, raised Christian, and now I check my horoscope every day, talk to the universe like she’s my friend, and just “leave it to God.”

So, to say I was worried I’d actually burn in flames the second I walked through the big, wooden doors of the convent is an understatement. But alas, I survived to tell the tale, visiting my aunt, Sister Rosa, and her Sisters. And now, my Sisters? That might be a stretch.

To my surprise, these Sisters were living the dream. They’re doing it all right, and I’ve been doing it all wrong.

Okay, fine, would I miss men? Sure. Absolutely. Samantha Jones did raise a generation of women, after all.

These Sisters have each other. Housing. And wine, lots of wine. Their convent is in Ljubljana, Slovenia, and if you’ve been to the city center there, you may have seen the Sisters on their daily walks. Maybe you even saw my aunt. Yes, in the city center. Daily walks. Sign me up!

They have sleepovers every night. A closeness and acceptance for each other. They rely on each other, take care of each other. They walk together, shop together, cook together.

Daily companionship and consistency. Much better than waiting to get a text response from a whatever guy.

The convent was filled with laughter and a sweetness you can only feel once you’re there, with them, in their energy. It was an experience I’ll never forget.

A feeling of safety and calm my nervous system will always appreciate.

Who the heck needs student loans and headaches over men. Just be a nun.

Maybe my girlfriends are my soulmates, and it’s time to prioritize more walks with them.

Always, C. ❣️

It happened again. The impossible task of having to pick “favorites.”

Favorite movie. Favorite song. Favorite color. Favorite food. Favorite place…

I freeze when asked about my “favorite” of anything. I’m amazed when people have a list ready. You’d think there would be a simple answer for “what is your favorite color?”, and yet, I ask “Am I wearing it? Looking at it? Living in it?” Favorite movie or song… forget about it! “What genre? Actually, what genre within the genre?” Am I basing it off of my opinion of the actual media type or the emotion it provoked within me?

How can anyone choose a favorite of anything?

Let’s take a deeper look. We’ll pick movies to be on the hot seat. The movie I’m about to mention is not an ‘incredible, mind blowing film’. It’s a children’s movie, essentially. I don’t even remember if I liked the movie or not. However, by watching it, I formed one of my favorite childhood memories. So, does that make it one of my favorite movies then?

Here’s some background: we didn’t have much money growing up, and there was a time we were without couches. No biggie. We’d lay blankets and pillows on the carpet and snuggle close together to watch something on the ‘big screen.’ Our own little magical theater. The audience included myself, my older brother, and my mom. Three tickets to comfort and escapism. We watched “See Spot Run.” Not an academy award winner by any means, I think “Snow Dogs” left more of an impression. (I just checked it on Rotten Tomatoes— it received a whopping score of 24%, yikes!). Anyways. There was a funny, silly scene in a grocery store, and I honestly don’t even remember the scene all that much because I was distracted by the most incredible, rare sound that drowned out everything else and filled the walls with warmth. My mom’s laughter. She struggled with depression, sickness, fatigue, and was way overwhelmed with stress. She didn’t experience much laughter. I remember during that scene, in that moment, my brother and I stopped laughing and just observed. We didn’t say anything to each other but it’s almost as if our souls agreed that witnessing our mom roll on the ground with laughter was the most beautiful thing we’d have ever seen. Seeing her laugh like that provided hope. And hope was rarely experienced within those walls. All because of a silly children’s movie, so does that make it one of my “favorites” then?
And if it does, then hi- I’m Christine, and “See Spot Run” is one of my favorite films.

So now I have a new problem. When I’m on a date and they ask what my favorite movie is, do I tell them the whole story? Or do I just reply with a simple, “too many great ones to choose from” and move on?

Always, C❣️

Before I dive in, I’ll say it plainly: I’m grateful for the clothes and the travels. But stay with me.

So there I was, on a random Friday afternoon, waiting for my clothes to speak to me. I’m almost certain my jeans said “please, not again, give us a break.” But then I noticed my dresses. Long, backless dresses. Short dresses. Black dresses. Bright dresses. Dresses that make me feel feminine, confident, adventurous, fun.

I have been neglecting them.

