I’ve had ideas to create my own ceramic little studio at home, to create an artist’s magazine, to create a podcast, to do a master’s program abroad. All these ideas excite me, but the moment I am confronted with the reality of paying for all of that, I scratch them. My main goal ultimately is to be a filmmaker, which requires long, underpaid 13-hour days, leaving very little time or money to be able to engage in these other projects.

I have been wondering if it will always be like this. Or if this is something that everyone has to go through before finding stability. But my real concern is losing the desire to make all these dreams come true. I am desperately scared that, like many older people, I will find comfort in what I have and will eventually stop experimenting.

While reading Kafka’s Aphorisms book, I found a quote I can’t stop thinking about:

A cage went in search of a bird.

This made me wonder, “Am I the bird?” or “Am I the cage?” or “Am I both?”

Or is it money after all, trapping me in this never-ending cycle of thinking I have way too many dreams?

I’m sure Kafka had a completely different meaning for this quote when he wrote it, but this thought has gained its own tentacles in my mind. I do feel trapped in a cage where I can’t accomplish all that I dream fast enough. At the same time, I was the one who made it so hard to find the key to get out. Choosing one of my dreams as a priority did in fact trap all the other ones. I guess it’s something I need to learn to accept, but as of right now, I can’t.

It frustrates me that I can’t do it all, and yet I will keep trying and keep failing in the attempt.

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Eu me mudei pros Estados Unidos cinco anos atrás, o que são 23.80% do total da minha vida. Não é a maioria. Não é nem um quarto. Talvez seja um banheiro de uma casa de uma família de 3. A questão é, não é tanto tempo assim.

Eu até falo português todo dia. Na casa da minha família e no meu apartamento da faculdade que eu divido com outra brasileira. Eu como arroz em quase todas as minhas refeições. Mas ainda sim, eu não sei mais escrever em português.

Todas as regras que foram brutalmente testadas no meu ensino fundamental de uma escola salesiana foram embora da minha memória. Eu só sei que tem um M antes do P e do B. Eu na verdade nunca fui muito bem em Língua Portuguesa, o que me faz questionar se sequer teve um dia em que eu soube escrever em português. Eu me lembro, vividamente, de chorar tendo que escrever uma crônica como tarefa. O que é estranho, porque eu sempre tive facilidade em inventar histórias. O que é estranho, porque eu sempre gostei de ler. Eu só sei que toda vez que eu tinha que escrever alguma coisa pra uma aula de português, eu odiava a professora com todas as minhas forças.

Ah! Mas NADA superava o meu ódio pelos trimestres (que todo ano se repetiam) em que os professores tentavam miseravelmente me ensinar poesia. O que é estranho, porque Sociedade dos Poetas Mortos é o meu filme favorito desde que eu tenho 13 anos. Na lousa, os professores tentavam me explicar coisas que até hoje eu não sei dar nome. Alguma coisa a ver com metragem, mas nunca tinha uma régua ou trena ou instrumento de medir pra poder medir alguma coisa, então nunca fez sentido pra mim.

E pra ser bem sincera, quase nenhuma das poesias mostradas em sala me fizeram sentir alguma coisa a não ser confusão. Nunca entendi o PORQUÊ (eu também lembro de como usar os 4 porquês) “ABBA BAAB CDC DCD” faz algum sentido. Quando a tarefa foi “Escreva Um Poema” eu estava tão preocupada em conseguir juntar o A com o B e com o outro B e depois o A, que eu não consegui entender o porquê uma pessoa escreveria poesia. Camões era meu inimigo.

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Mas pra mim a pior regra, e a qual eu sempre ignorava (E como você pode ver ainda ignoro) é essa palhaçada de não poder começar uma “oração” com “Mas” ou “E”. Essas eram sempre as coisas que me faziam perder decimos. A única coisa que eu me lembro sobre uma oração subordinada é de achar que você é um subordinado por seguir essas regras. Ai, como eu odiava as aulas de português. Tudo era tão cricri. Se você colocasse UM “I” a mais no seu mas, era o fim.

Até eu sair do Brasil, língua pra mim era uma coleção de regras que jamais poderiam ser quebradas. Se você quebrasse ELAS você pertenceria em alguma parte da sociedade menos digna de conhecimento. Ou seja, se você não sabe escrever seguindo as mil e uma regras do português: você é burro.

Quando eu cheguei aqui nos Estados Unidos, eu fiquei surpresa que eu poderia escolher minhas aulas. Mas eu fiquei mais surpresa ainda de ter escolhido, com a minha própria vontade, uma aula de Escrita Criativa. Se eu não sabia nem escrever em português, quem dirá em inglês. Eu só podia estar louca.

No primeiro dia de aula, a professora mencionou palavras como “estilo” na hora de escrever e que cada pessoa tinha sua própria “voz”. Eu nunca tinha ouvido falar em nada disso, então já assumi que seriam coisas tipo “conectivos” ou “repertório”, sabe? Essas coisas que eles falam que são importantes na hora de fazer o Enem (o que, graças a Deus eu nunca tive que fazer).

Logo na primeira tarefa eu pesquisei “palavras difíceis em inglês” pra poder usar na minha redação de introdução sobre mim mesma já que no Brasil sempre me ensinaram que é melhor complicar uma palavra simples (fica mais chique). Eu fiz questão de ler minha redação dez vezes antes de entregar. Eu fiz questão de pesquisar se tinha algum erro gramatical ou se eu tinha colocado uma vírgula onde na verdade tinha que ter um PONTO E VIRGULA. Eu não queria passar vergonha logo de primeira.

