It’s true I’ve been through more phases than the moon. I can’t relate to people who simply like things. I am either completely uninterested or out-of-my-mind in love. There is no in-between to my intensity — no balance to my violent swinging from one passion to the next. And I am no stranger to the whiplash it can cause. But that’s okay!

This is a space where I write about my current obsessions — the things that make me say oui oui oui — as well as my more personal life updates à la diary entries. I hope my posts feel like a little love letter or even an informal text message from someone who makes TV shows their entire personality, method-watches movies, and doesn’t have a nonchalant bone in their body.

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What You’ll Get Here

💖 Free subscribers receive weekly love letters on my latest obsession.

✨ Paid subscribers get the full experience:

• Diary Entries — monthly personal life updates with details I only share here (like major mommy issues)

• Latest Obsessions — weekly obsessing over a television show, a movie, a book, a song, a food, a product, a habit, a place, a person, or even my own potential

• Full archive access — every essay, every insight, every word I’ve ever written at your fingertips

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Meet the Writer (C’est Moi — Karli!)

I’ve been writing my whole life. I’m a storyteller at heart. I’m a dreamer, a romantic, a black sheep, and an alchemist through-and-through. I’m also an Enneagram 4, Cancer Sun, Aries Moon, and Sagittarius Rising with a Leo stellium if that means anything to you. Here are a few more things you should know about me:

• I’m writing a memoir!!!!!

• My mom died when I was 23.

• By day, I’m a full-time brand copywriter.

• I’ve been sober and celibate for 8+ years.

• I was once engaged but called things off.

• I’ve struggled with chronic illness for nearly a decade.

• I used to work in Hollywood casting movies and TV shows.

• I’ve lived in Paris, Los Angeles, Miami, Phoenix, and Austin.

• I love movies, going to the movies, discussing movies, and movie theater popcorn.

• I also love live music, going on walks, thrifting, 90s/Y2K nostalgia, blooper reels, chips and queso, acoustic rap covers, traveling without an itinerary, and sunsets.

• I hate wind, glitter, tight clothes, bras, loud noises, and artificial air fresheners.

  

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Good Places to Start

New and don’t know where to begin? These old essays are extra special:

📍 Codependency Almost Killed Me

📍 Me, Myself & Motherlessness

📍 Clawing My Way Out

I also wrote a personal essay for Oprah Daily you can find here.

Bisous!

Karli 💋 (follow me on Instagram for more)

When my mom died, I devoted days to going through the things she left behind, unearthing relics and remnants in the garage of my grandmother’s home. Her entire life had been reduced to trash bags, but what filled them was the only proof I had left that she had been here at all.

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My mother kept everything — monthly calendars, grocery lists, receipts, letters from first loves. And there I was, faced with the decision of what to keep and what to throw away; what was valuable and what was disposable. I meticulously and carefully took what felt most meaningful and started a new collection — Mom’s things — and even that has dwindled over the years.

After my mom died, I moved abroad with the set intention of collecting more. I had acquired a medium-sized magnetic gift box with a Parisian metro sign on top and decided it was the perfect home for my memories. Each day, I added something new to it — a business card from where I had lunch, a piece of artwork from the girls I nannied, a boarding pass from my latest trip, a handwritten letter from a friend who had stayed with me, or street maps from cities I had gotten lost in. By the end of my two years living there, the box was full, rich with experience, and would only stay closed with duct tape.

When I returned home from Paris, I kept the box in my childhood bedroom in Indiana and continued to add to it. I then buckled it up safely as I drove us to California, placing it under my new bed in Hollywood. Week by week, I brought home new items and introduced them to the box — movie premiere tickets, a matchbook from my favorite bar, a napkin from the Chateau Marmont, a personalized letter from the producers of NCIS. I was once more building my paper trail — proof that I had been there, that I had done it, that I had lived.

It wasn’t until a health crisis occurred that I was forced to part ways with the box. In fact, for years I stopped collecting things at all. Instead, I was tasked with the mission of getting rid of them for the sake of my health. I got rid of all my clothes, all my furniture, all my books. I got rid of every towel and pillow and picture frame. Everything. But I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of the box. I taped it up tightly and stored it at a safe distance. I kept it at my sister’s home in Southern California, as I fled to the beach in Florida, then the desert in Arizona, and finally the countryside in Texas. I felt safe and at peace knowing the box and its remains still existed somewhere, waiting for me until I felt strong enough to peek inside and revisit the past. But until then, I was on the run — chasing rebirth, shedding old layers, stripping myself of anything that had made me sick and hurt and broken.

