It never rains, it pours. Spring’s blossom has come, summer no longer its caboose. The dinner bell clangs against the rusty iron. A call back home. To observe and to gather the harvest we diligently planted many moons prior.

I spent so much time making sure these things wouldn’t happen but here I am, and it’s happened. I find myself walking in summer’s grass mystified by its taste. I expected sweet, but this one feels tangy.

Where was I when I was planting those seeds? Who was I?

What do we do when the harvest doesn’t resemble the seeds we planted?

I am in transformation, not danger.

The scent of Mexico City always smells the same. Like my mother’s bathrobe, or the scarves left in her closet. Warm, comforting and intimate. Fossilized in my bones. In the backseat of my cab from the airport into the city, the perfume strikes me in the face. My back window cracked, smirking as I take it in. It’s ephemeral and brilliant. It wraps its arms around me. Homecoming to a place that didn’t raise me, but changed me. Four years and counting of what I’d like to think of my spirit’s sabbatical.

I have an unrelenting need to retrace my late father’s footsteps. Much of who I am and become is from my inquisitive nature to research. Life and its uncanny and unconventional ways of dealing consequences, good or bad.

As a bright, young teen, my dad, Michael Q Wagner, spent a summer in Mexico City in 1976 with a Mexican family. A metanoia for a young white man from Wisconsin. He was deeply humbled by the warmth of the family and their generous culture. He would continue to be pen pals with one of his “brothers” for years to come. I would continue to hear these stories for the rest of my life.

The ripple of that experience expanded his mind the ways he could be in service to others, travel, learn about other cultures, and make his life beautiful. That beauty to Michael was to be a good man (rare), marry a beautiful woman and have four young girls that could have the same experience.

His four young girls were put in a french immersion school at a young age, shared a household with TAs from all over the world, be championed by their parents to be curious, spontaneous, travel expansively, study internationally, live with host families, be encouraged to make mistakes, learn from them, sit up straight, be inventive, pick up and move, and do it again and again and again.

So I go to Mexico City to pay my respects. Its domino effect gifted me a spine built with bravery and tenacity.

In the beginning of this year I was planning my time there with much excitement and much necessity. I had crossed the finish line in January, but I still collapsed to my knees. My anguish and the tribulations of 2025 couldn’t be washed away that quickly. I deeply longed for levity. I had tattooed a fake smile on for so long, I forgot what it was like to be happy. I had become so accustomed to bracing for impact over the last year that peace itself began to feel unfamiliar. My sabbatical was ordained. Mexico City for February and March was the medicine I prescribed. A magic carpet ride awaited.

I headed to JFK to leave New York’s brewing, bitter winter on a mission: To get my mojo back.

“The ice is melting, I am defrosting. I am sowing the seeds. I will be specific, diligent. Do my best to detach once dug in the soil. I’ll dig around to find two embers in the ashes to strike a flame, that flame will rise and so will I.”

These are the kind of manifestos I write in my journal on long plane rides. (Most likely eating a bizarre snack next to a passenger I just befriended.)

Accepting defeat doesn’t make you a sore loser. It just means you have to reset the clock. There was rain on last year’s parade, yes, but there was still music.

In about seven weeks I planned to transmute: being professionally unrecognizable due to a haircut and color that could have been done at a 12 year old’s sleepover, the hormonal imbalance and weight gain and high cortisol levels that came with that ego death, the emails from one of my agents that made me sit down in the shower and cry, the erosion of trust with myself and my own discernment, my modeling career, the income from that career, my self-esteem, my writer’s apathy, and last but definitely not least, breaking up with a person I loved, the love left over, what I should do with it and the possibility of more pain if I let him back in.

I can hear June snickering in the distance, “told you so!” July hushes her, “be nice!”’ I shrug, she was right. In June, there was pain. A lot of it. A coin flip I wish I could have predicted. Will he break my heart again or will he win it back? I wonder if the odds were ever 50/50, if it was all just a performance. Was the quest to win me back just a fool’s errand? Weightless words and whiplash.

Yet, June was gentle. She knew it stung and held my hand. They say “time heals all wounds”. It’s true, I feel the hands of time on my heart, kissing my eyes, tracing my palms, stroking my hair, applying salves. Time spins and I regenerate, that’s how it’s always been. Turmoil becomes tenacity. In a way, I knew I was free. I knew I was being protected. And one day I’ll chuckle and say, “that was so long ago.”

I swam in CDMX’s perfume like the first swim of a summer’s backyard pool. Weightless in bliss. It hung over me like the awning around the corner found in unexpected rain.

It was a big ticket item; the transmutation at hand. I had prepped my station to the best of my ability. I found a beautiful room in a beautiful home for those 7 weeks in Tacubaya with a beautiful lady named Bella. My hair was finally a shade of brown that didn’t unnerve me. It was almost healthy. I was a month in on a workout program I bought from a hot Aussie fitness influencer and, although humbled by my level of strength, the weight training was working. I was beginning to recognize my body. I sent my agents in CDMX all the photos I could muster with my brown hair. I knew there was enough to secure some bookings. I had a remote consulting client as an income safety. I had cute new shoes from eBay, cute unseen outfits, tarot cards, film cameras, palo santo, new lip liners, 3 books, 2 journals, rose quartz and my vibrator all packed in a carry-on and checked bag.

I was set up for success. What disappointment could arrive in my little heaven?

And for the first week, there was only bliss. Between the pure euphoria of being warm in February, walking around in my silk robe in my kitchen, climbing up to the roof to lay half naked with my morning tea, being welcomed home by the community I have created there, the festivities that came as ZonaMaco consumed Mexico City with its arts, parties and international hotties, I was happy. Truly happy. My dad’s green thumb works a little better down there. He was always a stellar gardener.

And at times, I was truly high. One afternoon, I mistakenly ate a piece of dark chocolate in the fridge to fulfill a sweet craving after my lunch, to find out after it was special dark chocolate. I had a wonderful session with my vibrator, began to get ready for a day and night of ZonaMaco events, picking out my outfit, doing my makeup thinking, “Wow… I feel… amazing, I must have really needed that orgasm.”

Frankly, I did. I spent January being so tightly wound. So, for about 10 minutes, it made sense I felt this high from a much needed release.

“Ok wait… I almost feel too good.. am I… high?”

Multitasking my lip-touch up with my compact mirror on the toilet mid-pee,

“OMG. The chocolate.”

Accepting the next few hours would be a little different, I leaned in. I ordered a moto for my first event. It arrived and to my delight, the driver had a second seat with a back rest. I greeted the man, put on my helmet, closed my eyes and pretended I was flying for my 15 minute ride. The evening that ensued would continue to be as whimsical as that ride.

Life was a half-full glass, I could say it with a grin stretched across my face.

I am connected to something greater than fear.

Buzzed off optimism, all I could daydream about was the bookings I’d have, the people I’d meet, the sets I’d be on; I was practically foaming at the mouth. I sent my agent new photos from my most recent test to add to the pile, and her response:

I was sobered up. And devastated. And flat-out embarrassed. The lint of last year was still on my clothing. The comedown from my high pushed me to be on the phone with my best friend, Anna, for almost 2 hours in Parque Chapultepec spiraling, walking aimlessly, crying publicly until I ended up sitting next to a tree in complete silence.

It’s true, I do love a pivot, but mostly because pivots love me.

In that silence, I let the anger, the pity, the frustration, the doubt, the sadness just wash over me. I felt like a fucking fool. A fool for trying out so many different looks over the past 4 years, a fool for thinking I could turn my life around so easily, a fool for pouring so much energy into this resurrection, a fool for even being there, a fool for making this trip for 2 months. What was going to do here for 7 weeks? I had about 10 hours of work a week for one client but, otherwise, jack shit. I questioned fleeing back home, I questioned my sanity, I questioned metamorphosis to see if I could join the tree that I was leaning on.

After my meltdown, like clockwork, came acceptance. I couldn’t go back and I didn’t want to. I had an all-hands with me, myself and I. I wasn’t supposed to turn it all around that fast. If this was the disappointment in my little heaven to ground me, then so be it. After some tarot pulls, journaling and a good night’s rest, I reckoned with the pivot.

My time in CDMX was incubation, not resurrection. My dad had other plans for me. The plan: my nervous system rehab. The rain came, it poured. The storm was not meant to delay me but to bolster me. I made a “Get Her Mojo Back” manual. Which entailed: affirmations to say every morning, a weight lifting program to follow, a grocery list of solo romantic meals to make, artists dates, long walks in new neighborhoods, enriching new friendships, nurturing old ones, practicing my Spanish with my deeply kind cleaning lady, Celi, getting good rest, and saying my prayers.

It felt like punishment, at times, to be alone with so much time to myself. It seemed the only solace was to confront my hidden dustballs, grab a dustpan and broom, and clean up the mess.

Opportunities find me wherever I am.

And as relaxed as I was, I was still calculated. I knew I had to prepare my nest for my return back to New York. There was work to be had and to be done.

I had spent about six months working in-office with a client and a team I absolutely adored. Basement west on 1st and 1st was my buoy. It kept me afloat. Carly, Elle and Daisy kept me steady. Powderpuff girls with war scars. They handled the waters so well and reassured me that, although storms come, tides change, I can still bob back to the surface. I left to take a leap, but leaving didn’t guarantee a return with them.

As much as I wanted that, I couldn’t rely only on possibility.

I had plenty of time to align my chakras and stare at clouds, but spirituality has never replaced my work ethic. I’m an esoteric woman, yes. I pull tarot cards. I talk to my dead dad. I have an altar. I do rituals. But I’m also a fucking hustler. I have a vision with a blueprint. I don’t know how I’ll make it happen, but I’ll get it done.

Mexico City gave me enough quiet to ask better questions and stare at the evidence board. A part of getting my mojo back meant a dovetail of softness and stability. No heads or tails, all in.

I wanted work that felt reciprocal.

A couple of consulting clients whose worlds I genuinely wanted to contribute to. Work that challenged me creatively, paid me fairly, and still left enough room for the other mouths I need to feed: the model, the writer, the actor, the woman who occasionally disappears to another country because she needs to remember herself.

I didn’t want to build a life where one dream had to cannibalize another. I wanted a home where all of them could exist together.

I started planting. I researched. I followed rabbit holes. I sent cold emails. I sent cold DMs. My job was to calculate a way to be in the right place, at the right time. In other words, when music stopped, I wanted to sit in that chair.

And I did. The simple pipeline line of an IG story to a cold email to a mutual friend recommendation did the trick. Three dominoes that fell and put me in front of a woman with a bright mind, infectious energy, and a vision that felt strangely familiar. We didn’t know each other very well, but we knew enough. There was work to be done, work to be had, and a shared desire to build something beautiful.

The timing was perfect. We would both return to New York at the end of March and have our first meeting. I could enjoy my last few weeks knowing I laid groundwork.

Those seven weeks came to close and I felt like butter on a dish, softened and steady. Ready to be cooked with anything. The chip on my shoulder had fallen off. Mobility where stiffness once was. My eyes bright, my tail bushy. My burdens composted in the soil. The only puzzle left to finish was a matter of heart.

At the end of March, I returned. I felt like a newborn. I felt like a complete alien. I needed to be held, be coddled, and be fed. And he was there to do it all. He was wonderful. He was generous. To show me what he could be if I let him. But, I was confused. I felt new, but when I came back everything felt the same. Cognitive dissonance was a trick I didn’t want to use. To my delight, my mojo had returned. But, my mission was not over. I was still on my way home. I still had to build a nest. I had a personal legend to follow.

As expected, the first meeting with the potential new dream client was exhilarating. Like an unbelievably good first date, you wait 10 steps before you immediately call your friend to gush or sit down on a bench to sit in disbelief or both. What excited me wasn’t just the possibility of a new client, it was the recognition. Someone who understood my strange little ecosystem. I knew her world and what required its growth. She saw all my spinning plates with a grin rather than a grimace.

I trust the ripening that I cannot see, that I cannot smell.

The twigs and branches were taking shape. Germination was soon to bring emergence.

April, I wanted to give an answer. I wanted to have an answer. I wanted to be ready. I wanted to command the weather. Give me sunshine! Give me warmth! Send me clouds! Give me shade! Give me clarity! My patient desert needs lots of rain!

“Be careful what you wish for…” May whispered.

Clarity has no responsibility to your expectations. Do not mistake its simplicity for cruelty. Intuition is the darkened sky. Clarity is the first drop of rain.

April started like pre-season tryouts. I had new gear and something to prove. I refused to join the JV. This year I’m on varsity. The wind was at my back. I had booked a big campaign for two brands I love. I was dipping back into creative communities I hold dear. My Google Calendar was flying colors, literally. I went viral on Instagram for a rooftop laundry test shoot I art directed in Mexico City. I thought they were tasteful and darling. But to everyone else, it was one of the greatest photos of my ass anyone’s ever seen.

(The DMs from those photos still haunt me, but I keep some for a rainy day just in case I need a boost or a good chuckle.)

I said yes to every catch-up, shoot and gig I possibly could to show myself and New York, “She’s BACK!”

Momentum and resolution can exist at the same time, but they aren’t the same thing. I was still playing hopscotch with my heart, wondering if love deserved another chance. My potential dream client and I were inching towards each other, but there was still no contract, no certainty, no official beginning.

April was the rush to get to the appointment on time, just to sit in May’s waiting room.

So I waited. It wasn’t easy, but waiting wasn’t the same as helplessness. I had said everything I needed to say. Prepped all the documents. My cards were on the table. Heart on my sleeve. It was out of my hands.

Waiting no longer felt like punishment. It felt like weather, the kind you can’t command, only witness. As much as I wanted to, I know I couldn’t ask the sky to hurry. By the end of May, I was ready to gather what I thought were the last two twigs, so I flew the nest. The lightning struck but I still flew into the glass. Twice.

Two people I mistook for open sky turned out to be windows. It hurt. It stunned me. But, I wasn’t free falling.

Like I said, June had the net. She reminded me I had somewhere to return to. The nest didn’t need more. It was done. So when the rain came and poured, when they both said, “I’m sorry, I can’t,” I realized something I couldn’t have understood at the beginning of the year. I wasn’t being punished. I was being protected.

Not from disappointment, but from building my life somewhere it couldn’t withstand the weather. When the storm finally passed, I stepped back outside into July’s warm, green grass.