Pra minha surpresa, a professora NEM CORRIGIU nossa redação de introdução sobre nós mesmos. Ela só respondeu como se fosse uma conversa, estranhamente amigável. “Isso não era uma aula de ESCRITA?” eu fiquei pensando por muito tempo. Toda semana tinha um “assignment” novo, às vezes era construir um mundo fictício e outras vezes era escrever cinco páginas com uma coisa chamada “stream of consciousness”, o que hoje eu sei que é uma coisa que o James Joyce normalizou e a Clarice Lispector trouxe pro Brasil. A professora quase nunca corrigiu meu inglês, que eu tenho certeza que não estava correto, mas ainda assim eu sempre tirava 10.

Em escola americana é fácil tirar 10, isso todo mundo sabe, mas os trabalhos dessa aula não eram tão fáceis de escrever assim. Exatamente porque eram trabalhos muito livres, não tinha estrutura nenhuma igual às que aprendemos nas aulas de português. Eu tinha dificuldade de “achar inspiração” e escrever sobre uma coisa que eu nunca estudei com livro, lápis e caderno.

A professora achava um máximo que inglês não era a minha primeira língua. Às vezes ela falava que o jeito que eu escrevia era muito “interessante”. Nunca soube se isso era bom ou ruim, you tell me.

Enfim, tenho sentido esse sentimento de que perdi as palavras que um dia achei que pertenciam a mim. Então, recentemente fui reler um dos meus livros favoritos em português— O Menino E O Espelho.

Eu li esse livro pela primeira vez no sexto ano, com 11 anos de idade. Não sei por que amei um livro do Fernando Sabino tão cedo. Não sei nem se entendi o livro de verdade. Só sei que me apaixonei de novo pela mesma história. Ainda não sei se entendi tudo de verdade, só sei que pra mim, é melhor que Alice no País das Maravilhas.

Esse sentimento foi o suficiente pra mim. Terminar o livro e saber que no fim, foi esse o livro que eu li em uma aula de Língua Portuguesa aos 11 anos de idade, e não Lewis Carroll, é a maior confirmação de que talvez eu nunca escreva profissionalmente em português, mas eu vou pra sempre ter aquele toque de brasilidade em tudo que eu escrevo.

Com Amor,

Giulia

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When I was 16 years old, which is about to be 6 years ago now (I feel stomach sick as I write this), I created a TikTok account so I could watch things unrelated to my personal friends. Mainly booktok and crafty videos. The thing is, from a very young age, I felt the need to create and share. I had multiple unsuccessful YouTube channels, Instagram accounts, and even… Wattpad accounts.

With TikTok, it wasn’t any different. I started posting random things I did and liked with an excitement that only comes from 21st-century anonymity. It was those odd pandemic times, so things just took off. I had plenty of time to post consistently, and people had plenty of time to be on their phones. The thing that always went viral was the journaling videos. Nobody online posted messy and colorful journals like mine, so I stood out as the “creative” journal. I started receiving free products from many brands I dreamed of consuming. I was making actual money to the point that it helped me pay for my gap year abroad. It was a lot of fun since I was just sharing things I had already done before. I liked being the relatable person in the midst of tons of black and white paper.

Then I went to college at 19. My life sprang faster than I could account for, and I felt the want to share that. Occasionally, I’d post something here and there about college and film school, but nothing ever took off as journaling did. So I focused on making my money as much as I could while still having my fun.

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Then, school became more rigorous, and I grew more passionate about my studies. I stopped journaling as often and as “creatively” as before. Now, I was the black and white pages. Balancing personal life and being on film sets is already a huge challenge, and TikTok was not in my priorities, so I slacked off. I still posted maybe once every couple of weeks just to keep some income coming, but the excitement was gone. Even receiving things from brands like Valentino and L’oréal couldn’t make me want to post.

Then, around four months ago, I just permanently deleted everything. All the 6 years of my online persona are only accessible to the social media gods.

In a recent conversation with friends, this came up and only then did I realize how much I had to say about that. Yeah, social media is awful and terrible, and I hope a meteor hits all the internet satellites out there, but….. I truthfully and guiltily love it.

The reason why I deleted it’s not as much as “I spend too much time scrolling” or “social media is destroying my brain”. I feel like, at a very young age, I developed a healthy relationship with social media, where it brings me very little anxiety or worry. That came from my many unsuccessful creative attempts, which required too much exposing of my own thoughts and self.

Whether I like it or not, I lost any sense of online embarrassment. So the problem was mainly loss of interest. The enchantment of receiving free products and going viral was lost to me. The fun of having a journaling community was also unfortunately lost.

The TikTok journaling community became a whole bunch of “aesthetic” pages with insincere creativity. Instead of inspiring a habit of artful honesty, it now inspires copy and paste of Pinterest pages. It slowly fell into crazy consumerism, too. Expensive journals were flooding my fyp, which seems hypocritical to what journaling even is in the first place. You’d see people buying Carmen Louise journals to do JUNK journaling with the scraps of their lunches.

I have to say that I do miss the creation behind the scenes. The filming, the editing, the physical making of “content”. I don’t miss the “post a million times a day if you want to keep your public engaged” or “here’s why you’re flopping!”. But I miss networking with a wide range of people: authors, filmmakers, fellow journal girls… I miss the thrill of when someone says you’ve helped them somehow…

So I’m out of TikTok. I’m truly happy for everything it was and how much it changed my life, but it was also time to grow up from the commitment my 16-year-old self had signed off on.