My dresses live their best life in Europe. Wandering cobblestone streets, enjoying aperitivo in Siena, slowly moving through museums and gardens in Florence, searching for the best crêpes in Nice, dancing until 4am in Mykonos. But at home, in Los Angeles, they never see the light of day. They stay hidden, pushed to a corner of the closet that doesn’t exist until it’s time to pack again.

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And if my dresses could talk, I think I may have heard them scream, “let me out!” So I obeyed. I put on a long summer dress, some strappy sandals, and took a breath.

If you’re wondering what the big idea is, honestly, it’s not that philosophical. But I don’t think I’m the only one who lets herself really be herself on vacation and then comes home and hides again. Hiding is familiar to me. My friends are used to me in jeans. And for a long time, hiding felt safer. Jeans, felt safer.

But safe has been catching up to me in ways I didn’t expect. Hiding from the dress is one thing, but I started to feel like my neglected dresses in my closet. Pushed away and hidden. Not recognizing myself anymore.

So I wore the dress. Nervously at first. Then the sun hit my back and I felt like myself somewhere else, except I was here. Home. And it felt good.

If you’re missing the person you are on vacation, let her out. Wear the damn dress, or whatever it is that makes you feel like you. Enjoy an aperitivo while you’re at it. 🥂

Always, C.

I know, I know.

The irony of it all— being the person who holds space for everyone else’s “darkness” while I have been keeping my own tucked away. I’ve thought about why I do this for a long time, and sparing details from my childhood or past relationships on this post, here’s a peek into my fears and what the honest list looks like:

• Being truly seen means you can be truly left. And being left not because you wronged that person, but because you let them see the real you; the unpolished, imperfect, flawed human who makes mistakes. And, if they left because of that, there’s your proof (i.e confirmation bias in the psych world) that you were only ever loved conditionally. That, in order to be loved, you need to show up perfectly, or at least “good enough.”

• Being truly seen means not being able to control the perception that people have of you (because that’s how it works, right? Wrong). If people know me as strong, reliable, independent, a good friend, etc., then having my darkness exposed could undo all of that, possibly? Keeping it hidden feels like control, and if I can control how they see me, I can control how they feel about me (wrong, yep, I know).

• Being fully seen provides an opportunity for your darkness to be weaponized against you, or “fixed.” Having your vulnerabilities used against you, or feeling like you’re a broken, ugly piece of glass that needs to be fixed is its own kind of pain. It takes so much courage and pushing through discomfort to even be vulnerable in the first place, and then to have it used against you in a calculated way or shamed makes me want to hide back in my “safe” hole and never come back out.

• Being fully seen could leave the ‘observer’ completely worried and stressed for your well-being. And, although they mean well, you now find yourself reassuring them that you’re fine, even when you’re not, because you don’t want to become someone else’s weight to carry. You don’t want to be a burden.

• The dreaded look of pity. ‘Nuff said.

— If any of that resonated, hi. Welcome. You might be a fellow *recovering and hopeful* fearful avoidant (or somewhere on the spectrum of it). I see you. You’re safe here. *takes deep breath*

We’re confusing to others, hell— we even frustrate ourselves. We love hard. We care hard. We do want to be seen, in fact, we feel lonely because we don’t feel seen. We’re just absolutely terrified of what happens when we are seen. So instead, we hide. We show up as the curated version, we try our best to maintain our spot on everyone’s pedestal. We protect everyone, including ourselves, from the full picture (like we’re some kind of unloveable monsters, sheesh).

And how’s that going for us? Honestly? Not great. 0/10 recommend. Sign up for ‘secure attachment style’ in the next life. —

So as a therapist and trying to ‘practice what I preach’ and all that jazz, I’ve been doing work on this by starting in my friendships. Not to dive into details but something very challenging happened earlier this year and I kept it hidden for the most part. But just a few weeks ago, I did the hard, scary thing. I told my best friend of almost 20-years of my darkest moment.