The cups I had left out are half full. Summer is not yet over. My harvest is tangy and bright. Approaching August, I no longer question its flavor. Who I am now needs exactly what’s in front of me. The juiciest fig is yet to come.

I can’t explain this fascination. Maybe because I was born at the end of October, or witnessed the passing of my father, or had one too many heartbreaks. I think I find death enticing because it’s permanent. There are very few things in my life that have remained constant. I am stripped of things I adorn regularly. So, the idea of a definitive end is… intriguing.

Let’s get this straight: I’d rather be pushed, pulled, and pulverized through life than drop dead tomorrow. Until last Christmas morning, my prayers were answered. To near death.

If you have been reading my works since last year, you may recall my time as a proverbial janitor. If not, here’s the abridged version: I experienced a rite of passage every New Yorker knows well—a housing crisis. I chose nomadism over panic. Last December, I was house-sitting and pet-sitting for dear friends while they were snowbirding. I had just escaped my five-story townhouse telenovela, so playing auntie to Tooch and Sophie was the serene solitude I needed. I planned to stay in town for the holidays and make it romantic and kumbaya with my other holiday squatters.

Amid all this upheaval, somehow, a holiday romance was starting to bloom. I started seeing someone in the beginning of December who felt very promising. It was the perfect giddy, blushed-cheeks, secretly-obsessing sentiment I needed and wanted. Yet, it was another risk that I didn’t know I could handle. I had unfinished business with a friend who hurt me many months prior. If I wanted to lean into the new sweetness in front of me, I had to address the bruise that was still there with him. Having a crush while still being crushed. The holiday season has a way of yielding unfinished truth to the surface.

Christmas Eve 2024, I went to a holiday party where I knew the unfinished business would be. I mentally prepared to live out an episode of Normal People. I brought backup, my dear confidant William, to buffer any awkwardness, arrived the perfect amount of tipsy, made conversation with friends around the room to avoid the person at hand until eventually too much eye contact was made, and the small talk was inescapable. I wouldn’t consider myself particularly avoidant; however, I do struggle with making the stakes higher than they actually are. It is never that deep and things are never one-sided.

He gave me a ride back to my temporary home where I oscillated between flippant, cold and confusingly flirtatious. I unbuckled my seatbelt and broke the ice.

“Well… I guess we should catch up soon? I’m really over this ‘Cold War’.”

“Yeah… I’d like that too, we could talk about it…now?”

“You really wanna talk about it right now? You really wanna get into this.. right now?”

Truth be told, it was about 1:00 a.m., I was drunk, a little high from the shrooms I took, and eager to read him to filth. So I did.

I dropped the scroll and went through all the missteps, the disrespect and the hurt. The smoke cleared about 2 hours later after thorough conversation. I’m not sure when our generation of men started leaning towards cowardice and thinking that “water under the bridge” is an adequate conclusion. I refuse to tally the hundreds of hours I’ve spent ruminating over conflicts that could have been resolved with one direct conversation and a shred of nerve.

That confrontation and conflict-resolution in his car was better than any non-sober concoction I had on that Christmas Eve. I urge you to not stew. Be direct. Be forthright. I urge you because you could, in fact, almost die the next morning.

I crawled into bed around 3 a.m., light as a feather. I got a huge weight off my chest, and he did his best to patch up the hole.

I could hand over my heart to someone new and pray he doesn’t bruise it too. I’ve never been one to not get back up on the horse.

I dreamed about making myself mochi pancakes, sausages and coffee before closing my eyes. So when I woke up around noon, that’s exactly what I attempted to do.

This is where things got tricky.

My friend’s home only had a hand-crank coffee grinder. I simply couldn’t be bothered to deal with that legwork. No part of me felt artisanal on Christmas morning. Instead, I got inventive. And if there was an audience watching me on a screen, this movie’s score would turn ominous. Eerily similar to the rising action of a Final Destination.

My invention was to grind the coffee in Jasmine’s Nutribullet. Low hanging fruit, simple and effective. SZA’s Lana was the only thing I wanted to hear, specifically on full blast. I am in the kitchen singing “Kitchen”. Christmas morning was romantic, just as I planned. I cuddled up with the pets, opened up the gifts from my friends and my big fat crush. I couldn’t believe a man could leave me a beautiful letter of calligraphy with a present wrapped with tissue paper without seeing me naked yet.

Blinded by delight, I forgot I had plugged in the Nutribullet.

Jasmine had mentioned the proper cup was broken, so being the inventive woman I am, I realized a mason jar would have the same circumference. Engineering. Innovation!

I had left the lid with blades sitting in the machine.

Naturally, I had to test my invention. I went to see if the divots needed to be pressed from the specific cup. I pressed them and the blades spun. The invention was effective for complete slicing open the hand in numerous places. Success!

“Fuck… this is going to need stitches.”

I grabbed a kitchen towel, shoved it over my hand and entered denial. I refused to believe the cut was that bad. Maybe it wasn’t! Maybe all I needed was a bandaid.

I lifted the towel and inspected the wound. I would never consider myself squeamish to blood. I menstruate, for God’s sake! However, the depth of this wound sent chills up my spine and made me literally weak at the knees. I grabbed onto the kitchen counter to catch my breath.

I woke up on the floor. And since I was alone on Christmas morning, wearing a pink thong, fuzzy socks and a sweatshirt I had no idea how long I was unconscious. I also had no idea where I was or what happened—until I looked at my hand.

I realized I had fainted, but what I didn’t realize is that I split my head open on my way down from the fall. Unbeknownst to me, I was bleeding out from my head, while beknownst to me, I was bleeding out from my hand.

This is the part where I should have called 911, right? Well, I didn’t. Although I am insured, my disdain for our capitalistic health care that ruined my dad’s life runs deeper than any emergency. I’d rather rely on Uber, Find My maps and 50+ phone calls to anyone nearby.

So I called my sister, who I had planned to meet up with later that day, about 15 times. No answer. I called her boyfriend about 10 times. No answer. I check FindMy to see who’s nearby. I called my friend Char 3 times. No answer. And since it was Christmas morning and everyone seemed to escape the city this year, that was my call log before I completely erupted in full-on panic. I sent my sister one text: “please help”. Hysterically crying, hyperventilating, while Frank Sinatra’s Christmas album is playing in the background. So romantic.

I was petrified, surrounded by blood and couldn’t get off the kitchen floor. And then, I passed out again. When I fell backward from sitting up on the floor, I hit my head. Again. On the bottom lip of the dining table.

When I woke up from my second fainting, this is where I experienced the sensation of nearing death. I had a flood of memories go over the screen of my eyes. I had visions of people finding out I was dead. I saw my dad, I saw my grandparents, I saw my sisters crying, I saw myself as a child. I was wailing for my life and screaming out on the floor for someone to save me or help me. I was absolutely terrified.

To this day, I do not know what came over me (probably adrenaline) I felt like something or someone entered my body and took control. I remember coming to some sort of consciousness and saying, “No, no, no — not today. This is not happening today.”

I pulled myself up to the dining chair and sat down. I was completely shaken, but I knew I was making some kind of progress. Until, I bent over and passed out in the chair.

I woke up, terrified again, but deeply motivated to not die. I took a deep breath, said to myself, “Pull it the fuck together, Glennon,” and took a sip of water.

I walked over to the couch and sat down to call urgent care. I knew that the emergency room in a hospital on Christmas morning would be a nightmare. I would probably die waiting in the holding room. I called my neighborhood’s urgent care:

My voice, completely shaken, “Hh-h-ii, d-do you guys happen to do st-ttitches?”

“Yes we do.”

“Ok amazing, what time do you guys close?”

“We close in 15 minutes.”

The panic in my voice increases, “Okay, uhhhh if I can get there in 10 minutes will you take me?”

“If you can get here in 10 minutes, yes.” Click.

Fuck.

The kitchen rag was full of blood, I got up from the couch and noticed how much blood was on the floor. I also noticed that my head was starting to throb. I touched the back of it to find that my whole head of hair was covered in blood. At this point, I had no time to panic. There was only time for compartmentalization.

“Glennon, you just need to put on pants. Pants. Just pants. You can do this.”

Coaching myself out loud while holding the exposed brick, praying I wouldn’t faint as I held up my pants with one arm, balancing one leg and another.

The uber was arriving. I grabbed my purse, my coat and ran out the door. Except, as I was closing the door to the apartment, the first glob of my period decided to hit my pink thong. Even in a crisis, even in a near-death experience, you still have to be a woman. So I ran back inside, spun the toilet paper off the roll, shoved it in my thong and ran out of the building and into my emergency chariot.

Everyone finally started calling me back. Fake. You’re saying you didn’t hear your phone being buzzed 10 times in a row? At this point, I had taken care of business all on my own. They would have to be addressed after the damage control.

“Hi, could you please get to my destination as fast as possible.”

He looked at me with my bloody kitchen towel, I shrugged. “Oh, this?” pointing at it, “Silly little kitchen accident, don’t worry!”

He was worried.

“Like I said, they close in 6 minutes, so run those yellows,” Some comedic levity to throw him off my trail and convince him to not cancel the ride.

I see a phone call from my mom coming in, “Hi sweetie! Merry Christmas! Are you on your way to meet up with Darby?”

I immediately start sobbing like a toddler, belting out, “No mom! I’m on my way to urgent care, I almost died trying to make fucking coffee, I fainted three times, I think I hit my head,” pausing to hyperventilate,”It’s bleeding a lot. Nobody would fucking answer their phones and I need to get there in six minutes before they close. Tell Darby what’s going on, I don’t have time to deal with her bullshit. Mom, I’m so scared.” I let out a huge exhale, “And I just got my fucking period. Merry fucking Christmas.”

I looked at my driver and mouth, “Everything’s fine,” with a thumbs up.

I hung up on my mom and explained that I needed to plead to urgent care to stay open for me.

“Hi, I called earlier about stitches? I’ll be there in three minutes, I’m driving down Nostrand, about 4 blocks away.”

“Miss, we close in 4 minutes. We can’t see you.”

My seismic panic erupted, “PLEASE, please, please, please, I need these stitches. I am so scared and I am so close please don’t do this to me. My name is Glennon Wagner. I’m not a new patient. You have all my information.”

“Ok. If you can get here in 4 minutes… okay.” Click.

Where was the compassion on Christmas morning? Not at the Fulton Street urgent care. But you know where it was? In my uber driver’s skills of hitting all the greens for me.

I arrived at urgent care, banged on the front door for them to unlock it, and went up to the desk.

“Hi, I called about the stitches,” as I pointed to the towel.

“Yes, we remember.”

“Ms. Wagner, correct?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Great, we have all your insurance information. The doctor will see you now.”

At that moment, all I could think about was how grateful I was to have had strep throat from my spontaneous threesome a few weeks prior. If I didn’t, the clinic wouldn’t have had my insurance information. On my uber ride, I realized that I had left my wallet at home. God’s plan.

I laid in the patient recliner chair and tried to make small talk.

“Christmas Day, you guys got any big plans?”

The PA shot me a look, “Yes.”

I broke down crying, “I am so sorry to keep you here later, I am so grateful to be here and taken care of.”

She walked over to me, “Girl, it’s fine. Shit happens.”

I was left alone in the room and finally hit with the reality of what happened to me. I stared at the off-white walls, the halogen lights, and the quirky art and smirked.

“I survived…?”

The doctor came in and made that comment that all doctors make, “So Ms. Wagner, what happened here?”

I explained how I had planned to have a very romantic, peaceful Christmas morning to myself which involved making pancakes, sausages and coffee. I described that my intention was to be inventive, not foolish.

She gave me an understanding nod.

I added, “Oh, also, I know I’m here for stitches but my head kind of hurts? I felt blood but I am not sure if that’s from my hand?”

She went over and inspected my head and let out a gasp. This was not a part of my survival plan.

“Ms. Wagner, you have about a four centimeter gash on the back of your head. I need to send you to the emergency room. Can you explain what happened again?”

I told her the story and pleaded with her to let me stay. She pointed out that I hit my head on the dining room table on the way down and again on the lip of the bottom part of the table.

“Dear, I don’t mean to freak you out, but if you hit your head any lower than you did, it would have been very lethal. You need to be more careful with your inventions.”

I nodded and thought to myself, “Maybe my fascination with NDEs can stop here.”

She got up and grabbed a tool. Dazed in my patient chair, I barely noticed she cleaned my head and stapled the length of the wound. By the 8th one, I realized that loud noise was a stapler. She sat down, “Alright, you can come back in ten days to get those out. Let’s get you stitched up.”

I tried for small talk again. Might as well find the holiday spirit. We chatted about her trip to Portugal. She was getting on a plane 4 hours later. We bonded over how much we loved the country and when she was finished she grabbed my hands and said, “I’m glad you’re okay. Let’s be more careful next time.”

I went back to the front desk, apologized and thanked them again. I paid my $25 co-pay and reincarnated on the corner of Fulton Street and Arlington Place.

I felt like I was carrying the biggest secret walking down Fulton Street. In my fugue state, I decided to take the B52 back to Jasmine and Ras’s apartment instead of calling a car like a normal person. I got on the bus, sat down, and couldn’t stop laughing as I stared at my stitches.

What… the … fuck?

I walked back into the apartment to find the crime scene. In those two hours on Christmas morning, time didn’t exist. My life was pushed, pulled and pulverized. I went to the bathroom, pulled out the toilet paper wad in my underwear, stripped down and got into the shower. I held my stitched hand out of the water and washed the blood of Christ out of my hair.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have three wise men present with myrrh, frankincense and gold. Instead, my sister and her boyfriend brought me the dish that distracted them from my emergency phone calls.

My Christmas Day communion. Jesus Christ was born, and so was I. Perhaps, my NDE was the holiest thing I could do. I was alive, well and full of God complex.

I adapted to military showers by making them cold. Every once in a while, if I came home sick from school or if my sisters had away field hockey games or yearbook meetings or lifeguard duties at Swarthmore Swim club, I could have my sweet, uninterrupted, completely autonomous bathroom moment. I could sit on the counter and paint my nails, practice how to do makeup, choreograph dances to my favorite song, stare at myself long enough to try and accept what I saw (pray I was an ugly duckling soon to be a swan) and take really long, really hot showers. 