Maybe one day I’ll go back. Maybe I will post about completely different things. Maybe in my own terms.

The good thing is I’m still here. And I plan to be back for real now.

Com Amor,

Giulia

Tell me about the time you first met your boyfriend and the sparks flew instantly. Tell me about how you love all of your girlfriend’s mannerisms. Tell me how your summer situationship meant the world to you. Tell everyone how love brought you back to life.

Maybe I am just a cancer who watched too many romcoms and read too many cliché romances before the age of 13. BUT I love to hear love stories or just talk to people who are in love. I love when people mention their loved ones in random conversations just because they once said something about it. I love hearing silly relationship problems because even though Stupid John can’t clean the bathroom right, you still love him like that. I love when people are in the early stages of talking to someone, and you can see their eyes light up along with the random smiles at nothing.

What can I say? I just love love.

But why are so many women scared to talk about love? I have never in my life seen someone be willingly open about love (besides myself, as I once told half of the world population I had found the love of my life after talking to a random guy for 3 hours).

Well, the cliché thing to say is: love is scary. Which, granted, it is.

Yet, I think it’s more of a society’s problem than women being scared. They are scared because we live in a century where friends tell each other they don’t want to hear about each other’s boyfriends. ABSURD. Tell me how you love him, tell me how you fuck him, that’s what friendships are for. (I am mainly talking about my female friends, for I do not want to hear any of my guy friends telling me their sex lives.)

Don’t get me wrong, please, I HOPE you have more to your life than your situationship, and I don’t want to just talk about that. But I see so many women keeping their romantic lives quiet because of the fear I also fear: Love makes you a dumber woman.

Of course, Little Women already showed us that this is not true at all. However, if women still relate to that story, then we have had the same fears as Jo March for far too long.

All I can really speak from is what I feel. And what I feel is this constant pull: I want to be smart and logical and composed to the outside world. I also want to be deep and emotional in my inner life, for I am a creative person and… myself! However, one backstabs the other. Over and over. And many times the ones to point that out are women themselves.

In relationships with women, with all their Elena Ferrante layers, we are many times put into competition by our environments. For example, in work or love life. We’re constantly pushed into competition: over career, over worth, over who’s more “independent.” Sometimes, that leaks into how we talk about love too. Or how we don’t talk about love.

We’re scared to talk about it because it makes us vulnerable. And in this world, we all know women don’t get many places where we’re allowed to be vulnerable. At the same time, we don’t even want to hear about it from our friends, because deep down we believe they’re “too cool” or “too smart” to “only talk about love.” We want to prove to ourselves, and to each other that we care about more than just romance (which we do!). But somewhere in that effort, we stop mentioning love at all. We make it invisible.

Or again, maybe that’s just my own experience. I’m not attempting to write an essay on the universal experience of women.

In my experience, it is so easy to talk about empowering love. It is easy to encourage the “He broke my heart, but I love myself more” type of stuff. We’re allowed to talk about love only when it makes us stronger or teaches us something. Now, when it comes to the giddy “stupid” love, we are embarrassed. We’re scared to say “I’m obsessed and happy and I don’t want it to end.” Even though we do feel that too. God forbid a woman acts irrationally because of love (just like every other human being)!

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Many times, I see women downplay their love stories with men because it’s seen as somehow anti-feminist. Like our relationships have to come with PowerPoint slides and a list of takeaways. But love isn’t a TED Talk. Sometimes it’s just feeling it and that should be enough.

That’s not even mentioning queer relationships that have a love talking fear of their own for a specific set of reasons. If straight women feel scared to talk about love, queer women sometimes don’t even know where to begin.

So please, tell me about love. I want to be the friend you can message at 1 a.m. just to say, “I think I’m falling in love.”

Com Amor,

Giulia

…….

I turned 21. It feels like the day after you get your period for the first time or the morning after you had sex for the first time. You expected so much but literally nothing has changed. You’re exactly the same as you’ve ever been. There is no sense of olderness; you’re no more adult than you were 24 hours ago. Yet, when you reflect on it in the future, it will feel like a defining moment that separated your life into before and after. But what is my current “before and after”?. What was I supposed to feel? What do I feel? What will I feel?

I crave a sense of anonymity. To live a secret life with secret likings and secret events. To hide myself away, not because I fear the world but because I only want to be myself to myself.

I feel the opposite of everything I felt in my teen years. Back then, I wanted to be seen. I wanted you to know the music I like and how that was me. The books I read were me. The way I see the world was me. I wanted so desperately to share and to be understood through the things I extended my personality to. I thought that maybe, if you too consumed those things, you would finally understand who I am.

Suddenly (or maybe not so suddenly, I can’t really tell when it began), I feel like my taste in music, books, art, all of it… is completely separate from who I am. They’re just consequences of me. Things I gravitated toward, not reflections of who I am. Now, I think everything I do is just a happening, not proof of who I am. I don’t even want to be understood anymore. I’d rather admit I don’t understand myself either. Nothing is me besides… me. Not my playlist. Not my wardrobe. Only I can trace myself back to myself.

As a first-born teenage daughter, I questioned all the questions. And I answered all of them too. I thought I knew who I was because I knew what clothes I wanted to wear and what kind of people I wanted to be with. I thought that if I understood what made me happy, I’d unlock the magic formula for how to live. I thought that was enough. I knew what shoes I liked, and what I wanted for the next five years. So what else is there to figure it out?