*cue the tears* If anyone reading this knew my best friend, you’d know how silly it was of me to feel like I couldn’t tell her. She is seriously one of the kindest, loving, generous, thoughtful, and emotionally attuned people I’ve ever known, and I’ve known this about her for almost two decades. So logically, I know I could have told her when the situation first happened. But, that’s the thing with fearful avoidance— it doesn’t give room for logic and the nervous system goes into self-protective mode right off the bat. Also, because I appreciate and respect my friend so much, I never want to disappoint her or have her look at me differently, or try to fix me and worry about me. And if she saw my darkness, she’d leave, right? If I kept my full self hidden, then I’d be protecting her from the hard, ugly stuff and I’d be protecting the friendship? Wrong, again and again. Her reaction, of course, was nothing but loving, accepting, and supportive.

Something she said that impacted me most of all though was in response to something I mentioned almost in passing in regards to my depression (talk about fear of being seen, I just exposed that on the internet, time for another breathing break!). She replied quietly, without missing a beat, a gentle:

“I know.”

She knew? She had known for years, and she loved me anyway. And because she knows me so well, she waited, without any pressure, until I was ready to say it out loud. My sweet, intuitive Pisces best friend— she saw me long before I ‘let’ her, and she’s been accepting me this entire time. She didn’t leave, she didn’t try to fix me, she didn’t weaponize it, she doesn’t view me negatively or with pity. In fact, she reassured me that she still loves me just the same and continues to see my strength. Take that fearful avoidant bullshit attachment style— two things can be true at once— you can experience darkness and still have light shining through, and all while being cared for during the “imperfect” times at that.

To wrap up my thoughts and personal experience, as a therapist and as a human who is still growing and learning herself:

Being vulnerable can feel scary and it can also be a safe experience. It doesn’t mean pushing boundaries and “dumping” everything on someone and hoping they stay. It can mean letting one trusted person see the real, unedited version of you, and then noticing what happens. And if the person you opened up to doesn’t respond perfectly, give them grace. They’re only human, too. But if their response leaves you feeling ashamed, smaller, or unseen? Let that be valuable information about who your safe people are— not about whether or not vulnerability is worth it. And let’s be real, if you developed this fearful avoidance, it likely came from something. From trauma of sorts. And yet, you are still strong and resilient, and you can still remain all of those things even when allowing space for vulnerability. You can still maintain boundaries and protect yourself while also letting people in.

What I’ve learned, professionally and personally, is that most people are not waiting for a reason to leave, they’re waiting for an invitation to get closer. The hiding protects no one, it just keeps you alone (and feeling lonely) inside it.

You don’t have to be “perfect” to be loved, you don’t have to “perfectly articulate” your darkness to share it. But, if you can think of just one person who can sit in the darkness with you, you may begin to heal that very fear you’ve been avoiding.

Even as a therapist who has years of schooling and training, I’m still learning how to do that. Does being a therapist make me perfect? Absolutely not, far from it. I’m just a human also learning how to be. And if you resonate with the fearful avoidant attachment, just a little reminder:

There’s still beauty in the dark. There’s still beauty in you. I see you, you’re safe here.

Always, C. ❤️

I promise that’s the last of me fawning over Matt Damon. Maybe.

What I couldn’t stop thinking about after rewatching Good Will Hunting:

Hiding & the perceived threat of being seen

“I hide from people” — Will tells a therapist in the beginning of the film, and then quickly deflects by talking about going to clubs and pointing out the therapist’s sexuality. Hiding even in the therapist’s office. It feels scary to be seen, I get that.

When he was seen, he was hit with a wrench by his foster dad. When he was seen for his wickedly smart brain, it appeared as though he felt like he was being put on a pedestal. And pedestals can’t always be reached, and then what, are you still worthy of being loved? He even acknowledged it himself toward the end of the film: avoidant attachment, fear of abandonment. Whether he was seen and then abused, or seen and then appreciated, both became opportunities to be hurt, disappoint others, and left in the end. A feeling he had experienced too many times before.

Cue the defense mechanisms.

Help vs. Acceptance

Sean (Robin Williams) talks about his marriage and his late wife’s idiosyncrasies, imperfections, the “good stuff.” A good reminder that “our person” isn’t perfect like the version of them we put on a pedestal. We’re not perfect either, and we just hope they appreciate our flaws as much as they appreciated the best version of ourselves that we showed them in the beginning. Pedestals can’t always be reached…

When Will displayed insecurities about where he came from — thinking he’s not enough because of the adversity and trauma he endured — he was hit with a dreaded response: “I want to help you.” Immediately, and understandably, his guard went up. Quickly, and even a bit aggressively.