Long and hot enough that I could sit down in the tub with the showerhead running over me and just cry. I’d stare at the pink tiles and their condensation and talk to myself,

“do my friends really like me or feel bad for me? why am I alone so much? why am I chubby? why does that make people be so mean to me? why do I get so visibly red and flushed when they are? why is my mom mean to me too? why did we ever leave Minnesota? why did I get cut from the field hockey team? why doesn’t my Youtube channel have more subscribers?”

until the air got thick and my circulation begged me to stand. Then I would turn the knob back to cold, stick my face into the shower head, shock the system, dry off, put on some clothes and go sit in my dad’s office above the garage. 

The ambience of his muttering, his typing, his “take care now, buh-bye” endings of business calls were inexplicably comforting. He never missed his cue in those long silences where he would look over, tilt his eyes over his glasses, shoot his beady blue-gray eyes at me, and ask, 

“Is everything alright?”

I'd answer with a shrug,  “…uh, yeah.” 

He knew it was a lie. So he would get out of his chair, walk over to kiss me on the forehead a few times, look at me with his piercing eyes again, and say, 

“I love you so much… you know that, right?” 

I would nod, he would sit down, smile, and turn back to his monitor. His honesty was just as piercing as his eyes. The weight of his gesture left a soft stillness impossible to ignore. I’d wipe away the tears with my t-shirt and pretend to do homework.

On the last full moon in the summer of 2023, I took one of those very long, very hot showers. I still keep the tradition alive even though much of the context has changed. I sat down in the tub and curled up in thought. I thought about all the reincarnations my heart has endured throughout my life so far. I thought about how many pieces of it I have given away. All the pieces I won’t ever get back. 

Some cherish it like a fortune they got from a cookie, kept in the corner of their wallet. Some forget it’s still there, like loose change in a jacket pocket. I decided that I should make peace with that. When I love anyone, I love them entirely. Friend, foe, peer, lover, partner. If I give you a piece, it’s yours forever. I love you, forever. Although time may tarnish, once polished, its brightness returns.

I stared at the beads of water on my shower curtain, trying to call back those pieces to me, but sitting in that long, hot shower I no longer needed them. The heart is wise. Mine will know how to fill the crack. A heirloom vase with the gold branches of love it has grown.  I turn the knob back to cold, stick my face under the shower head, shock the system, dry off, put on clothes, light all the candles in my room, and read my book. It wasn’t the office above the garage, but I could still feel his grey-blue beady eyes looking at me.

“Is everything alright?”

“Yeah… it is.”

This time, I meant it. A gush of wind combed the tree outside my window, I knew he could tell it was true. 

On this occasion, it was Row 7 on Mexico’s favorite budget airline—Viva Aerobus. People on this plane aren’t just sorted by class but by philosophy. I consider myself someone who’d rather spend their money outside of a plane than on one. I am going from point A to point B. Why would I choose the exorbitantly more expensive flight? Especially when it’s less than 6 hours? I’m not a coward.

I’ve done road trips with my family of 6 in a mini van for stints of 10 hours. Comparatively, this is child’s play. So what, there’s no free snacks. Come prepared! Be like the French on their TGV rides through the countryside. That’s the mindset I try to embody. There’s no wrong place for a picnic. To the kind, 6 foot 4, seemingly mute, Slavic white man sitting with me, yes I speak English, and since I do, let me apologize for what you witnessed.

I purposely board the plane last. I do this to see if there are any “plus” seats or rows for me to cosplay “person who buys a budget ticket but still buys into the extra fees (a seat with extra cushion or legroom)”. Typically, that’s no one. So, typically, it’s me getting that row to herself. Except for you, Mr. Biz. You are that person. Oddly placed in the aisle seat in row 7 with me. I tried to piece together why you, too, were also in row 7. With your designer backpack, starchy office look, and neck pillow, I figured your EA booked this flight last minute, and this was the best she could do.

I apologize for, firstly, overhauling the window and middle seat with my miscellaneous layers for my preliminary nap. I apologize, secondly, for what you witnessed after I woke from my power nap. Those 30 minutes took me from four-ish hours of sleep to five-ish. A manageable rest, enough energy for a movie from my Max app and my keenly prepped snacks.

I unfolded my paper bag like it held something special. I’m not usually this prepared with snacks for a flight. There’s something about a bagged lunch that feels so pure. Mr. Biz was having an anthropology field day sharing this row with me. Shoes off, feet kicked up, curled between seats E and F. He sheepishly ate his stale Viva Aerobus sandwich trying to pretend he wasn’t watching me from his peripheral. I don’t blame him. I would do the same. If the person next to me were acting like a bear at a campsite with snacks, I wouldn’t just watch peripherally—I’d be full gaze.

I reached into my bag and started with my washed, raw carrots. I fucking love raw carrots. The crunchy bite is so so satisfying. I feel almost… primal. I followed this with some guava. Another food I am enamored with, another food I wish was more plentiful in the states. I was indecisive with my next choice. Yogurt or tinned fish. A tough call. In this indecision, I recognized my bearish behavior. Recognition that made me feel like this hallow apology for my unapologetic behavior was necessary.

Mr. Biz and I exchanged a silent nod, agreeing to share the middle tray table. I chose the yogurt. I started shelling out what was in my paper bag. The only thing missing from that bag was my name, scrawled with a heart and an arrow—Dad used to do it on all my packed lunches. I guess now that I’m grown and he’s gone, it’s my turn. I stacked my clamshell of raspberries, my tiny bag of dates, my almost finished peanut butter jar, and my cup of Fage onto the center tray. I fished for the spoon in my very, very large personal item. My boyfriend gave it to me on my 48-hour trip back to NYC where he picked me up with a sign, a snack, flowers and a question to be his and his alone. 48 hours for a booking and to realize I was falling in love. Naturally, I had to keep the spoon to return to him on my final flight home.

I opened my yogurt. It essentially ejaculated onto my shirt. I don’t even think I blinked. Maybe a chuckle. Mr. Biz, again, tried to pretend he wasn’t watching. I threw my raspberries and a big spoonful of peanut butter into the cup. I reached for my dates to rip up and add into my kids meal. As a reward for his lack of shade, I left a date for Mr. Biz on our shared platter. It was Ramadan. I love the idea of breaking fasts with a date. Nature’s candy.

He seemed touched. I was glad. I was also glad to find he wasn’t one of those people who refuse the handouts offered to them. I hate dismissive people. It is not politeness, it’s inability to acknowledge generosity. It’s ridiculous. Accept it, pay it forward, and move on. It’s not rocket science, it’s not even algebra. It’s simple.

I was watching Road Runner with my kids meal. A documentary on Anthony Bourdain. It felt symbiotic. Eating without shame simultaneously — me and Tony. My friend, Kevin, recommended I watch it a few weeks prior to my flight home. I tried my best to stream it then but to no avail. But, in my panic to download something, ANYTHING, at my gate — there it was. Fate.

I have to admit, I think documentaries are my favorite style of film. I read non-fiction. I want the real shit and if it’s not real, I want a good story. I want to be moved.

Engrossed in my meal and Tony’s, I didn't notice that Mr. Biz had eaten my date offering. But once I did, I looked at him and smirked. Followed by another simultaneous head nod. Then, I pulled out my dark chocolate, my rice cake and my tinned fish.

“Fuck it, I’ll eat all my snacks if I want to.”

Just when he thought my paper bag was empty.

Mr. Biz was hooked on his entertainment. Partly his show, Partly me. I ate my tuna with one rice cake until reckless abandonment kicked in and I just ate it directly from the can with my yogurt spoon. I poured the excess oil into my peanut butter jar and chuckled along with Tony. I felt validated for my quirks with his presence.

The attendants came to collect trash. I passed over my busura to Mr. Biz. The team work was seamless. I felt no judgment. There was harmony in row 7—one that can only be found in nonverbal language.

I neared the end of the documentary and tears fled down my puffy airplane cheeks. The loving observation and investigation of a posthumous life is exceedingly frustrating for me. It has been for a while. As someone who contemplated suicide young, I hate that we wait until obituaries to say what matters. Say it now. Say all of it now. Say 'I love you', Say 'I care', Say ‘I’m sorry’, Say ‘I miss you’, Say ‘I’m here for you’. Unspoken words do not mean unfelt feelings. I find it utterly asinine to be even slightly averse to tenderness.

It can be found in the smallest of places. Row 7 seats D through F are a great example.

I went to Nicaragua in January 2020 to visit my sister, Kyla, and her partner, Efrel and their two boys. They spend a month out of the year with Efrel’s family there. Tickets were purchased immediately after the invite—I love a good excuse to go be ‘auntie G’, spend time squeezing my nephew’s cheeks and to get out of this country. There are many reason why my week in Las Penitas is beholden to me—broken spanish, yuca, arroz y frijoles, hammock naps, salty swims, wrapped in the jungle’s green sheet.

One day, we took the bus into Leon from Las Penitas. They call it the chicken bus—an old yellow school bus from 1989 with no proper stops, just the omnipresent understanding of marked palm trees and intersections. A very much “if you know, you know” situation. Efrel put us in the know. The chicken bus is really just one big carpool. No transaction, just community.

I like to think that, sometimes, when the subway is half-filled at low tide, it could be that chicken bus—sending me off or taking me home. A place to prepare or disarm. I think that’s why crying on the subway feels so… simple. At least to me.

I cried on the L train on a recent Saturday afternoon on my way home. They weren’t necessarily tears of sadness, but they weren’t necessarily tears of joy. I didn’t know why they came, but I didn’t shoo them away. I shifted my eyes between my reflection in the glass, the ten other strangers, the speckled floor, and the blurry tiles of the approaching station, looking for clues about the tributaries of salt on my face. I kept listening to my music until I had to transfer. I ripped out my wired headphones and let the tears crust on my face in the hallway of the Met Av G/L transfer. Everyone was too focused on not getting trampled in the stampede to notice my puffy eyes.

They weren’t the quiet tears of a chipped heart or the cathartic ones I save for two-hour phone calls with my long-distance friends. These were something else. A subtle invitation to do some excavation. My mental laundry basket needed a literal cry for help. The subway ride felt like a table read for a story I didn’t know I’d been writing—a conglomeration of tiny confessionals squeezed in the stacks of my journals, legal pads, and sketchbooks.

I think I cried because, for the first time in a long time, I feel like things are actually showing up. It is the eeriest sense of deja vu. Too many daydreams mistaken for reality. I’ve spent a long time playing comparison bingo and optimistic yo-yo with my timelines. Treading water may help with endurance, but that doesn’t mean you’re not still keenly waiting for that whistle to blow. It’s easy to forget how long you’ve been treading until you get out of the water and realize how happy you are to rest. So happy, one could say, that you might even cry. Whistle blows, fingers snap, and that laborious tread is vacuumed to the past.

As I sat with this eerie deja vu, I found myself questioning why I was so quick to doubt it. Why do we call things too good to be true? When did we collectively decide that goodness needs a disclaimer? Maybe it’s not that life is cruel; maybe it’s just that I’ve trained myself to be suspicious of joy.

Why do we insist that good must come with a condition? That it has to be fleeting or some fugue state? Maybe it’s just good. Maybe there’s no disguise. And even if it isn’t good forever, that doesn’t mean it was never real. The real mistake would be dismissing a seed for poor harvest without letting it take root. I cannot be the hypocrite that turns my back on something I wanted just because I finally got it. What a fucking concept—to trust something as it arrives instead of anticipating its departure.

Partly cloudy means a good chance of sun showers, so I let the tears fall. I had one more transfer to go anyway.

Being single in New York could be compared to casting a line in an overstocked pond. Frankly, you can go on a date with practically anyone. Whether you pluck them from a bar, a witty one-liner on a second prompt, or an earnest friend. Liking them? Different story.

After you get over the first-date hump, the real effort begins. Maybe you weed through your internal checklist (let’s not be bashful, we all have one), do a play-by-play review of the date with your friends, and then judge the mutual follows on Instagram. A scary game—helpful, but scary. Nothing like a kind reminder that the world is so uncomfortably small.

But let’s say you find yourself on a sixth date, and you’re mutually enthralled? How absolutely wonderful. And absolutely terrifying. You’re walking with your egg (heart) on a spoon through an obstacle course (dating), shooing away analytical mosquitoes (anxiety), hoping you can get to the other side (mutual care and affection) without letting the egg (again, your heart) crack.

So, there I am, crying on the subway because my calendar is full of work I’ve been wanting for a long time. There I am, crying on the subway, looking at the sweet message I just got on my phone from a person who doesn’t seem to have any other agenda but to be my cheerleader, my confidant, and tell me my eyes turn him into a puddle.

And I’m crying because you’re telling me this isn’t some dress rehearsal—this is real?

So, yes, I embraced the tears because, honestly, what the hell else am I supposed to do?

I used to watch the birds bathe in the puddle that gathered at the base of our sundial in the front yard of my childhood home. The birds saw the opportunity to cleanse. So did I.

I gathered that the tears were signaling a departure. It was time to let go of all the half-baked romances with half-baked intentions from my past. They aren’t going to show up at my doorstep and fall to their knees. They aren’t going to apologize for their mistreatment and realize the mistakes they made. The benefit of the doubt is only beneficial if the benefit is mutual.

Sometimes, replaying those sweet but sparse tender moments can blind you to the full landscape of what was—and the unruly hindsight you might need to see for it to finally click. They were just characters I kept auditioning for a role that was never theirs to play. And if I keep sifting through the past for answers, I’ll never give what’s in front of me a real spotlight.

Crying is prescriptive. And, fortunately, one of the few free medicines left in this godforsaken country.

Beyond an exciting, new, promising romance or exciting, new work horizons or a reassured sense of self, being invited to take a moment to welcome something that isn’t a bargain is worth every public tear.

I’ve heard that tributaries carry important nutrients for expansion. I’ll take it.

On October 1st, a housing quandary arrived. I nearly passed out in the dressing room of a vintage store in Paris. I got a notice I had to move out in 30 days. I clawed at my belongings and made an erratic exit. I found a park bench, bummed a (stress) cigarette from a stranger, and sank into the gravity of disassociation. Motionless, I sat in the mirage of my cigarette smoke, the offbeat French ambulance sirens, and the shaggy clouds hanging over the 11th arrondissement.

I’ve had to master the art of compartmentalization and abrasive optimism a long time ago for very good, very unfortunate reasons. I knew everything would be fine. By the end of my cigarette, I’d already invented five new solutions. I just needed a second to press pause, to pretend it wasn’t real.