Well… Kind of everything.

A new set of unexpected questions about myself keeps bugging me. They’re messier, more abstract, and honestly, sometimes don’t make any sense. Am I making sense?

Is it genetic craziness or being raised by craziness?

What are the costs of prematurity?

What are the habits that form me?

What do you do with the remains of a deflated ego?

How do you protect yourself from good people in bad states of mind?

To me, the answers to these questions suddenly feel more like a key to myself than the collections of images I save in my Pinterest board.

But to answer these questions, I must have space within myself. I want to gatekeep all the answers (for this is my life anyway, and it only concerns to me). Weird feeling, man. Swear to God.

Think as, I saw myself as the result of an equation of all the things that surround me. Now, I see all the things that surround me as the result of myself.

Maybe this is adulting. Maybe this is a cheers to a secret (and never quiet) life.
So I blew out my candles with the most basic wish of all. And for once, it felt like the most honest one.

Sorry for the senseless.

I will be writing more here with things that actually make sense.

Com Amor,

Giulia

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I love Phoebe Bridgers, and I’m sure she never meant to create this whole idea when she wrote “romanticize a quiet life, there’s no place like my room.” I definitely listen to that song while romanticizing a quiet, nice moment in my room. The thing that bothers me—and it has been bothering me more as I grow up—is that people use the excuse of a quiet life to be disengaged from society. They are friendless, they are apolitical, and they live chronically online.

Like, bitch please, go somewhere.

Life in the 21st century is not quiet. Life in your 20s is not quiet. It’s loud. It’s so loud that you can’t sit all day reading and journaling (and I’m The Journal Advocate!). Self-enjoyment only goes so far; you can’t become smarter just by consuming books, movies, and SUBSTACK from the comfort of your bed. You need to go out there and experience life. You know nothing about art if you only consume it and do not experience it in real life.

So yeah, I’m pissed off.

People spend so much time trying to fit into an internet persona/aesthetic that only exists online instead of experiencing different lifestyles and things. Like, didn’t our entire generation watch High School Musical 1? We were supposed to be the ones breaking the status quo. We were supposed to be the generation of influencers who like books AND raves, who like politics AND skincare, who like basketball AND musical theater!!

Just the thought of opening TikTok frustrates me now because I don’t feel deeply connected to most creators. Everyone seems to be fitting their niche way too specifically in a way that makes me question how much I would enjoy being friends with this person. Most of the time, I wouldn’t. I want to surround myself with people who read fantasy porn books and watch French New Wave films. People who do yoga in the morning and will share a late-night drunk cigarette with me. I want my For You page to be filled with those people. I want to feel like social media is fun. Is that too crazy?

I don’t want pretentiousness one way or the other. I just want to feel like everyone is multidimensional instead of online characters.

As we speak, Anthony Bourdain (my icon ⭐️) is trending on TikTok. Isn’t that so ironic? The guy who told people to MOVE, to GET OUT, is trending in the For You pages of people who want to romanticize a quiet life.

I bet he would say in one of his episodes, “Fuck a quiet life, what the fuck is a quiet life? Give me chaos, give me heartbreak, give me a night in a strange city with nothing but bad decisions and a bowl of noodles.” Yeah. I bet he would.

This is a rage post, but in all seriousness, I do have creators who truly inspire me and do not fit into this idea. I might create a post recommending all of them soon…

Com Amor,

Giulia

You will see so many people on social media talking about how to be more creative and what book to read to inspire your art, but we barely talk about the exhaustion of creation.

Creating is demanding. It demands time and effort beyond a 9-to-5 shift. It consumes all your thoughts with no break. So often, a project will “burn you out”, not in a way that you’ll never be creative again, but you just simply need a break. A break to absorb life around you, for your own sake, not because you’re creating something that replicates life. However, taking a break sometimes feels as hard as executing a project. Especially if you’re a creative person, you’ll most likely be spending your time thinking about a new idea and things you can do now that you have all this time. There’s nothing wrong with that, but at some point, your mind will need a break. Or you’ll have a creative burnout.

I spent the last months working on a documentary about a complicated topic, and many times, the technicality of how I’m going to do the documentary got in the way of the creative process. I don’t regret anything, but it was probably one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done. Every night, I dreamed of how I would edit it, and how I can still try to save it from the ashes. My mind was so focused on this that I completely forgot to enjoy the moment of creation and the people around me. I got so stressed I could barely eat. I was surviving to make this documentary instead of living to make it.

Then, it was done.

And now I’m left with zero energy to touch a camera. I’m still having ideas for next projects and thinking of other mediums I want to explore, but the thought of executing those ideas freaks me out. I want to spend the next days loathing the sun on my skin and doing nothing. Yet, I feel bad about it. I feel like I should be doing something, because look at all this time I have! However, this time I’ll rest. I’ll force myself to rest because I have to and I know my mind has to. For the first time, I get that I chose a path in which creativity is also work and everyone needs a break from work.

Right now, I’m in doubt if there is a way to rest creatively. If you can still relax and create something with no pressure just for the sake of it. So my plan for now is to rest and slowly get back into different mediums other than film to see what comes out of it.

In case you too feel creatively burned out and somehow have a magic recipe to make everything better, please share <3

I remember fiercely refusing to even schedule a tour—until I did. And it was love at first sight. I remember thinking and saying, “It looks like the University Sims pack.”