He was seen, and then was told he needed help. He needed to be fixed. But he had been helping himself, and surviving, this entire time. He didn’t need help. He needed acceptance for his “shortcomings,” his traumatic experiences, his defenses, and for his resilience through it all. He needed to be received, not pitied. Help and acceptance are two different things.

The power of consistency

Will had very loyal, supportive friends in the film. Friends who even saved up and built him a car.

But the most powerful display of consistency was Sean. Sean took the time to see him, accept him, and provide a safe space for Will to just be. Sean also defended Will, just like Will defended his friends and soon-to-be soulmate at the bar.

Will had consistent people in his life. Even though at times it appeared he felt like he didn’t deserve them, he still had them.

And toward the end of the film, Sean repeated four important words a dozen times over: “It’s not your fault.” He repeated them as many times as it took for Will to really hear them, and not run and hide as he usually would. Words Will needed to hear his entire life. Words that freed him and paved the way toward healing his “disorders”, or what could also be acknowledged as survival skills that were no longer necessary to keep him safe.

Consistent relationships, consistent words, consistently showing up. There is power in consistency.

Healing goes both ways

Most people watching this film focus on Will and his healing (hello, his name is in the title), but Sean was hiding too. Sean was a psychologist, yes, but he was also hiding beneath grief and pain, beneath the safety of his office, beneath the version of himself that stopped fully showing up after his wife died. Will didn’t just receive Sean’s care. He needed it in a way that made Sean remember what it felt like to be needed at all.

That’s what mutual healing actually looks like. Not equal exchange — but two people willing to be moved, to sit in the dark together and accept each other.

At the end of the film, Sean chose to live and to quit hiding, too. He packed up his office and started traveling, “putting his cards on the table again.”

And then — he went to see about a girl

Will spent the whole film hiding. From his therapists, from his friends, from Skylar, from himself. By the end, he chose to be seen.

And the moment he did — the moment his defense mechanisms and guard finally came down — he got in the car his friends built him and drove cross-country to “see about a girl.” Because that’s what healing actually looks like. Not just peace. Not just safety. But the courage to open yourself up to love after spending so long protecting yourself from it.

You can’t go see about a girl if you’re still hiding. You can’t let someone love you if you don’t believe you’re worthy of being received, seen, and loved.

Will finally believed it.

Cue tears.

A small aside, because I have to: I wish Robin Williams had his own Sean Maguire in his life. Maybe we’d still have him. Forever one of my favorite actors and comedians. I hope he’s resting now.

And if this reflection piece hit a little too close to home, I hope you find someone who can sit with you in the dark, too. You’re worthy of feeling accepted, not a broken thing to be fixed.

Always, C.

I get it. It’s uncomfortable. It asks you to look back at a time when you were small and unprotected, and acknowledge that part of you never fully left.

So this year, for my 33rd birthday, I decided to do it myself. Practice what I preach and all that. The best gift I could give her, and me, was finally sitting down with my inner child. It’s been too long.

This is for her. And honestly, maybe for yours too.

Little Christine —

It’s been a while since I’ve checked in with you, and yet, you are my entire existence. How silly of me to forget to care for you. I know you are feeling scared and unsafe, because I am currently feeling insecure and am filled with self-doubt; frozen in time, frozen in space. I know you are trying to protect yourself from harm, because I am currently keeping my guard up, keeping everything away from me — even possibly the good. I know you long for stability, and a love that comes with peace, because I am currently daydreaming of that too. I am me because of you, because of everything you’ve been through.

I am sorry I neglected and abandoned you, when you have often felt neglected and abandoned. I am sorry for allowing space for your negative thoughts, when those messages were formed in a time when you were surviving darkness. Thoughts formed in darkness are not facts, and I should be reminding you of that every day.

I remember when you were quiet, observing every little thing around you. You were never caught up in worldly things, your soul was always in touch with something bigger. You knew true wealth was the rare laughter you heard within the hardened walls, the love from a parent to a child — no matter how broken the parent may be; the connection and bond with animals, and the honor you felt when an animal felt safe with you. You’d be extremely aware of the wind, the birds, the noise and the quiet, the amount of food in the fridge, the arguments, the constant stress, the sirens passing by — always worried they were coming to your apartment again; the energy of every person in a room, what you could do to make anyone feel better, to bring calmness back into the chaos, what you could do to make yourself feel safe.