I snapped back into reality, sent a few texts, phoned a few friends, and whispered to myself, “No, no… this… this has to be half-full.” That whisper must have had an echo. I knew I had two options: to panic and spiral, or to accept and proceed. The world does keep spinning; you might as well find your assigned seat. In my case, mine is a window.

Before this quandary, I’d spent three and a half weeks on a reunion tour in France. The brightly refreshed perspective and revitalization from my long séjour was well imbued. I had a charge to take on the world that couldn’t have been more pertinent.

Moving out of my apartment in Bed-Stuy felt less like a goodbye and more like an overdue sabbatical—the “get out of jail free” card I might have secretly asked for. Sure, I loved the unusually cheap rent, the size, and the fact that my roommates and I could coexist in that harmonious “see you when I see you” kind of way. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t the place. I’d made a crash landing there after a much larger, egregiously painful housing quandary with my sister. It was safe. Out of the trenches. I was grateful to be anywhere without eggshells or the triggers of bickering teenage dynamics. I nested but didn’t ask for greatness. Although, it was great.

Like I said in Glennonism #1, “my ears are perked for the egg timer to go off and give me a reason to pack up and move.”

Well… ding, ding, ding!

When the time came to pack my life into boxes, the only thing I mourned were the hours I spent painting my room green, the nights of falling asleep to rainstorms on my skylight, the brainstorm with my roommate and her frisbee teammates to create scavenger-hunt riddles for a man to find me on our first date, and my other roommate’s monthly strum on his guitar, always testing What Once Was by Hers.

Something about this move felt oddly right. Everyone seemed to agree when I announced the news. It was like when friends tell you they always thought “you guys weren’t the right fit” and just “wanted you to figure it out on your own” about your romantic choices. (To any of my friends reading this—please tell me sooner. I do not want to figure it out on my own anymore.)

In the same way you tend to swear off dating and commitments after a breakup, I did the same after my well-esteemed room search. I swore off the search, the lease signing, the panic.

Although, I think I’ve sworn off dating again too.

Someone who tried to buy my credenza on Facebook Marketplace—but did not follow through—decided weeks later to follow through… with a request to ask me out. Don’t worry; he justified it by saying he thought he saw my profile on a dating app and that it might be me. He was emboldened by what he thought was “fun, albeit banter” in our Messenger conversation. I am terrified to know the reverse Google image search and investigation he did to verify. There’s a reason why he had to take the back door to find me. We did not have banter. We had a chat about measurements and scheduling a pick-up. Safe to say, my apps are paused and deleted off my phone. Moving forward, when selling furniture, I will be very short. I prefer my frequent meet-cutes anyway.

The storage unit sounded delightful. Angelic. I could hear the bells and feel the glow.

It’s the holiday season, I have friends out of town, friends who love me, pets who need care, a knack for improvisation and invention, and a desire to detach from my materials. Why the hell not? I’ve always loved pushing the envelope.

I sat at my desk and wrote out what could be the ideal game plan. I may have been in my room, making a decision on my own terms, but I was still puzzled by the open-ended question. It wasn’t a test in middle school, but it felt like I needed to raise my hand. Walk with me—the same way you sheepishly explained your confusion and lofty hypothesis to the teacher, but they couldn’t give you the exact answer. Instead, you searched for a subtle smirk or nod that inferred you were onto something. Letting the ink dry on my storage unit decision, I found that validating nod from my teacher.

Cubesmart and I shook hands, and the angels spread their wings. The gust from their inaugural flaps must have knocked over the first domino of the ideal plan I wrote in my journal. One after another, I found myself seamlessly held by a patchwork of homes for the rest of the year on one condition—one of the most annoying, but undeniably sound mantras to exist: trust the process. (AHHH!!!)

I tend to bristle at needing help or relying on others. But moving out of my apartment stripped me down to the essentials—what I needed was simple: shelter, stability, and the quiet assurance that I wasn’t alone. It wasn’t just the homes that held me; it was the people offering them. And sometimes, all you really need is a good hug.

I realized that the time I’ve spent creating friendships, nurturing them, scheduling catch-ups, checking in, making long phone calls, overcommitting, and eventually making peace with the rhythm of friendships—especially in New York—has gifted me this quilt of homes and rooms I can wrap myself in.

I’ve also been stripped down to living out of a carry-on of clothes, an IKEA storage bag of shoes and jackets, and a large cotton tote filled with my toiletries, supplements, herbal tinctures, journals, and tarot cards. Having to outfit-repeat for the past six weeks has forced me to get wildly inventive—and wildly humbled. I’ve had to lean on my charm and wit rather than my cute outfits to get by on outings. Like I said, humbling.

Still, I’ve decided to see the glass as half full. I’ve been curious about taking acting courses for some time, so it seems my calls have been answered. Taking this nomadic leap over the past six weeks has been field research for future roles I might book. My test audience has become the patrons at my wine bar—patrons turned friends and fans. I don’t need flashy outfits, cute shoes, or fun accessories when I’ve got them wiping tears of laughter, jaws on the floor, and asking: “What happened next?” “Who’s the newest character?” “I need updates.” or “Glennon…HOW?”

My response, as always, is, “Honey, how do you think I feel? You’re listening—I’m LIVING it.”

I’ll say this: my life may be haphazard, chaotic, and exhausting, but it’s never boring.

Since the beginning of November, I’ve had the rare opportunity to look into the mirror—the internal one, not external. I’ve spent enough time staring at my reflection, analyzing imperfections. The devils of body dysmorphia whisper the meanest shit you can imagine. I may be the youngest of four girls, but few below-the-belt insults beat my own. Oddly, it’s comforting to know I’m both my biggest cheerleader and my biggest bully. I play referee and decide who wins. Usually, it’s the cheerleader—I like to think I’m too grown for petty, bully behavior.

What I’ve gathered from the internal mirror has brought me closure. Maybe it’s okay to be exactly where I am. The yearn to feel “grounded” and “confident” with what I am doing with my life has been the shovel digging my hole. So, I’m ditching the fucking shovel and climbing out.

Climbing out has made me the most present and unapologetic I think I’ve ever been. I just don’t care anymore to justify how I am choosing to live my life to an audience of people who are equally just figuring it the fuck out too. I can’t muster another overcompensating explanation for my next grand plan or how I’ll make my next big dream come true. It’s already happening. It’s already in the works. It’s already on its way. I don’t need to assemble a marching band to announce its arrival. I’ll build a fire and make sure its seat is warm when it comes home.

Although my intuition can sometimes border on clairvoyance, I did not predict that stuffing my possessions into a 5 x 10 storage unit would clear out the mental clutter I’d been hoarding for some time.

The storage unit cleanse, paired with a releasing ceremony I did with a shaman in mid August (we listen, we don’t judge), felt like cracking open a sealed window. Fresh air rushed in—along with a series of cannon events that have become the curriculum for this “acting course,” a.k.a. my climb-out. It began in late October, orbiting my 28th birthday. Since then, life has been hilarious, heartfelt, healing, and concerningly damning in ways I couldn’t have orchestrated even if I tried.

There was the dizzying tenderness of stepping into my childhood home for the first time in a decade—time folding in on itself—shortly followed by the surreal feat of attending my ten-year high school reunion, where faces I hadn’t seen in years managed to feel both unfamiliar and exactly the same. I spent so much time thinking I needed to present this manicured “glowup”, but the hugs would have been just as tight if a wore a crinkled t-shirt and jeans.

There was the night I found myself locked in a very handsy group negotiation in the bathroom of a downtown club, followed by a week of playing house in a five-story Manhattan townhouse. I walked barefoot up and down the stairs, reveling in the absurdity that a home like this could exist on this concrete island. There was the unexpected luxury of being gifted a room at The Standard—proof that sometimes life gets literal about the standards you demand.

I dated someone I was rooting for but broke it off when I realized I deserved more. Then, as life likes to listen to my standards, a timely arrival of a new meet-cute came around the corner. An unexpected reconnection with someone who is genuinely captivated by me and makes me feel genuinely giddy. Nothing like a good gush with a mutual crush (and tasteful PDA).

And somewhere shuffled in between, I survived my first bike accident and found overdue closure with a summer heartbreak that had haunted me like a single mosquito in a humid room.

Spontaneity, ever the opportunist, slid into the driver seat and insisted me to navigate—and I didn’t say no. I’ve always been one for a good joy ride. Out of the hole, scrapping out the dirt from my nails enjoying my window seat. I’m not suggesting everyone move out, get a storage unit, and housesit until something feels right. But maybe, just maybe, the last resort is sometimes the best resort.

Perhaps the real trick to feeling ‘grounded’ isn’t about tying yourself to any one place or plan—it’s about trusting the free fall. An oxymoron with a dashing smirk. Take it from me, I promise your guardian angels are keeping your belongings safe and are tying up the net just right so you can stick the landing.

This shouldn’t be groundbreaking information. We ask for what we want almost everyday. Could be telling your neighborhood barista your coffee order, maybe asking your roommate or friend to take out the trash when they leave or bring you a snack, or maybe even run a tiny errand. We all have those small asks.

I’m here to tell you to go a little bit bigger. Actually, way bigger. Put those routine asks in the trash. The bigger the ask, the more fun. Yes the higher the risk, but the higher the reward. Ask for the specific coffee drink, ask “if there’s any more flexibility in the budget?”, ask “wait, can you take one more pic?”, ask for the ride home, ask for a second date, ask to get connected to that person in the industry, ask if there’s a special discount, ask to spend the night, ask for a kiss, ask for their number, ask for a second chance, ask for a second helping, and, maybe most importantly, ask for a dance. The last one I really mean. Since when did you stop doing this? I wanna slow dance!!

That being said, I’m here to say — do it. Ask for the crazy out-of-pocket thing you want. Worst thing you get is a “no” or…maybe ghosted. Equally possible, equally bothersome. But no is better than nothing. I’d rather have a period than a coma.

So, I have two funny little stories I’ll share that will hopefully win you over and inspire you to do the same.

(Please email me any stories that come out of it. I’m so serious. I LIIIIVEE for a good story.)

My first story is set in Asheville, North Carolina. It’s about two weeks into February 2020. I was working two part-time jobs which meant 6 day work weeks between the two. Why did you have two part-time jobs, you ask? Yes, I understand the confusion. My job hunt for restaurant work was strangely difficult. One came before the other and I needed both.

I tried to get a job at Trader Joes to switch things up. Instead of getting covert sexual harrasment in restaurants, maybe stocking produce would be refreshing. Don’t get me wrong, there was a part of me that loved the anarchy of it all. The same way I get sad when my neighborhood catcallers decide to refrain from commentary on my off days. Yes, it’s harassment but.. sometimes that catcall is just the ego fluff I need when morale is low.

I had worked in restaurants throughout college and once I finished school I was a high school teacher in France and spent my every dime on travel, so I snapped back to food and beverage work out of necessity and easy job access (or so I thought). I don’t really know why I didn’t pursue a 9-5 after my time in France. It just didn’t feel like the reflex.

So I thought TJ’s, why not? Could be fun! I always cherished my grocery runs with my dad there so I thought it could be a good way to connect with him.

It was not fun. Instead I got interviewed THREE times to be sales associate only to be left a rejection voicemail. There is more to this story, but that’s for another time. Therefore, I had two part-time jobs working 5 or 6 days a week and was grateful.

I was a cocktail server at a very busy, very popular rooftop bar known for its sunset over the Blue Ridge mountains. The view really was spectacular. Once a week. I would do an opening shift and listen to Blonde top to bottom. Watching the light change over the mountains was my reset button.

This story has to do with my other PT job. I was a host / expo / server / vinyl DJ at a very popular fine dining restaurant in West Asheville. Bizarre role, yes, but that’s exactly what it was. I’d greet people, get them seated, deal with reservations, run food, flip tables, run silver, pour wine, run drinks, pretend to laugh at the line cook’s joke, tell the manager about a no show, console the manager, flip the record, pick out the next one, grab the coat and get the door and say goodbye and thank you with a smile! Oh, and look pretty while doing it. I knew I was a pretty hire turned personality hire. A pipeline I’ve learned to love over the years. I still struggle to accept that I am “pretty” to a majority of people. The 8 years of being called fat and ugly in the cruel suburbs of Philly unfortunately still pull weight in my self-perception to my current reality of being conventionally hot.

So February 2020 - Jargon was bustling on a Friday evening and I was gliding through my shift. I greeted these striking middle-aged women at the door. They were elegant, confident yet disarming. One woman was wearing this wonderful scarf. Before they followed me to their table I inserted, “Oof, that is a fabulous scarf…” continuing my glide to table 10, she returned as she sat down, “Thank you! You know it’s funny I just pulled it out. I have a pile of them I used to wear when I was a cute gal in my early 20’s.”

I immediately answered, “Well, I’m a cute gal in my early 20s if you get tired of any of them. I’ll take one.” I whisked myself away. Mostly out of shock for how quickly that fell out of my mouth, partly because it was the second turn on a Friday night. I returned to their table to pour waters and, Heidi, that is her name, took off her readers, laid down her menu and looked at me, “You know, if you’d like to write down your address and contact, I’d love to give you one of my scarves.”

“Incredible, I’ll be right back.”

I quickly ripped off a piece of an old menu at the host stand, wrote it all down, flipped the record, winked at my work wife and sauntered back to the table. I feel such a rush any time I had over my information on a tiny, jagged piece of paper. It is always followed with lore like this.

“Here it is!! Send your best pick.” I grinned, I winked, I waltzed away. Heidi and her friends giggled along with me.

When I went back to clear their table for dessert, Heidi stopped me. “You know, Glennon, I really adore your ability to ask for what you want. You said you are 24 right now? I nodded and smirked. “It’s going to take you very far, I promise. When I return to Aspen, I’ll be sure to send out your parcel as soon as I can.”

Three weeks later, a package arrived. Heidi sent me a vintage Hermés scarf with a very sweet note and an invite to join her and her friends weekly “Inner Matrix” meetings. I attended a few out of curiosity and generosity.

The scarf still sits very pretty in my closet.

This next story is one of my favorites. It’s a favorite due to the unexpected 180 from start to finish—the generosity of a stranger and the core memory it has become. All because I spoke my motherfucking truth, asked for what I wanted, and, frankly, needed.

The context is endearingly melancholic, but relatable. I digress, let’s get to the story.