Still, the blurred red vision of Florida scared me a little. What if they are all orange-tanned MAGA people? But after many plot twists, I ended up choosing to study at Florida State and moved to my beloved Tallanasty.

Contrary to what I believed, I found a diverse and accepting community full of people who shared my passions. I went to drag shows, midnight movies, and even a pet-a-llama event on campus. I went to frat parties, film parties, and rave parties. I met every sort of person imaginable, with every possible major you can think of. I ran across Landis Green with my arms wide open with one of my best friends, just because life is good sometimes around here. I walked late at night to Wescott just to see a friend dive into his 21st birthday fountain. I secretly stole toilet paper from Sally Hall because I was too lazy to buy my own.

And then—Campus. You can argue with me about how great FSU is, but no one on this planet can deny how gorgeous our campus looks. Every time I’m walking alone, I feel like the main character of a movie that hasn’t yet been released. The garden is beautifully kept year-round, and every building looks like a castle. I don’t even care that much that the bathrooms are kinda shitty. There’s something so historical about this place.

Maybe it’s not about how it looks—but the idea that you’re a student here, just like so many before you, enjoying life in the best place you could be. There’s an unspoken sense of belonging that you can only feel at FSU.

That is until today.

I can’t take myself back to that moment, because at the time, it didn’t feel real. A gun is a violent tool, and that is its sole purpose. I have never seen a gun in real life, or at least, not one that is out to be used. That’s why I can’t fully grasp the idea of another student pulling one out. I’ve seen it in movies—I’ve seen Tarantino movies! I know what a gun can do. What feels foreign isn’t an American maniac pulling out a gun to kill. What feels foreign is that it happened in a space that felt so sacredly safe in my mind. In a place less than two miles from the Capitol, where politicians allow guns to go unchecked every single day. It feels illogical.

It’s not surprising the shooter is a Trump supporter—because, let’s be honest, everyone’s aunt is, right? What’s surprising is that at a school that offers so many opportunities to connect with people who share your beliefs, you still actively choose violence.

Now, locked in my apartment, I wonder if I’ll be afraid to walk on campus again. If I will ever go near where it happened. If I can replace this terrible memory with new ones. I think and overthink about what happens now, and how we move forward. So I try to focus on that one time, a year ago, when I had a picnic on Landis during twilight with some of the same people who were in lockdown with me today. I think of how happily innocent we were. How we bought Chick-fil-A milkshakes even though it was still a cold spring. How I distributed free condoms from the library. How we said we needed to do that more times. How we talked about what life would be like in a year.

I think of how they fear the same things I do. I think of their parents, when they called to tell them. I think that if it weren’t for them, this could all have been so much worse. Of all the people I could be under a table in silence waiting for a shooting alert to go away, I was with the best possible people. I wish they weren’t there, I wish I wasn’t there. But we were and that is how I will remember.

Consumerism is not exclusive to the U.S., but the intensity and consistency with which it occurs are much higher than anything I had ever experienced before. I started buying clothes just because they were cheap, not because I actually liked them. I saw myself following trends because, finally, I could follow trends.

Over time, my entire family came to admit that those habits needed to stop and that they had happened out of excitement—which is true. It was exciting to finally own all the things we wanted but couldn’t afford before. However, it also came with guilt. I felt terrible for spending money, even if just a little, on something that I didn’t even use or like.

For this year’s goals, I wrote that I want to be more intentional when making purchases so that I don’t feel that guilt and get the plus of being smarter with my money. While I did have some setbacks at first, I've recently been using my money wisely and wanted to share some of that progress:

1. Handmade Oasis Sweater

I had never bought a custom-made piece of clothing, but when I saw Studio6’s sweater, I knew I had to go after the girl who made those. I was willing to pay more than I normally would for a sweater, not only because it is handmade but also because Oasis is my favorite band ever, and I am going to their reunion tour in August, so I needed a special outfit. I still haven’t worn it out because I’m so scared of something happening to it before the concert, but I’m getting braver and might wear it soon. I was surprised at how willingly I spent my money on this—I didn’t feel guilty at all because I LOVED IT so much.

2. Wooden Mirror

I kinda hate how my college apartment room looks, and I want to do a major renter-friendly makeover, so I've been looking for a mirror to give my room more personality. I had a really small budget, so I was primarily looking at Facebook Marketplace, but I only found ugly and expensive mirrors. I was about to move on to a basic IKEA mirror or even buy a cheap one from TikTok Shop. Thank God I didn’t.

I went thrifting with a friend with not much in mind, and by absolute accident, I found a gorgeous wooden mirror with no price tag. I asked the Salvation Army employee how much it would be, and he smiled and answered, “How much do you think?”

I said, “Honestly, I can’t pay more than $10,” to which he replied, “$10 it is!”

I still can’t believe how insane that was. I’m obsessed with my new mirror, and I hope to style it better in my room this week.

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3. Lily Plate

On that same thrifting day, I found this absolutely gorgeous porcelain lily plate for $5, and it just felt like a gift from heaven. The vibe I'm going for in my room is “vintage whimsical,” and this plate screamed 12 Dancing Princesses which matches this vibe. I also decided to post on TikTok, and people agreed on how much of an insane find that was. I couldn’t feel better about it, especially since it was so cheap.