I remember the closets in the hallway and in the bedroom, the spaces you’d fill with your stuffed animals and dreams, the places you’d go to when you felt unsafe. You’d hide from danger when you knew you could no longer fix it, you’d escape into an environment you could control. How silly I am to forget how much power you hold. You knew when to heal others and when to save yourself.

I will honor the darkness you’ve been through, because you have shown immense strength through it all. I will provide you space to feel safe, to feel like you can be authentically yourself, to give your soul a sense of peace. A space where you can run free from the burdens put on you, weighing you down. I will remind you of who you are and who you are destined to be. I will provide for you and give you everything you deserve, everything you’ve dreamt of while you were in your safe spaces.

When I look towards the sun and smile, I am reminded of you. Because even when your world was dark and filled with constant chaos, you knew the sun would heal you, give you the warmth and security you’ve longed for. You knew so much back then, and yet, I forget your wisdom. How wrong of me to ever doubt you. How wrong of me to doubt us. Please forgive me, as you have forgiven everyone who has hurt you.

I will treat you better. I will make you proud.

📷 Me, age 3. Already looking for the sun.

I know this ‘letter’ may seem all over the place, but life is messy that way. You don’t have to have it all figured out to write your own letter. You just have to be willing to sit with yourself for a little while.

If you’ve never tried it, I encourage you to. No rules, no format. Just you, and the version of yourself that’s been waiting to be seen. A little suggestion — maybe try writing it when you don’t have any plans for afterwards, as it could be a cathartic, tearful experience. You’ve been warned.

And if you do write one — or if this brought something up for you — I’d love to hear about it. That’s what we’re here for.

— Always, C. ❣️

Ice breaker: I feel really silly posting on Substack. Who do I think I am…

Will anyone even see this? Do I want people to see this? Truly, I don’t know. The thought of actually being seen is terrifying.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Save your pennies and go to therapy. (Even though I am a licensed therapist… isn’t that ironic? Don’t you think? Cue Alanis.)

I’m also not sure what my “why” is for posting on Substack.

Go to school, get the degree.

Interview, get the job.

Clear. End. Goals.

Substack? No idea. No end point. Just this.

I’m not trying to sell anything, I don’t consider what I’m saying groundbreaking, and I don’t have a clean why.

But I do know I’ve kept quiet throughout my life to either remain “safe” or keep other people “comfortable” — and that hasn’t worked for me either. If anything, staying quiet has made me sick. In more ways than one.

Maybe you’ve felt that way too. Shall we learn how to take up space together?

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Speaking of taking up space — here’s a tiny itty bitty glimpse into who I am, I suppose:

• As mentioned, I’m a licensed therapist (LMFT). Yes, really, who do I think I am?!

• Although I have training in evidence-based research, I live my personal life through a more spiritual lens.

• I love to travel, and feel most like my aligned self in Italy. Europe in general has a special place in my heart. Need recommendations on where to go? Please ask, no gatekeeping here.

• Food, wine, the entire sensory experience is a therapeutic and spiritual process for me. Same goes for being outside in nature and amongst animals. Some of life’s greatest treasures.

• I have a difficult time with the “niche” concept. We’re all too layered for niche. Fuck niche.

• Oh yeah, I curse. A lot. Thanks, Dad!

• My brain goes 1000mph and my writing style may not be for everyone — and you may not be for me either. All love.

• Even though I’m a therapist and a great listener, I’m an awful “talker.” I guess Substack will finally be a place where I “talk it all out”… you’ve been warned!

Things that I may delve into — self-discovery and gaining feelings of empowerment through undoing and finding comfort in the messy parts. Traveling and all the wonderful things that come with it. Food and wine as their own language (need I say more?). Thoughts I should maybe keep to myself but am finally saying out loud. Could offer some new perspective. Could also be annoying as shit. I’m open to both possibilities, you’ll decide.

If you’ve read this far, thank you. Seriously.

Here’s to Substack’ing (is that a thing?), and doing it just because I want to.

Knowing that’s enough.

Always, C ❣️