This story is set here, in New York, in the spring of 2022. Dijon’s Absolutely came out in November 21’ and I was tethered to it. The timing of the album was eerie for me. It was medicinal. I was slightly addicted. At the top of 2021, I was dumped outside of an Artist and Craftsman. It was my fault, kind of? I was moving to New York and tried to imagine my life with him there and… I just couldn’t, but I really really wanted to. There was a whole combination of reasons, but I knew I needed to figure out who I was in a new city without him. My indecision led to the dumping.

Naturally 4 months later with a cavalier attitude on a freshly single high I landed myself in a long distance love affair turned love bombing. That ended in a dumping of sorts too. But, more gray and more knots untied. It was sticky. But what situationship with lots of attraction, passion but poor timing and poor communication doesn’t go south and get sticky?

(Perhaps I will have another Glennonism on my long distance emotional love affairs, they deserve their own air time.)

Then, the last piece of my heartbreak sandwich was then finding out my ex of 3 years had already moved on (of course it was only ok when I did it) in a serious relationships, doing long distance with her (karma), then moved to NYC for her, but then still sending flame emojis in my dms, liking my thirst traps and, cherry on top, adding “The Dress” to the Glennon playlist he made me years ago. Safe to say, this album was my emotional support stuffed animal.

Oh, and I found out about this new relationships through a soft launch on his girlfriend’s page, although he had ample opportunity to tell me throughout any of friendly catch-ups. Oh, my ex-love affair did the same thing. The demise was catalyzed by the findings of a soft launch of his new girl from her page. Both had ample opportunity to tell me directly, but both choose cowardice instead. Sigh, what a sad behavior that engulfs many men these days.

Now that I’ve painted the picture of the context, let’s get to why I deserved this happy ending.

Dijon was touring for Absolutely and was coming to Brooklyn. I remember when tickets dropped. For some reason I didn’t allow myself to get them. A few weeks later, I had a clarifying moment after talking to a customer who came into the vintage shop I was working at during that time. It lassoed me back to the ticket site.

They were sold out. Both nights. I was devastated, but not defeated.

I commented on Dijon’s latest IG post doing a shout for a ticket. I thought that guerilla marketing would work. It, instead, almost got me scammed. So, I want to Ol’ Faithful — Craigslist. I saw a few ticket postings and took off the training wheels.

Close to a deadline, I chose radical honesty and sent this email:

Of course, I was floored by the quickness and the kindness of the response. I didn’t expect a response. I didn’t expect anything. Isn’t it sooo fucking frustrating that’s what usually does the trick?

Then, I got this:

It turned into a very wholesome, very girlie email chain. Obviously, I cleared my schedule for my Friday night and made sure I was available. I texted Rachel, the angel from this story, from the number on her email, thanked her again and said it would be lovely to meet up at the concert.

I arrived at the Williamsburg Music Hall alone and ready for a good cry. May 6th, 2022.

Rachel told me that my tickets were at will call. I gave my name and they handed me my tickets along with a VIP wristband. I chortled. Yes, chortled. This is the exact verb to describe my reaction. I chortled, quietly gathered my cool and thanked the kind lady and her confused face.

I was speechless for about 5 minutes, but my mind was opaque with thoughts.

“Did I really just get VIP tickets? 2 days before the show? What the fuck? Is it kind of weird I’m alone? Holy shit… what if he’s here? With his new girlfriend? No….

“Glennon!!!??!?” Rachel spotted me.

She introduced me to her boyfriend and her friend who got me the tickets. Rachel and I had a sidebar until I excused myself to find a good spot for me and my tears before the show started.

The show was incredible. Dijon and his band were transcendent. The curtains closed and I was healed. And I had to pee, really bad.

So I went to find the bathrooms, saw the long line and laughed at my foolishness — to think I was the only one who had to pee. But, then I realized I was VIP. Which meant, there must be a VIP bathroom upstairs.

I was wrong. However, this curiosity led to me to very helpful vantage point. I could see that the showroom had cleared out and Dijon and his band were hanging out chatting with some people and I remembered… I’m VIP.

So I went back downstairs, flashed my band at the security guard and walked back in. I felt it was important I deliver the insane story of how I got to his concert. So important I did not realize how quickly I was moving towards him and the group of people he was in conversation that I abruptly slowed down 5 feet before reaching them and pretended to be in awe of the concert hall. This was probably a weirder move considering the Music Hall of Williamsburg isn’t known for its beauty. But you know what? Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, baby. They don’t know what tickles my fancy.

They invited me into conversation and I looked at Dijon and said, “It is verrryy comical you are in front of me right now,” He responded, “Is that so? Tell me why.”

I ended up giving him a synopsis and the long winded story of what you just read, explaining how I was without a ticket two days ago, resale was insane, my earnest Craigslist email, which landed me better tickets than the girl who got me in here.

He was shocked and delighted so we took a selfie to send to Rachel.

I thanked him for the heartfelt performance, the creation of the album and for the laughs and sauntered off.

However, before I finally exited the venue, I saw Michael formally known as, mk.gee. I stopped him in his conversation and said “Hey, I know tonight was Dijon’s show but your music is equally fantastic. Been listening since 2018. Love it,” I followed that with a thumbs up.

He looked me at peculiarly yet charmed, “Ha! Thanks!” and I grinned and made my final exit.

I busted through the double doors, laughed and twirled in a couple circles on North 6th Street and checked my phone to see a missed call and a couple texts from Rachel.

OMFG. You’re joking.

come meet us at this bar a few blocks up. Were with Minka Kelly? LOL, funny story but I’ll explain when I see you.

I met up with Rachel, we embraced, laughed at the serendipity of the evening and promised to keep in touch. Guess what? We still do. I am a woman of her word!

So, put that ism in your pipe and smoke it! Be bold, be honest, and ask for it. You never know how quickly and how smoothly and how cosmically it can unfold. New scarves, new friends, healed wounds and more memories.

The higher the steaks, the higher the reward!

Until next time, xoxo

(I am still welcoming emails if you have stories to share)

In my last essay, I went on a tangent about my mother’s evaluations of me. This Glennonism is a branch off one of those assessments i.e. “jewel-like curiosity”. I have a love/hate relationship with this trait. I love the spontaneity but hate its recklessness. Alas, it is fossilized into the core of who I am. I’ll lean on the euphemism of “can’t teach an old dog new tricks” for this one.

This curiosity has also led me to many, many, many, maaannnyyy conversations with strangers. I truly have no clue where this knack for unsolicited chitchat came from. Must be another fossil from my lineage. It began as soon as I could form full sentences, my mother tells me. In fact, my parents have countless stories of me philosophizing with a stranger when I caught a wave of another curiosity spell or was left unattended for more than 3 minutes. There is one anecdote in particular my mother has told over the years that has become a crowd favorite (aka mine). Poignant for Glennon and her isms #2.

The summer of 1999, My mother took her four girls on the Luddington ferry that housed 180 cars, 2 bars, multiple decks, a kiddie playground and a gift shop. Pretty spiffy. It is a 4 hour ride across Lake Michigan. We were heading to the famous Traverse City Cherry Festival and Sleeping Bear Dune National Park. Within 15 minutes of reaching the deck and getting settled my mom and sisters discovered I was missing.

At first, they thought I had just gone a few steps. Within 5 minutes they knew I was gone. After notifying all the essential staff members, they all dispersed and tried to hit key areas of where I might have gone. Mother’s intuition, she decided to check both of the bars. Sure enough, there I was on a bar stool talking to an old salt sipping a Shirley Temple while he enjoyed his draft. I was 3 years old and Shirley Temple was my drink of choice and my idol. This… I remember. My mom with a thankful gasp and a frazzled look squealed, “GLENNON?!?” followed by what I am sure was a terrifying look to the man in conversation with me.

“Were you not wondering where her mother was?” Her big green eyes are most likely twitching.

He stumbled over his words explaining, "Well, I-I-I thought it was funny she was alone, b-b-but she just climbed up on the stool and started asking me questions and before I knew it, I forgot she was a child and we just started having conversation and I got her a Shirley temple.”

My mom, probably licking her teeth with a devilish smirk said, “Well, I appreciate the gesture, but in general if there’s a missing child that age by themselves, there’s probably a frantic parent looking for them.”

He was smart enough to buy her a drink and the rest of my sisters a soft beverage for their troubles. I got all of them to talk to a stranger so my job was finished. Like I said, can’t teach an old dog new tricks!

Now, let’s get back to present day Glennon.

My best friend I’ve known since I was 6 years old got married at the beginning of June. We’ve known each for over two decades. She was once a stranger I engaged with unsolicited chitchat in our first grade class with Teacher Beth Anne. This chit chat turned into us becoming Swarthmore (our philly suburb) besties.  We were horse girl adjacent because we didn’t have our own horses like the others (sigh), YouTube nerds in middle school, dramatically bullied by the same girl, made countless inside jokes, had a belieber phase, both asked our dream senior crushes to junior prom (I did mine with brownies that spelled “PROM?” and she did hers through a tweet facilitated by me and a few other friends). We still talk about that slow dance to “With You” by Chris Brown that fateful night. Formative youth moments. Two decades means we made a lot of pacts. One for all of the bases and one for marriage. She broke all of them. Waltzed right through. It’s okay, Lizzy, I forgive you. I have also learned that I am not that competitive. I tend to be more driven by the sweet taste of proving people wrong and some well-fed revenge.

The wedding was set in Bozeman, Montana. I watched The Iron Claw on my flight out there. I do not recommend watching that movie on a plane. The movie ended, I had a massive hole in my chest and my 4 downloaded songs off Spotify were NOT helping me process it.

I had a layover in Seattle before landing in Bozeman. I forgot how much I love to wander and people watch in airports. I usually arrive at the airport 15 minutes before boarding and then put on my best performance of “damsel in distress” to cut the line and go to the front.

The timing of my layover was *perfect*. A sneaky little 85 minutes. Enough time to grab a mediocre coffee, peruse one those newsroom airport bodegas for a random magazine, maybe a random nut bar, maybe a few shrugs at strangers. During my coffee jaunt, I saw an unkempt white-bearded white man with a country mumble strumming his guitar on a tiny stage. It was an endearing kind of unkempt. Shy of about 70 years old with a graphic tee and probably wearing one of his two pairs of jeans he owns. His voice reminded me of my dad’s. I sat uncomfortably close to him on his tiny stage. All the other tables in the court were filled with other layover cattle. I sipped on my coffee, closed my eyes and pretended he was my dad — just for 5 minutes.

A lot of my personality (and delusion) is driven by my dead dad. Ask anyone who’s experienced profound loss that came too soon — the bargaining phase is a looooong one.

I was the only one to clap after his songs. So, he needed me too. Naturally, the next song he started to strum was one by Neil Young. A Micheal Wagner classic. The clever ways he chooses to give me a nudge. I stood up and gathered my things. I thanked him for the tunes, asked him his name and asked why he chose that song.

“I don’t know, it just felt like I needed to play it.”

“Thank you for being the messenger, Gary,” I slightly bowed with prayer hands, snickered, immediately blushed for how weird that was and then fist bumped him (even weirder???). He smirked and I scurried away.

Shortly after I arrived at my gate and my rosacea cooled down, I got a media request from my agent for Swiss Airlines with a sharp deadline. I scoffed at the irony, fantasized about booking the job then swelled with immediate dread because I knew the second I landed in Bozeman, I would be consumed with all things bridesmaid and wedding. I put on my chitchat hat and scanned the crowd at my gate for the unlucky candidate to get jostled by my favor and picky photo direction.

I saw two gen-z facing ladies and asked if they could help me. In hindsight, I’m sure my elevator pitch on my media brief was word vomit to them. I didn’t really give them an option to say no. They exceeded my expectations — one took the role as photographer, the other as hype queen. The small giggles and redos made me fall in love with girlhood again. We accomplished the shots and formally introduced ourselves. They were two Chinese girls in the States for the first time doing a work exchange program in Big Sky, Montana. I implored to remember that their American experience may be skewed based on their location but to enjoy themselves as much as possible nonetheless.

On the plane, I made nice with the couple next to me on the plane. Unfortunately for them, my wave of unsolicited chitchat had not ceased. Again, my unsolicited chitchats are always intuitive based. If it seems welcomed and continues organically, I let it flow. Frankly, I apply that law to most things. I de-boarded the plane and the woman of the couple chided me,

“If we got to Switzerland, we hope to see you in our tiny screens on our seats!”

“Me and you both, sister!!”

I snapped my neck around to focus on my carry-on-tote-bag-jacket juggle which was quickly followed by a shrill gasp and medium scream. The view of the mountains from the Bozeman airport was majestic. Everyone at the airport gate gave me a side eye. I shrugged and returned the same. I will never apologize for my childlike wonder. How sad life would be to keep that in a cage.

A fellow bridesmaid landed 20 minutes prior to me, we properly met while waiting for our Uber and rode to our Airbnb. Julia and I were on our way to our “private room”. I convinced her to share a bed with me for the pricing, location and… lack of options. As the youngest of 4 girls, sharing a bed felt like the natural option. After reading our host’s  cute little bio and reviews, I was certain he was a perfect stranger. I spent enough time using couchsurfing.com in my late teens and early twenties when I was living in France combing through profiles of people who would host me for free in exchange for fun banter and culture. An easy job for a gal like me.

Our host, Daniel, was the exact sweetheart stranger I needed to meet. It was a refreshing tonic to meet a blue-collared guy with generosity and humility at his immediate reflex i.e. offering us his other free room so we had our own beds for no extra cost. It was nice to be reminded that midwestern kindness still exists. To Daniel, I was some exotic bird from the big city, but back in New York I’m just another Brooklyn bitch with tiny tattoos who models and pulls tarot cards for fun. Cruel, but true. I allowed myself to fluff my feathers for this wedding weekend.

There was another guest who was staying in his home. The morning of the wedding before we had to report to the bridal suite, I sat and had a chat with him. His name was Javi and he was studying for his next equine medicine test. He looked at me and said, “So, when are you getting married?” I laughed in his face and showed him my empty ringer finger and said, “Honey, I couldn’t be farther away from that.” He looked back at me deadpan with piercing eyes, “Why?”

I quivered at the sharp nature of the question, “…I don’t know!! I would love to love someone deeply and have it be requited. It just feels so complicated to find sometimes.”

This lead us down a path of volleying love experiences, labeling them as conditional or unconditional, and him giving me his best wishes and advice on my pursuits over two mugs of lukewarm coffee in a 15 minute time block.