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZT2nRbLvH/

4. Pink Winter Coat

I have been using my mom’s winter coats for as long as I can remember, and I never had a problem with them until recently when I visited NYC in January. It was so cold, and wearing a big coat was a must. I was wearing a black coat that was one size too big and had some big gold buttons that made me feel like a Nutcracker or a pilot. It looks great on my mom, but I got so frustrated because it didn’t feel like me at all, plus it was too big.

I knew it was time to get my own, but I didn’t want to spend much, so I scavenged thrift stores but couldn’t find anything that either fit me or felt like me. One day, while looking through the Urban Outfitters website, I couldn’t believe what my eyes saw—a pink winter coat, originally $159, for $17, in my size.

I immediately second-guessed myself. “Am I only thinking this is pretty because it’s cheap, or do I actually like it?” I decided to give it a few hours so I wouldn’t make an impulsive purchase, but in the end, I knew I genuinely liked the goddamn coat. I ordered it and got to wear it on my recent trip to Connecticut, and it proved to be both warm and cute!

I’m not perfect

Obviously, I still make a purchase or another that makes me feel a bit stupid but that has become less and less usual. I decided to share this because I feel like as a young adult just learning how to manage money, there are still many things I don’t know or need to get smarter about, so who knows, this might help you too.

Com Amor,

Giulia

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1. Catcher In The Rye - J.D. Salinger

There is a reason why so many English teachers force kids to read this book in high school. Catcher In The Rye is one of the easiest classics to read because its narration is so raw and relatable to teens. The reader follows Holden Caulfield's coming of age in a post-war modern world, except he just doesn't want to grow up. He tries to escape adulthood but because that is impossible, he faces a few problems along the way. The book takes place mainly in New York City in the 1950s. You can’t help but feel the post-WWII feel of the story and this fear of the world. Despite being an old book, it is impossible not to relate to the main character as teen angst is timeless.

2. Perks Of Being A Wallflower - Stephen Chbosky

At this point, I expect you to have AT LEAST seen the movie. If you haven’t yet, just skip to the book and watch the film later.

I can’t put into words how beautiful and tragic this story is. The book follows Charlie, the main character, starting his freshman year of high school in a new school where he is forced to find new friends. Because of his shyness, he struggles with that at first but then ends up finding a group of seniors who accept him for who he is. The problem is that Charlie keeps everything to himself and doesn’t share much, leading him to write letters to this unknown person telling him how he really feels. Those letters are basically to the reader and are a way for us to follow Charlie’s thoughts and feelings. This book talks about all the weirdness of being in high school and never really fitting in, while still having a deeper story behind it all.

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3. Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe - Benjamin Alire Sáenz

This one is one of the most wholesome books I have ever read. It is a super easy and light read that still has the depth of “the secrets of the universe.” It feels like a big lesson on friendship, love, sexuality, family, and (this one hits personally hard for me) being an immigrant. Ari and Dante are complete opposites in personality, yet they find a way to discover life and come of age together. Unlike the last two books I mentioned, this one brings topics that are not usually talked about in teen books in a casual way. It explores “embarrassing” feelings in such a beautiful and positive light that you can’t help but see a bit of yourself or others in the characters.

4. Bonjour Tristesse - Françoise Sagan

Yes. Finally, a book written by a woman. Or better, a teen girl.

I kid you not, the author wrote and published this book at the ripe age of 18. It feels like it was written by a young person but not in an unprofessional and naive way. It just feels real to what an 18-year-old girl would write. It’s angsty, melancholic, and sexual. I bet Sabrina Carpenter would love this one. It is about Cécile, a teen girl spending a happy summer away with her widowed father and his girlfriend—until Anne arrives. Anne is a woman full of personality who is set to get everything she wants, creating a female competition with Cécile. It talks about feminine relationships with a tone of admiration and hate at the same time. For me, the book is basically about Cécile and Anne, but there is so much more than that.

5. The Alchemist - Paulo Coelho

This one is really for all ages but I think there is a benefit in reading this book in the middle of college apps and confusion about what you want out of life. The Alchemist has nothing to do with high school or being a teenager. It is about life and the universe. It is almost a guide that says everything is going to be ok because you still have so much ahead. Life is a winding road and as a teenager, you still have to go through a lot of roadblocks to get your final destination. You will see that through the eyes of Santiago, a shepherd from Spain looking for a treasure. It is a super short and light read that will make you feel wiser about life. After I read this book I finally decided what major I wanted to study in college so that might somehow help you out too.

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Thank you so much for reading this far and being part of my substack journey! I can’t explain how much I love this app and this type of content. Let me know if you have any other book recs.

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Com Amor,

Giulia

So this is my upbeat guide to myself to re-read from now on, because yes, I will be miserable again doing what is my dream.

1. Explain what is the career dream.

I spent most of my life saying it was film, but it isn’t just that, is it? I want it all. Check all the above for all the creative jobs out there. The dream is creating.

2. Admit it kinda sucks.

That is the exact part I dislike it. Creating kinda sucks. I was a firm believer that the process is better than the product but that is absolute bullshit when it comes to creation. Everything else in life follows this rule, but do not lie to yourself by saying that lifeless 13-hour film sets are better than a movie. Rewriting a stupid English paper multiple times is the most gutwrenching thing you will ever do, but clicking “turn in” is awesome. Cooking Tiramisu on New Year’s Eve while everything around you is falling apart is most definitely not as tasteful as that heavenly egg-mascarpone-coffee taste. So stop pulling up with the self-help bullshit, the process is hellish. After you accept that, it is easier to deal with it. Accept drugs from strangers, drink wine on a Monday, smoke a menthol cigarette.