I think the best part of a friend’s wedding is their vows. Especially when said friend hasn’t always shared intentional writing outside of a birthday card or thank you card. There’s one line from Lizzy’s vows I’m still chewing on. Their vows happened to be eerily similar, affirming even further their love.

Lizzy said, “When I imagine a perfect world, it’s you and me on a walk.”

The pace of my tears tripled. The simplicity of the nuance was deafening. An arrow through the heart.

Lizzy and I are best friends for a reason. That is also a timeless litmus test for chemistry on a date. If we can go on a walk, sit on a bench, or lay on a blanket, and get lost in conversation — I’m invested. When the compatibility of each other’s company removes the awkward silences and replaces it with quiet togetherness, that’s usually when my daydreams start to take flight. Have I been disappointed after an initial spark? Sure. Of course. My ring finger is still empty. But I receive that as a nod to my charisma, not my lack of worthiness.

Weddings are stranger-talking central. It was safe to say my cup had runneth over. Luckily, I had a very good excuse to exit out of any conversation. I was a bridesmaid so all I had to say was, “So sorry to stop you, but I need to go check on the bride.” Then, I quickly escaped from the chat’s entrapment. I gained about 2 hours back of my life with that line.

Our host, Daniel, and I ended up mutually engaging in unsolicited chit chat over my stay. He offered me breakfast the morning after the wedding followed by a good ol’ fashioned heart to heart on the bench in his backyard. We talked about our careers and where we’d like them to evolve, we talked about our lens on love and how we want to invite more of it into our lives, we talked about astrology and crazy readings we’ve experienced, we talked about home improvements and how he should restructure his yard. The following day, we saw a storm rolling in and he asked me if I wanted to go storm chasing up and around the mountains. I never said yes faster in my life. He shuffled the Stars Wars and Harry Potter scores and we drove into the eye of the storm. A memory that will become a dinner party story sometime soon.

I got back home and showered after the storm chase and thought, “Wow, I really love talking to strangers...” I grabbed some alone time in my room and stared at the ceiling. I closed my eyes and re-traced all the tiny sculptures of people’s lives I got to witness.

On my plane back to NYC, I felt like a new person.

It's good practice. Surpass the tip and take a peek at the iceberg. It can turn a fellow passenger into your personal photographer, your airbnb host into a new life coach, a fellow guest into your love shaman, and your first date into your spouse. The unsolicited chit chat could help you find the next clue to the missing puzzle piece we all have yet to find.

Deemed the “child philosopher” by my father and numerous other family friends in our living room, in the car pick-up lane, in the kitchen at a Superbowl party or on the slip-n-slide in my front yard. Notorious for cold truths, blank stares and charming chubby cheeks, the title only seemed fair. Their words, not mine!

After one too many of my unfiltered one-liners, my dad would dissipate the room by saying, “Oh you and all your little Glennonisms!” (Usually followed by one of his “hugasaurus-rex moments” where he would attack… with hugs? I know, it explains a lot if you’ve met me.)

Alas, here we are - Glennonisms. The distinctive, tried and true practices + beliefs of little miss chatterbox. I’ll be delivering the new, the old, and the upcycled on a frequent basis. Let’s say bi-weekly to be safe, but please harass me and hold me accountable. Better yet, fluff my ego and beg for them. Either will do.

Yes, I was at house party when this clicked. I went to LA in May for about two weeks for some work, some play, but mostly to get the fuck out of New York. It couldn’t have come at better time. The childlike ice cream cone at the end of a beach day. Sand-swept, salt-encrusted exhaustion. March and April were humbling waves I tried to body-surf to shore.

The walls were inching in, my chest was tight and I was crying in public places a little too much. It felt reminiscent of being the fat kid during high school preseason. Self-aware of being out of shape, the shame that ensues with it, the further shame that would ensue for finishing the mile last. But at least a bitch finished that mile.

Fake spring / endless winter in New York is brutal. It feels like emotional abuse. Whether you’re corporate or freelance, it doesn’t discriminate. However, for my freelance hotties, the “slow” season can especially lure out the lingering out-of-shape fat kid feeling. Paired that with my worlds of new friends, new lovers and old friends and old lovers colliding again and again and again and again, my lungs were on fire. This long stay in LA was my big red button. SOS DEFROST.

Towards the end of my trip, I planned a test shoot with friend Matt — triple Aries blue-collared creative bastard. Love to light a match and watch it burn. But, will also clean up the mess once it’s out. We met through my sister and became fast friends. Most likely were brother and sister or cousins in a past life.

Photoshoots are some of the BEST hangs (iykyk). It’s the adult version of a dress up playdate. We romped around his studio and DTLA. Shoots like these always remind of why I started modeling. Building a story, bringing it to life and being the main character. (someone has to do it!)

Matt pitched that we should check out this house party once we wrapped. More specifically, a house show. I hadn’t been to house show since my college years. I shuttered at the eerie flashbacks — me fawning over some baby-faced emotionally unavailable boy in a band who probably gaslit me, lead me on and left me jaded yet somehow attached because why else would he have told me about his dad’s affair if he didn’t care about me at least a litte? Poor 19-year-old Glennon didn’t know yet that early trauma dumping develops a false sense of intimacy no matter how disarming of a personality she may have. I shrugged off the flashback and went to the house show. I refuse to make decisions based on uncomfortable past experiences whenever possible. The brain needs a good detour every so often. Also, being a plus one (stranger) at a friend of a friend’s party is one of my favorite pastimes. The social invisibility cloak that comes with the invitation is the perfect mischief a gal like me needs. Method acting at its finest.

This house party made me want to move to LA. Will I make the executive decision? Probably not. Maybe. I don’t know, but it’s on the table. I’ve spent almost 10 years of my life moving homes at least once a year. Ages 17 to 26 involved lots of cardboard boxes and redecorating and compartmentalizing. No, I am not constantly running away from things. Most of these moves were what life was yielding to me and I had to accept. (I know, soooo Scorpio of me to constantly transform and transmute and live so many lives.)

So, now that my second year of being settled in my lovely Brooklyn home, my ears are perked for the egg timer to go off and give me a reason to pack up and move. I am doing my best to fight this urge.

The party’s entrance had a fee. I was guided to a QR code by a girl who did a magic trick for me in the crowd of a magazine release party I went to in the summer of ‘22. The invite for that party came from Hottie DJ from my piece “You’ve Got Mail” when my useless crush still had its grip on me. I couldn’t believe the invisible string that snuck into my suitcase from NYC. I left that city to escape this shit!!

“Oh my god, I know you!! We met at a party in Soho!! You had such fun friends!”

“Yes, you did a magic trick for me didn’t you?”

She is still as hot as I remembered. I forgot I had a crush on her that night too.

I changed my focus to the QR code she pointed me too. I kind of miss when cash was king. The fuss and, almost, pettiness of Venmo, Zelle and QR codes feels soooo fucking hollow and mindless. It’s almost too simple. Everything is egregiously transactional these days. What happened to FAVORS? What happened to a moral code of a tip jar? Is generosity only upheld by a venmo request or QR code these days!? Sigh. I think I hear my egg timer going off.

(I got off my high horse and sent a venmo for the bands. Don’t worry.)

There is another secret beauty of house parties — the humility of self. I find it kind of nice to feel shy as an adult. It never lasts long and once it dissipates, you have a tiny moment of reflection realizing how much you’ve grown.

I sat on the top of the backstair case on the upstairs porch and just surveilled. If I had tiny binoculars, I would have used them. My Communications major brain was drooling at the ethnography of it all. Good to know my college loans were worth something. So many little pockets of little groups and their little non-verbal idiosyncrasies, all the ants marching — the thought arrived.

“A good house party can make you wanna move…anywhere…”

I thought about all the times I felt that way. I remembered this feeling at a house party in Montréuil, a spunky hood outside of Paris, my friend Danya gave me the +1 invite one of my last nights living in France. I felt like I was literally inside of those educational party reenacment videos we watched in my middle school French classes in 2008. There weren’t any QR codes in those videos and there weren’t any fucking QR codes at this party. It was also 2019.

Instead, I was greeted by un mec who was bourée and he asked me, “T’en veux?” with a bottle of Pastis in his hand. I sheepishly nodded and proceeded to watch the aperitif turn green as he plopped some ice and water in my glass. He slung it into my hands and said, “Tiens,” signaled towards the basement door. Dayna and I went downstairs to the sound of DJs playing Blue Monday by New Order. I watched people dance, I joined, flirted more with Pastis guy, got compliment on my francais, had an ego boost and thought, “I have to move back to France eventually.” Ironic this thought arrived two days before I was moving back home after spending a year there.

A lanky boy with a mustache tapped me on the shoulder,

“Do you live in Echo Park? Did I see you at Canyon Coffee the other day?”

I chuckled, “No, I live in Brooklyn, but I probably was the girl at Canyon Coffee.”

“Oh that’s funny! So you’re visiting?”

“Kind of..” I lingered, it didn’t necessarily feel like a visit.

“Kind of?”

“Yeah, I go back and forth for work.”

“Oh that’s rad. Bi-coastal dream!”

“Yeah, it is a dream,” I smirked and broke eye contact to continue to scan the crowd. I mumbled to myself “…a good house party really does wanna make you move anywhere,” finding that my new thought was affirmed again in that moment.

“That’s a line if I’ve ever heard one.”

“Consider it a Glennonism.”

“A-what??”

“Long story, my name is Glennon.”

He chuckled, we cheers cans and bobbed our heads to Chanel Beads. Yes, this conversation actually happened. If you know me, you would believe me. If you’ve been reading since I started, I think you would believe me as well.

I excused myself, did a goodbye tour with Matt and my newfound friends via my +1 invite. I walked out of the party, flicked off the QR code and sat at the end of the driveway looking at which Thai place to get takeout from. I took breaks looking at the menu and looking at the moon and smiling at strangers still trickling into the party.

I was having one of those *moments*. It is a dream. My life, in that moment, felt like a dream. But not dreamy enough to make me move. The egg timer is still ticking. Maybe the next house party will be more convincing.

I left the driveway, winked at the moon, picked up my Thai food, rolled a spliff and continued the last two days of my Californication.

How often are we pulling for love? How often are we pulling for fear? We tend to center the nuance of bonding with misfortunes rather than fortunes. Why? Who the hell knows. Misery loves company? Maybe misery loves company because the more company misery has, the less lonely it feels, and therefore… misery is no longer miserable? I think I’m onto something here.

I think we can all agree that we’ve lost to fear or won for love many, many times. I think the oddly beautiful part is the compliance to fear we all experience. Maybe because there’s a certainty with it. We know the side effects, and the discomfort that ensues, and, yet, fully aware, we still pop open the orange bottle and take the pill. Fear and love are antonyms. However, opposition doesn’t mean disconnection. The sun reflects its brightness onto the moon for its glow. The heart risks to be broken in order to stretch. Love illuminates what fear hides. The thing is, fear is just the unpredictable shadow. The stones we have left unturned. If we could try to replace fear with unarmed curiosity, maybe the pills could be more like magic mushrooms. Which, I think we can all agree, are way more fun.

My mother has told me many times that I am “innately buoyant” and that she admires my curiosity.

“Honey, you have just always had this unbridled curiosity…it’s like a jewel, your jewel!”.

 I distinctly remember when this simile was first demonstrated to me. It was during one of our many phone calls when I lived in Asheville. I was living there five years ago with my ex-boyfriend, having existential crises three times a month about what the fuck I wanted to do with my life or, even worse, knowing exactly what I wanted and knowing that making that choice would ultimately hurt someone I love and being too petrified by fear to do it.

Not that in 2024, my volatility between immobilizing doubt, asinine confusion, and frustration to piercing clarity and unfettered, almost spiteful faith to go on has ceased in the slightest. However, on a positive note, the catalysts for my volatility from 2019 have been resolved due to current Glennon realizing those dreams, making those decisions, and doing the damn thing. So… there is potential… that I could be fretting about some badass dilemmas in 5 years' time. Let’s cross our fingers.   

In Asheville, there was this place about a mile away from my apartment—Hominy Creek. It was absolutely sacred to me. My sanctuary with a path the perfect length to drain the anxious well I filled in my brain. There was this one cement bench on the path that always had some answer waiting for me; I felt like it was my wardrobe, my Terabithia, my portkey. I always had to stop and make a visit. I would sit there until the answer whispered and if it didn't, fraught with rumination, I would call my mom for a life coaching session on my stroll.

These phone calls became team recruitment for my personal tug of war with my relationship, my dreams and my time in Asheville. Fear kept winning the game and I needed an extra set of hands. I loved my friends but I feared that wasn’t enough joy to keep me, I loved the tranquility but feared the boredom, I loved my boyfriend but feared the simmering resentment. I knew I was building a house of cards. I didn’t know if I could simultaneously love him and love myself enough to make a terrifying leap to pursue what was calling me in New York.

“Ugh mom, I am still feeling so indecisive. I’m pacing around the creek again losing my fucking mind. I don’t think I’m happy and I don’t know the solution.”

“Oh sweetie, you do know. Your invention and buoyancy is innate.”

“Innately buoyant??? Quite a mouthful, Mom.”

"That’s your mother!”

“Alright, alright… I’ll take it!” I muttered with a smirk pulling up the corner of my mouth. I thought I heard the cement bench chuckle too.

I couldn’t disagree. Luckily my brain was wired with enough precision to be an optimist with ADHD. Which, inherently, breeds a decent sense of buoyancy (and impulsivity). I had to agree with my mom because firstly, I have learned that being agreeable with her makes my life much easier, but, more importantly, she was…right. I am just as shocked as anyone else that I’ve managed to float back to the surface after the parade of curve balls I’ve endured. Life’s humorous wink of character development. 

Now, my mother is many things. An oxymoron that continues to evolve but one thing you should absolutely know, she is alarmingly verbose. This verbosity comes partly from her ancestry of eloquent speakers and partly from her bookworm nature. If you have the chance to meet her, she would be happy to tell you about her many book club meetings, the richness of her last book, or how it was her form of escapism raising four children. Don’t let her being labeled as a bookworm mislead you. The qualities you might expect from a bookworm could not be assumed by my mother. The observant, endearing dork was the role my father took on in their partnership. Her being well-read gives her an unshakeable charm, wit, and alluring intellect. (The apple does not fall far…obviously). These qualities also lend a hand to her cameos in life coaching.

Eventually, the house of cards fell. In the dystopia of May 2020, she helped me move out of Asheville back to Charleston with no “I told you so”s. My mother wasn’t always the most explicit with her support during that time in my life. In her defense, I did move to Asheville, a place I never once visited, with a boy I had been dating for a year and some change barely eight weeks after I lived in France for a year. I was 23 years old and blindly in love. She kept her mouth shut when I decided to leave Asheville but still stay with him. She has always told me, “You can bring a horse to the water, but you can’t make it drink.” I was not drinking that damn water, but boyyyy would that have been helpful. Seldom did her words bring the warmest support, but she helped me move to Asheville and came to the doorsteps when it was time to go. If I have learned anything over the years, action does speak louder than words. I know, such bullshit, but unfairly true.

She brought me back to Charleston where we became roommates in her idyllic 2 bedroom apartment in Wagener Terrace. In the “unprecedented” times we were living, she gave me a pass. I lived with her for 2 months until the apartment I found with my two friends, Hailey and Rachel, was ready to move into come July. She had just broken up with Mark 2.0 and was on the hunt for a new suitor. There was a Mark 1.0. I liked him. Honestly, he and I were pals. He would help soften up my mother for me. He was kind, generous, and chill. I knew the tip, my mom knew the whole iceberg. She said he was too mercurial, so it ended. She said she needed more homeostasis in her love life. This felt like a side-eye towards my relationship at the time. She was right, but I didn’t want to admit it. 

She was a recently fresh widow. About 3 years after she lost her husband, she was able to come up just enough for air and swim towards the light. I like to think coming home that summer was my way of being her lifeguard. I may have not been the real thing back in the glory days of Swarthmore Swim Club, but it felt equally legendary. As much as she complained about sharing her place with me, I think it was a gift for us to hold each other during that raw time. I wanted her to feel safe and encouraged while she was navigating this very new world after being off the market for almost 30 years. She was single and she’d like to pretend I was too. I sometimes wonder if she plotted my boyfriend dumping me outside of an arts and crafts store for me many months later. A relationship I think she was pleased to be over. Although, she still talks sweetly of him to this day. I’m sure she couldn’t believe we lasted three years, but like I said, I was utterly enamored. Who isn't with their first love?

Since I was encouraging (and weak to my mother’s persuasion), I’d get tricked onto a pair of bikes and we cruised toward the closest happy hour stopping traffic on the way. Sweetened up on our discounted bottle of wine, she started to shower me with words of wisdom and motivation. The Ginger Special—only available at happy hour. So, remember, alarmingly verbose, she tells me,

“Glennon I could describe you in three adjectives all starting with the letter “I” and those are..”

           She paused, lassoed her eyes around for about 7 seconds, and went,

“You are incandescent…incomparable…AND.. irrepressible!”

My jaw was literally on the floor. I think I shed a single tear, followed by goosebumps and then a chuckle. I was wholly speechless by the talent, but also by the caliber of depth, judgment, and audacious love that helped deliver that in under 10 seconds. She continued to challenge herself high off her last accomplishment,

“OH! And my MOTHER!” she exclaimed, giggling to herself about to body slam me with more vocabulary.

“I’ll use “V”… she had verve, vip, and… VIGOR!”

I think I cooled her down with a gentle round of applause, a cheers to her glass, and a survey around the room to break the third wall with a nosy stranger. I couldn’t accept being the only witness to that scene. I wrote those three adjectives in my journal the next day and stared at them long enough until they stretched out into a poem.

There is nothing more beautiful than
the delicate dance of a woman,
who finally finds home in the skin she was given.
To finally see the irrepressible and incomparable nature of who she is.
A woman who rekindles idle embers 
in the furnace of her heart and
recognizes that the beauty of her fire also exists
in every person she has ever encountered. 

It is safe to say that I continued to let myself be tricked into those happy hours for the remainder of the summer. The ability to see my mother slip back into the foolish cloak of youth was priceless. I had the chance to take her off the parent pedestal and notice she is just as human as me. A person with a scroll of mistakes stretching out behind them but still writing the story. A person who also plays tug of war with fear and love. 

Lately, I have been rolling the dice on optimism holding my breath for its validation. Fear and its defeat can ache and optimism can feel like salt in the wound. How am I supposed to find the silver lining when this shit stings? Resilience doesn’t feel like a compliment when it has to be the reflex but to honor that reflex is courageous. 

I remember defeat has its teachings. A student can learn its alchemy. A victim remains blind to its brilliance. With eyes wide open, the clever spirit of inquiry nudges us all forward. Fear will wax and wane, love shines a spotlight. How boring life would be without the peculiar way we allow our curiosity to guide us? 

I can’t tell you exactly when the heart on my sleeve was sewn on, but what I can tell you is the seamstress did excellent work. The stitching is impervious to professional-grade seam rippers. That motherfucker is not coming off.

Similar to the nuisance of a faulty pen, my red ink bleeds through any emotional shield I’ve tried to use. The heart on my sleeve teamed with the rosacea on my cheeks has routinely blown my cover over the years. What felt like a scarlet letter in my tweens now feels like a family heirloom in my twenties. My ancestry is heavy with hyper romantics. So, why fight it? I’d be a lousy soldier anyway. If love truly is a battlefield, I’m probably the hopeful drummer boy dying out first. 

I can still remember how intense my first crush in grade school felt and how intensely it crushed me. I sent my BFF to tell his BFF that I had feelings for him, only to watch her walk back shaking her head “no”. A decade later, on the first holiday break from college, we had a hometown hang. We finally made out just for me to realize how lame he is and for him to realize how wonderful I am. 

How tragic. It took him 10 years to get it?

I sent a high-five to 8-year-old Glennon and never talked to him again. I didn’t care how cute he was, I was fucking free from the grip of a useless crush. Refreshed and prettier like after a new haircut.

I took it upon myself to continue my romantic heritage at an early age. I spent hours bathing in stories of my grandparent’s love letters, relentlessly asking for more pages of the stories like an investigative journalist. I would sneakily watch my mom and dad do their slow dances after dinner from our front staircase—my cheeks mushed between the wooden pillars, my eyes widening “…that’s gonna be me”, sheepishly observing all my older sister’s suitors fawn over their beauty and popularity “…that’s gonna be me”. This led to hours spent watching romantic montages from 90’s romcoms or The OC or early seasons of Gossip Girl, then, hours studying the lyrics of love ballads from Stevie Wonder, Marvin Gaye, Mariah Carey, Norah Jones, and Alicia Keys. No 9-year-old should be singing, “When you left I lost a part of me, it just so hard to believe, come back baby please cus we belong togetherrrrr”. A petri dish of misguided infatuation and future codependency—I was a kid drenched in romance.

Thinking about it now, I probably could have become a child prodigy with all those hours. I could have been first chair clarinet in the Philadelphia Orchestra or quelling some chess master or at least put out a banger at 13 years old like JoJo. Honestly, those heartbreaks on the playground would have been a great resource. Now that I have arrived in my late twenties, I’m still a little damp from that monsoon of romance from my younger years.

Nevertheless, the heart on my sleeve remains and continues to lend me highly entertaining, freakishly kismet, mildly gut-wrenching, and seldom successful love affairs. Whatever alchemy I practiced in my childhood lab of daydreams worked a little too well. So, when a postcard from Tokyo arrived on my doorstep a month ago addressed to me with an ambiguous signature and a seemingly neutral message, I took a deep exhale and thought, “No fuuuuccccking way.”

I read it about four times until I had to put it away. “Who the fuck sent me this postcard?” I repeated the question to myself in many different tones based on the possible candidates I drew — flustered, cheeky, delighted, pissed, annoyed and eventually landing back at bewildered.

The message was just neutral enough that it could reeeaaally go either way. Depending on who it was from, the meter from platonic to romantic could sway hugely.

I felt like a detective at their wit's end on a case—a small (big) part of me was secretly enjoying this cosplay. I credit this to being a Scorpio or maybe my era of intently watching the hit 2009 series Lie to Me. I sweeeaaar to god I always know when someone is lying to me because of that show. There is close to nothing you can hide from me. I know that sounds terrifying and a little cringe, but between my intuition, my disgust for deception, and my verrry loyal friends, it is the truth! Consider this information helpful.

The amount of Venn diagrams I constructed in my head of the POIs was alarming. Who did I give my address to????? Who in my past mentioned they had Japan travels?? Or desires to go?? The signature looked like an “M” but also maybe an “H” or maybe a “D” or honestly just kind of a fuck you scribble. Is there anyone petty enough to send this just to fuck with me? Let me bring you up to speed. The message reads:

Hi Glennon,

I hope this card reaches you. I hope all is well in your life. I’ve been taking a break to see some of East Asia and consequently a bit of new art. Let me know when you pass through yonder the next time.

All my best wishes,

(unsure signature)

Friendly, right? They’re not confessing their love for me but they are inviting me over “yonder”, but where the hell is YONDER? You can understand my perplexity. I had to rule out anyone who knows my current address because, frankly, with my oversharing tendencies on and offline and my loose-lipped family members, my current address could be easily retrieved. Also, it was a postcard from the Tokyo National Museum of Modern Art the front being a photo of Harada Naojiro’s Kannon Bodhisattva Riding the Dragon, so whoever bought this card had taste. This helped rule out a few people.

I was flipping through my mental Rolodex of nicknames I had given to past lovers.

Was it the French Chauffeur? He always mentioned how he wanted to go to Tokyo on our rides to the La Rochelle train station. I left every weekend for a trip and he was always happy to pick me up from my French host parents’ house and drive me. Our dates consisted of late-night car rides, spliffs, deep talks, making out, and our playlists. He asked me what song made me the most emotional. At the time, it was “Somebody Else” by The 1975. I remember we listened to it in silence in his car by the ocean and he looked at me and said, “Je comprends.” I finished my semester abroad and never saw him again. Maybe he heard the song in his travels and felt inspired?!

Was it the Kentucky Husband? When we first started talking he mentioned how this company wanted him to lead a trip to Tokyo in 2022. Or maybe it was, in fact, 2023?! He was coming up as a foodie influencer at the time we met and he didn’t know how to handle it. Our dates consisted of very long Facetimes with very long, cute conversations. I DMed him about a recipe then he asked me for a Facetime date. He was in Kentucky and I was in Charleston. A Covid love story. He flew out to come see me and it was one of the most romantic long weekends I’ve had. My roommates and friends thought we were soulmates and going to get engaged, hence the nickname. This did not happen. Honestly, I was hoping it was not from him. But the lack of apology in the postcard would track.

Was it the Hottie Art DJ? We spent half of a 4th of July party making out on his friend’s rooftop and watching the fireworks. During one of our conversations, he told me about his love for animé and how he spent time in Japan, and how he wanted to go back to Tokyo and brush up on his Japanese. Our dates weren’t dates. It was a culmination of very flirty texts, one random date, random “hangs” and party makeouts. I hit on him at an art gallery in Chelsea. He was the hottest DJ I had encountered and I had to shoot my shot. He played friend zone doubledutch with me and I couldn’t hop out. His doe eyes and smile had me totally hooked. He was a useless crush. Maybe he finally made it back to Japan and sent me this postcard??

Was it the Yoga Goddess? She was my yoga teacher when I was living in Mexico City and I would stay after class to flirt with her. I thought she was into me because she always corrected my poses so sensually. Whenever she said “exacto”, I would literally go weak in the knees. The language barrier was tough but we talked about traveling and she mentioned her deep desire to go to Tokyo. I wish I had mentioned my deep desire to get a drink and makeout. I would always leave the studio cursing wishing I could speak Spanish the way I can speak French. Maybe she made it to Tokyo and found my address from the booking portal?

Was it the Downstairs Himbo Sublet? He was living in the apartment below me over the summer. A model visiting from Brazil trying to bring his honey company to the States. I met him when I was coming home from set and had too many things in my hands. He held open the door for me and we bonded over a forgotten bike chained in my driveway. We would go on runs together and he told me how much he wanted to travel the world and share his honey. He called me his neighbor crush and would watch me come home from dates from his window. Creepy from anyone else, but somehow endearing from him? Maybe on his way back to Brazil, he made a pit stop in Tokyo?

I didn’t have the energy to keep flipping through the nicknames. Reliving these love sagas was making me feel insane.

By the top of the third day, I needed backup. I had to consult SOMEBODY. A second opinion is an invaluable resource. I require AT LEAST one daily. So, I brought the postcard over to my friend’s place to magnify any further clues. My friend Cecilia read it and paused, “You know, Glennon, that “yonder” really looks like “London” to me.”

A BREAKTHROUGH.

London was the key to the mystery. I don’t know how I ever thought it was “yonder”. How long have I been reading?? I had no excuse I was taught cursive in grade school and the penmanship was nowhere near chicken scratch. It is comical the things we convince ourselves to see and believe.

Cognitive dissonance is a sneaky SOB. But once you disrupt it and see things clearly, it is such a sweet, sweeeeet release.

By definition, it is: a mental conflict that occurs when your beliefs don't line up with your actions. It's an uncomfortable state of mind when someone has contradictory values, attitudes, or perspectives about the same thing.

A useless crush is a prime example of cognitive dissonance. Like any victim, you know that this crush is no longer serving you and you know you deserve more attention and better treatment, but you can’t help it because they’re annoyingly hot or have a cute baby face or they’re an amazing kisser or they were a really good meet-cute or all of the above (dangerous).

Suddenly, all you can think about are those inside jokes you guys made when you hung out, that fun photobooth makeout, the cute PDA shared at that one wine bar, those vulnerable conversations about family trauma or life goals that gave you false hope your relationship was going somewhere. Then, the breadcrumbs begin. Things stagnate so you send some dumb meme to keep the fire stoked. Then, maybe they hit the like button on your IG story which you plotted specifically for them. This, of course, further affirms the delusion there is still a slight chance you guys could fall in love, but in the end, it doesn’t matter. They’ve got you on the hook and you’ve given away all your power to someone who doesn’t know what they want—you’re crushed. The good news is, it doesn’t last forever. The crystallizing moment of clarity eventually comes. The ick arrives and you realize how deeply unattractive it is for them to waste your time. The best part is, people like that, always always always always ALWAYS ALWAYS come back. Trust me.

I firmly believe that anyone single has a useless crush once a year. We all have our weak moments and there is no shame. I had my crystallizing moment about a useless crush a couple of weeks ago and I feel fresh as a daisy. Ending the year with all my power back in my cup.