3. Hold on to what matters.

What actually matters is that first spark of the idea you had. Nothing else. It doesn’t matter if half of the world (OR THE STATE OF FLORIDA) is against you. If you have an idea you care so much about and believe it needs to get made no matter what, accept that your body and soul will refuse to function if you give up.

4. It will most likely unsatisfy you. It might be shit.

Having it done will give you a rush of relief and you will understand it was all worth it. You will probably be thinking about new, and somehow harder, ideas. You will pray to Holy Mary for the first time in months and say thank you. You will, finally, be happy.

Until you screen it to an audience. Then, it will all go down the drain. You will feel the rollercoaster going down in an endless 90-degree angle. Now, you MUST do your new ideas because they are so much better, and so much more exciting and so much more you than this piece of work you just did. And most of all, you will egotistically refuse to let the last thing you do be something less than 99% perfect to your standards. So no—you won’t be dropping out and running away to Europe.

5. So you will do it again.

And guess what? You will whine about it.

There is some indescribable feeling through the daily life of actually saying no to emotional comfort and stability. That feeling will linger in between your thumb and index finger. That will shape your life for better or worse. Step into the craziness every time you feel crazy—that’s when helpful texts like this come out!

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Com Amor (and this time a tad of hate),

Giulia

At the time, I was 18, and it felt like absolute craziness—not just to me but to everyone else. I spent a few days in Portugal and Spain before settling down in a small town in the south of France. My plan was to take French classes every day for 12 weeks. The school had a few accommodation options at what seemed like a reasonable price. I chose a studio, which turned out to be a super tiny room with a bed, a table, an electric stove, and a tiny fridge. There was also a bathroom, where I did dishes since there was no other sink. When I arrived, the studio was dirty, and it took me an entire day to deep-clean the beard hair the last tenant had left behind.

Once it was done, I sat on the floor and cried—out of happiness. For the first time in my life, I had a place to call my own. I didn’t care that it was far from the town center, that I had to wash dishes where I brushed my teeth, or even that the heater barely worked. It was mine for those 12 weeks.

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The landlord—or landlady—welcomed me on the first day with so much excitement. She was a woman in her 60s with ginger hair (like mine at the time). She owned the building and lived upstairs with her cat and birds, renting the bottom room to international students looking for an adventure. Her English was good enough for us to communicate, but my French was terrible. She invited me to have dinner with her upstairs, and I remember debating whether this total stranger could be a serial killer. But again, I was 18 and had nothing to lose.

We ate soup and talked in half French, half English about how I came to be in France alone. I learned her name was Françoise Teisseire—a name I still struggle to pronounce. She was shocked that my parents let me solo travel and that I was paying for the trip myself. She showed me her home, and I was struck by the beautiful paintings hanging on the walls. They all had a clear style and recurring themes, so I assumed she was the artist. Later, I discovered that painting was the way she spent most of her retired afternoons.

Madame Teisseire would never accept a compliment, but she showered me with them. She’d pinch my cheeks and say I looked like a doll. I can’t help but think she saw a little bit of herself in me, just as I saw a lot of myself in her. The way she spoke, even when it didn’t always make sense, the way she decorated her house, her attachment to her pets, and how she spent afternoons on her rooftop—it all felt familiar. But she was lonely. Her daughter and granddaughter visited occasionally, but they didn’t seem very close.

Madame Teisseire introduced me to her granddaughter, who was a junior in high school. The idea was for me to practice French and for her to practice English. She was nice enough, and I shared stories about my other French adventures with her. But I hated how she smoked in my tiny studio, leaving the smell to linger for hours, and especially hated how she talked about her grandmother. She’d call her crazy or a lunatic and say her mom forced her to visit. I remember when she asked what I thought of her grandmother. I told her how much I loved that old lady and how helpful she’d been. She seemed shocked. She then told me about how Madame Teisseire had scolded her for smoking and kissing girls. I laughed—what else would an old lady do?

I could tell my landlady appreciated my presence. Sometimes, she’d do my laundry so I wouldn’t have to spend money. In return, I took care of her cat when she was away. She often invited me to her rooftop, and I regret not going more often. Looking back, I wish I’d asked her for one of her paintings as a gift or sent her a heartfelt message after I got back to the States.

There is this never-ending nostalgia that fills me when I think about her and how much my life was marked by her. I can’t quite say what the mark is or where it lies, but I know it’s there in me. I aspire to be like her in ways I don’t fully understand. She had a freedom her family couldn’t comprehend, and yet I barely know what she did with that freedom other than paint. I don’t know what parts of town she visited. I don’t know if she had a lover. I don’t even know what happened to her late husband. But there was something about her spirit that makes me envision myself growing old like her. Maybe I believe too much in mysticism, but I do think our paths crossed for a reason. I wonder if she remembers me in the same way.

Anyway, I write about her because that woman was such an important presence during the craziest time of my life. I can’t quite accept that I’ll never see her again. Not because she’s dead, but because that chapter of my life is over, and the characters in it are now far away.

Com Amor,

Giulia

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⭐ Supplies

• The Notebook: People underestimate how important it is to find a nice notebook that fits you and your needs. Personally, I like something simple that I can personalize, dotted pages, and a flexible cover (journals get fat easier than you think!).

  🤍 My recommendation for that would be my beloved Paperage Dotted Journal. And bonus: It’s cheaper than some premium brands but they have the same quality.