So with this “London” breakthrough, came the answer. The postcard was sent by my friend Merlin from Berlin. Yes, you read that correctly. The signature was a combination of his first initial and last initial. Although platonic, I did meet him through a cavalier romantic pursuit—Hinge.

I found myself aimlessly swiping, as one does, spending about 5 minutes on the app until I became overwhelmed by choices or, more commonly, disturbed by them.

Merlin popped up. His profile was a bunch of photos of dinner parties which, naturally, drew me in. After the profile skim, I scrolled down to read the first prompt and it said, “This is not a dating profile. I host dinner parties to foster connections for kind strangers. I cook everything all I ask is you bring yourself and something to drink. If this sounds pleasant, please message me at @dinneratmerlins.”

Aghast by the brilliance of his guerrilla marketing and, even more, at my excitement from a Hinge profile (a RARE occasion), I quickly slid in his DMs. Every single thing about that concept had my name all over it. Dinner?? Strangers?? Solo adventure?? “something to drink”??

Merlin is wonderful and his dinner parties are iconic. If you find yourself lucky enough to attend one, I am happy for you. If anyone is looking to marry a German man, let me know. I can vouch for him. He deserves to get a visa so he can return to the States and revive Dinner at Merlin’s. If he likes you enough, maybe you’ll get a postcard too.

Otherwise, I am continuously open to receiving love letters of any kind (i.e. anonymous postcards, a message in a bottle, carrier pigeon). Use your imagination. It pays homage to my romantic ancestors and reinforces the stitching of the heart on my sleeve.

Many thanks,

Glennon Rose

xo

Glennon’s unplugged routine goes as follows at the moment:

1. wake up.

2. stare at the tree in my window for about 10 seconds.

3. get out of bed, drink a glass of bedside water, and walk to the bathroom.

4. brush teeth and massage puffy eyes

5. deep breath and affirmation in the mirror with eye contact.

6. throw on some clothes.

7. walk a few laps around the park in front of my home sans phone.

8. meditate.

9. eat.

Before you roll your eyes, let me just say, that this routine is not linear and barely perfect. Discipline can be the tightest muscle to stretch and I am trying my best. Number 7 is my favorite so far. No music + no phone makes you notice the soft orchestra of the day beginning.

This routine is my best effort to try and stay sane and be as welcoming to life as possible. I’ve always preferred a hug or a kiss on the cheek than a handshake. Closeness over distance.

I got through steps 1 through 5 and broke. I checked my phone to see a message from Mom saying,

“Hi honey, we have to put Lacey down today. She’s completely lost her bowels. She seems often confused and disoriented.”

There was the answer to the odd feeling. My childhood dog was throwing in the towel. I thought this Scorpio season was just bringing ego death.

We hopped on Facetime so I could try my best to give her my goodbye over a screen. She shot me one of her sassy eyebrow looks and a sniff. I could see the death clouding in her eyes. It was her time.

My mom and I continued to talk on the phone with Lacey as a third-party listener. We always made a joke that Lacey was immortal. She had cheated death too many times for normalcy. We decided since my dad passed he took on the body of Lacey to keep my mom company, therefore keeping her alive until the ripe age of 16. We agreed that it was my dad’s salute—a passing of the baton. My mom got married to a wonderful man 3 weeks ago and knowing my mom’s company is being well-kept, he could exit stage left.

We talked about the parallels between Lacey’s mercurial approach to her death and my father’s. As it turns out, there are stages of death especially when there is a terminal illness attached. The body has a way of unwinding before the final curtain call. It’s just hard to catch when the audience is still fixated on Act III. Suddenly, the curtain closes. Scrambling trying to replay how you missed the clues of it coming or, even worse, all the moments of intuition you dismissed. The awareness of its arrival can only come with practice. Death becomes less sneaky once you get used to the sound of its footsteps. For Lacey, my mom was a veteran audience member. She spotted the signs and knew when to drop the curtain.

I continued my morning routine after our phone call. I took my unplugged walk during Lacey’s appointment. There was a comforting sense of closure as I said my thank yous to her while I watched the leaves fall off the trees. I replayed some of my favorite memories in my head as I said hi to all the dogs who passed me. Turning the corner on lap three, I felt the moment she left.

That phone call made me think about death for the rest of the day. I had only shed a couple of tears after accepting Lacey’s predicament which I thought was strange coming from the girl who had cried about her roommate’s cute new haircut.

I decided that, at the end of the day, she was just a dog. A comically hypocritical conclusion, but let me help you understand. When you decide to get an animal, you sign an emotional contract with an idea of the life expectancy and honor the realistic expiration date they all have, right? And that’s the beauty of it too, right? Our pets come in as messengers, outlets, and teachers. They give us a chance to have a responsibility of the heart and generosity of the spirit. Once their job is complete, they pack up shop and move on to the next customer.

Later in the day, I stationed at a coffeeshop and poured myself into my journal and an excessive to-do list (probably coping). I felt motivated, inspired, and hopeful about the goals I was setting for the week and the rest of the year. Frankly, I was confused as to why I was having a great day even though my dog just died. It was so good there was absolutely no way the other shoe was going to drop.

I was wrong.

My momentum of a good day bled into a successful evening grocery store run. I was getting all the ingredients for a lovely home-cooked meal, listening to an old playlist, and waiting on some good news from my agent.

I parked my roommate’s car in front of our house and had a message on my phone from my agent, “Hi Glennon! You can release all dates for ____.”

The same odd feeling. It felt like my career was throwing in the towel, too. I called my mom in hysterics. Like a big baby, I was having a meltdown.

“Mom… I am… really… not okay.”

“I know, sweetie, but she lived for a long time!”

“MOM! No! This isn’t about the damn dog! I didn’t get that job I thought was mine for fucking sure. I am so tired of this. I know I have tough skin but Jesus fucking Christ I don’t know if I can handle another L.”

“Please don’t use the Lord’s name in vain.”

“Mom… please. Not right now.”

As mothers do, she nursed me through the meltdown. I walked into my apartment, put away my partly soggy groceries, wiped my mostly soggy cheeks and went upstairs to hang myself up to dry. What the fuck happened to my good day? Why is this Monday so fucking morbid?

I collapsed onto my bed in silent disbelief.

That silence encompassed my room. With its nimble fingers, it dialed the four-digit combination to my lockbox of deep-seated grief. And I wept. The breathlessness between sobs, the shuddering of my body, the piercing sensation in my chest, the agonizing whimper of my voice. It was all so painfully familiar.

It felt like the third week of late August 2017—My dad’s Act III turning into the final curtain.

On that Monday, I came home from spending the day at the beach in absolute bliss watching the solar eclipse with all my best college friends to enter through my backdoor to find my dad in a hospital bed asleep in our living room. The juxtaposition stung. With a pit in my stomach, I stormed upstairs to wake up my mom and ask what happened. She told me he was too weak to climb the stairs so they asked the hospice nurse to bring the bed. I dropped to my knees. A clue of death I didn’t want to see. So, I crawled into bed and I wept and bartered.

It was the same weeping from that Wednesday. I came home from class to have his hospice nurse tell me he was about to approach a diabetic coma. I wept while trying to force-feed my dad a spoonful of honey begging him to close and swallow staring into his terrified, glazed-over eyes. I wept while I watched him leave my house on a stretcher with the medics. I wept while he squeezed my hand and promised to see me at the hospital.

It was the same weeping my sister, Kyla, and I held as we begged him to hold on while our two other sisters, Fallon and Darby, were taking last-minute flights from across the country and over the Atlantic Ocean to say their final goodbyes.

It was the same weeping from that Thursday. Sitting bedside in the hospital room holding his hand. Just us two, I asked what I can do for him once I graduate from school that year. He looked at me and I saw the death clouding in his eyes. It was his time. He squeezed my hand and kissed my forehead as I wept and said with piercing eye contact, “Be happy,” pausing to relfect in near-death intuition he added,“…and be kind. Please… for me.”

It was the same weeping from that Friday morning. I was lying on my father’s side of my parent’s bed with my sister, Fallon when the hospital called to say he had finally passed. The same weeping as I stumbled down those same stairs he couldn’t climb to hold his favorite hat to my chest for our drive back to the hospital.

It was the same weeping of the first night without him. I lost my mentor, best friend and the first love of my life. Reality snapping in and out and I thought, what should be the topic of my senior thesis?

Laying in my bed in my apartment in Brooklyn—six years later it all felt the same. Time felt irrelevant, but at some point, I came for air, drank some water, and cried myself to sleep.

The morning came. I woke up, stared at the tree in my window for 10 seconds, drank my water, went to the bathroom, pressed on my puffy eyes, brushed my teeth, looked at myself in the mirror, and said, “You’re gonna be okay”, put on clothes, and on my walk, I tried my best to hold hands with death.

Death can be painful but it doesn’t have to be scary. It is essential spoke in life’s wheel. It is a silent judge with a loud gavel. It is a wise wallflower we can befriend. It is a beautiful teacher we can try to learn from. A guardian angel in a different cloak.

All dogs go to heaven, all endings have beginnings, life and death continue to hold hands. So, I think we can too.

I am the walking oxymoron of being old enough to know I am just a big baby. Old enough to know I have retained about 6% of life’s wisdom so far and, more importantly, to shut my mouth around people who are actually old and just listen. Listening is one of the best gifts you can give to yourself and those around you. I mean ACTUALLY listening. The type of listening where you can ask genuine follow-up questions reassuring the person talking you are dangling on the monkey bars of their story. The type of listening that unlocks a memory that was too scared to come out on its own. The type of listening that makes you believe in the sense of oneness again. We are all just windows and mirrors for each other. Go talk to any perfect stranger, listen to one of their random stories and come back to me.

If that doesn’t work, eat some mushrooms and sit underneath a big tree and watch the leaves or jump into any ocean during sunset. If that doesn’t work, I do fear I am out of advice and we might never be on the same page.

So, back to being 27 and the bandwagon of dread. Let me just say this first—I think cynicism is bench-sitting behavior and self-deprecation enables useless futility, however, that does not mean I am immune to these emotions trying to take real estate in my brain. No amount of my adrenal health supplements, my mirror affirmations, cold showers and Epsom salt baths are going to save me from the inevitable arrival of feeling like a sack of shit now and then. I was hoping this cadence would align farther away from my birthday this year. Unfortunately, the sack of shit pendulum swung in my direction. Huge bummer.

So I decided to indulge in the dread. My guilty pleasure—some tasty self-deprecation. I was about to turn 27 and it felt like every person adjacent to me had all their Ts crossed and Is dotted. I couldn’t shake this overwhelming feeling of being completely irresponsible for the life I have been living. I moved to New York two and a half years ago and I haven’t had my face on a Times Square billboard yet? What the fuck…? You mean to say all my daydreams and fantasies weren’t premonitions? I thought I was supposed to dream big?!

I do admire my ability to get completely swept away in a daydream, I would even go further and say not enough people do; however, when the pendulum swings and I am on my hyperbolic delusional soap box, some self-sabotage may ensue.

So there I was, a day out from my birthday sitting on my park bench crying in front of concerned strangers trying to phone a friend. I needed someone to help me clean up this pity party. I knew I couldn’t do it alone. My first instinct is usually to call my dad, but he’s dead. I know, sooo inconvenient. Six years later and it’s somehow still a reflex. Fret not, when I leave a voicemail he eventually gets back to me. I worked my way down my speed dial and had no success. It was just me, the green bench and all my uncomfortable feelings. I couldn’t figure out who was the third wheel.

So I said fuck it. I leaned into the gluttony of masochism and I decided to list out all the reasons why I was feeling irresponsible. Unnecessary, yet irresistible. The pity party was NOT finished.

I felt irresponsible for being late too often, irresponsible for doomscrolling instead of reading my book, irresponsible for still waking up and looking in the mirror and hoping my legs will magically become the shape I want, irresponsible that I still fucking care about that, irresponsible for not having enough “cool” mutuals on Instagram so industry people will take me seriously, irresponsible for not volunteering more, irresponsible for putting screenprinting on the backburner, irresponsible for not acting the bright ideas I’ve had, irresponsible for my graveyard of half-finished projects, irresponsible for my credit card bill and, even more, for my apathy for it, irresponsible for overcommitting all the damn time, irresponsible for my love life, irresponsible for being a simp, irresponsible for being slingshot between being lovebombed or ghosted 90% of time, irresponsible for the other 10% being so goddamn knit-picky, irresponsible for being a fuuucking freelancer, irresponsible for getting released from 3 big jobs I thought I had, irresponsible for not having some cool edgy side hustle to pair with modeling, irresponsible for not having my big break yet or whatever the hell that means, irresponsible for cracking my phone screen trying to film a fit check, irresponsible for buying that second $5 cappuccino that I didn’t need, irresponsible for not calling my family enough, aaaand irresponsible for taking so long to start this substack. I ran out of steam and the pity party fell silent. Simultaneously, a car cruised by the closest intersection just long enough for me to hear 10 seconds of Bobby Darin’s iteration of “Call Me Irresponsible”.

So, call me unpredictable
Tell me I'm impractical
Rainbows, I'm inclined to pursue

Call me irresponsible
Yes, I'm unreliable
But it's undeniably true…

I couldn’t help but laugh. And by laugh, I mean howl hysterically. The wink of irony was uncanny. It was perfect.

I took that as my cue to wipe my tears, clean up the word vomit on the bench, and go home. As I got ready for my birthday dinner that night, I decided to loop that song on repeat until I could convince myself that my mania was a crucial montage in the coming-of-age movie that is my life. It seemed to work.

I arrived to dinner feeling refreshed, as one does after a good cry, and was pleasantly reminded that the restaurant would be turning into a karaoke bar once dinner service was over. My mission became clear. To shove the pendulum in the other direction I knew what I had to do. I walked up to the bar and queued up “Call Me Irresponsible” for my montage’s grand finale.

I serenaded the room full of strangers with as much charm and wit as I could muster. Little did they know how much catharsis those 2 minutes of singing off-tune brought me. Unfortunately, I did not get a standing ovation but that wasn’t important. I finally shoved the pendulum out of my direction, hopped off the bandwagon, and felt like myself again.

I am not old. I am not irresponsible. I am just a big baby with big dreams with rainbows I’m inclined to pursue.

Welcome, I’m glad you’re joining me.

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