  🤍 Another journal brand I loooove because it has such beautiful designs is Papier. Last year I used the Wildflower Journal and every day somebody complimented it. The only reason why I am not using one of their journals as my main journal this year is because I love to make my journals super full and I found that it unfortunately it doesn’t hold that as well because the cover is not that flexible. However, they sent me the Quilted Dreams one and I’ll be using it as a reading journal.

• Pens: Now, people overestimate how important having a multitude of pens is. You really only need one nice black pen that never runs out of ink. Of course, having multiple colors is fun and if it makes your journal feel more like you then you should have some, but it is truly not needed.

  🤍 Gel Pens I love: Pentel Energel, Writech Colorful Pens, Writech Black Pens

  🤍 Brush pens I love: Writech Brush, Pentel Brush Pens

  🤍 Highlighters I love: Mildliners

• Extras (appreciated but not necessary): Glue, scissors, all sorts of paper from your daily life, photos, stickers, washi tapes, etc.

⭐ Types/Styles of Journaling

Some people like to divide journals into types. Your journal should be whatever you want to make of it, but these suggestions might help guide you in your choice.

The Junk Journal

Junk journals are often a collage of papers you collect through your days and they represent that day/week/month in a creative and resembling way. They have lots of layers with scrapbook papers, stickers, and pictures. Everything goes in a junk journal! But as you can see there is not as much writing. It is great for people who communicate more visually or just want to have a creative outlet.

The Bullet Journal

Now, bullet journals are almost the opposite. It was a method that gained a lot of popularity for being so helpful with organization. It is sort of a do-it-yourself planner that can also contain creative pages.

That’s actually how I started journaling! Back in 2018 I had my first bullet journal and I loved making the pages but I never really used it much for organization so I naturally changed to the journaling I do nowadays.

The Self-Reflection Journal

Now this type of journaling is the one people often use prompts to have a reflection on their lives. All sorts of gratitude journals fall into this category in which you write usually without thinking about the visuals. You’re honest while making an active effort to become better.

The Diary

This is the classic “Dear Diary, my day was…”. It’s a collection of your daily life through written entries. It’s super raw and probably the sort of journal you hide under your pillows.

The IDGAF Journal (a.k.a. my journal)

This is what I like to call the EVERYTHING, all-in-one journal. It’s a diary full of junk and sketches and poetry. It is the brain dump from the wildest parts of the mind. If a cop found this, I’d probably be in jail. This is what made me have somewhat of an internet fame (RIP TikTok), and I hope it never was because it was “aesthetic”. I hope people who watched my videos and you who are reading understand that the reason why my journal is “cool” is because it is the most honest physical piece of myself. I do not lie there about who I am or how I portray myself. If I feel like I want to do a colorful nice page, I do it. If I want to spill some coffee and write nonsense, I do it. This sort of journaling is the reminder that a notebook is literally just a collection of white pages that fully belong to you. There is no shame, no judgment, no anything. It’s yours to keep yourself.

⭐ Prompts

Ok but how do I actually start dissecting myself into those pages? Don’t worry I got you. I have both creative and self-reflection prompts here:

⭐ Getting In The Habit

That is probably the hardest part. Consistency when journaling is the key to making it a healthy outlet for your mental health and creativity. You don’t have to journal every day (who has that much free time?) but you should definitely put in the effort to try to do a couple of entries each week. It can be just a few sentences, or gluing a receipt of a coffee shop you visited, just make sure you’re putting thought into documenting your life.

⭐ Advice List:

1. Carry your journal with you at ALL times

2. NEVER stop yourself from writing something because you think you sound “cringe”

3. Do not judge your ugly pages. You will have a bunch and it is ok.

4. Do read your old journals. You’ve come a long way and you should appreciate that.

5. Hide your journal well. Younger sisters have supernatural theft skills.

🥀

Well, I guess that’s it! I hope you now feel a little more confident to start your journaling adventure. If you have any questions about this or anything else just ask them here or in the chat and I’ll gladly answer them.

There are certain affiliate links in this article which means that if you buy something out of them, I make a small commission out of it.

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Com Amor,

Giulia

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Hey! My name is Giulia, and I’ve been around the internet for as long as I can remember—like a good 21st-century child. I had countless YouTube channels since I was 8, a Studygram account, and most recently, my beloved (and quite successful) journal TikTok account @giuliaa.mp4.

Over the last two years, my TikTok has been monetized, and social media suddenly became more than just a hobby. It’s the side-hustle job I love, and in a way, it’s my creative outlet outside my studies in film. More than that, it’s a community I created. So, when I heard the news that the goddamn U.S. government might ban TikTok, you can say I was pissed. I’m not even American!

I considered going back to YouTube since I’m a film student, and the visual medium suits me, but my routine just wouldn’t allow me to be consistent. Besides, I need a medium to write. I recently posted on TikTok,

“I haven’t journaled much this year. Not for lack of content, just life moves faster than my pen, and that’s okay.”

That’s exactly how I’ve been feeling. Yet, I’m always so desperate to type. Not just about my life, but about everything! So Substack felt like the perfect new internet adventure for me.

To be honest, I don’t know exactly what I’m doing or how the platform works, but I’m so excited to start a new creative project. I plan to write about personal stories, including my fashion journey, being an immigrant, journaling (of course!), relationships of all kinds, film & film school, books & media I consume. If you want to follow along, you’re more than welcome here 💋

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Com Amor,

Giulia

(P.S.: here’s an Alfredo pic to lighten your day)

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