When you’re tired of yourself and desperate for change, it can be difficult to know how to move forward without cutting all cords completely. How do I change without dishonoring my history? What — or who — gets to come with me as I move forward? And what — or who — gets left behind? What’s worth holding onto? What’s worth letting go of? I’ve had to find out the hard way, and I haven’t always gotten it right.

Recently, I remembered how, growing up, my mother talked about creating a memory box for me and my sister to open on our eighteenth birthdays. Like so many things with my mom, the intention was there — and good — but it never happened. My mom moved countless times, and with each move, more and more from our childhood was lost along the way. I never got to open the memory box from my mom — because she never got to make it. But I did get to open the one I made for myself.

There it was, waiting just as I’d left it — my paper trail. The proof that I had been there, that I had done those things, that I had lived. Proof that I ate at that restaurant, walked that street, boarded that plane, had that friend who felt those things for me, that I was that person at one point in time — even if I am no longer. Proof that I existed. Proof that I had been good to others. Proof that I was loved. Who was I without these things? What will be left of me when I’m gone? How will I be remembered? Will my life, too, be reduced to trash bags? Or will I leave behind something more lasting?

I sorted through it all in a stupor and haze outside, trying my best not to inhale dust and toxic spores. My body began to ache. My brain throbbed, my sinuses burned, and there were goodbyes waiting to be said and a flight needing to be boarded. I had to be done. I took what I could with me back to Texas, sealed securely in Ziploc bags, stuffed into the edges of my suitcase, and I put the rest in a black trash bag — not unlike the ones I had gone through of my mom’s.

It wasn’t until I was sitting on the runway, waiting to take off, that the tears and panic came. What had I just done? What had just happened? How could I throw away my life? Won’t I need those things one day — to show my children, to write my book, to provide as proof? No one even writes handwritten letters anymore. Nothing exists on paper the way it did. I don’t want a QR code. I don’t want a digital boarding pass. I don’t want a text. I don’t want a note in the app. I wanted it all back. I want it back. I want it back. I want it back. But it’s too late.

I no longer have the piece of paper with my handwritten itinerary from Dublin — the one with the spiral staircase bookshop and the tavern bar. So, if you’re visiting there soon, don’t ask. That piece of paper now lies somewhere at the bottom of a trash bin that will soon be picked up by a truck and dumped somewhere to decompose. I no longer have my Indiana driver’s license, the key to my first car, my metro pass from Paris, the newspaper clipping of my mom’s memoriam, my study abroad journal, or that card you wrote me for my twenty-fifth birthday. I can no longer hold any of it in my hands or carry it in a memory box.

I will have to carry it in my heart instead — the same place I carry you.

If I could list my regrets, microblading would be at the top, right after Botox, braces, having my wisdom teeth removed, binge drinking, taking birth control for over a decade, oh, and every guy I’ve ever dated. For those readers wondering what microblading is, it is a cosmetic semi-permanent tattooing procedure to enhance your eyebrows. It’s done by creating small micro-tears in the skin with a sharp blade and applying a custom ink over the cuts to absorb into the skin. I shuddered at the thought of what the heavy metals and dye in such a delicate area had done to my body. Did it get into my brain? I also worried what getting it removed would do to me — would it cause my skin to break out? Yes. Would my lymph nodes become swollen? Also, yes. Would it take months and months and months for my body to eliminate the ink? YES. But I needed it gone. These thoughts raced through my mind as I lay frozen on Anita’s table, my eyes squeezed shut, covered with two layers of goggles while she methodically lasered the ink away.

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I became acutely aware of my eyebrows at a young age. They were bushy and dark with a unibrow that connected like a fuzzy bridge across my tiny forehead (I am Greek, after all), and it wasn’t long before I took to a pair of tweezers against my mother’s wishes. She said I had Brooke Shields’ eyebrows. I shouldn’t touch them. “Don’t mess with your natural beauty,” she’d insist. She also claimed my dimple in my chin (or my “butt chin” as the kids at school called it) was the most striking feature about me. “You know people pay money to have what you were born with. Plastic surgeons are giving people cleft chins all over the world! Just look at John Travolta.” And while my mother was wrong about a lot, this was one thing she ended up being right about. I do love my butt chin. I’d be boring without it. And I should’ve never touched my fucking eyebrows.

Magnifying mirrors always get me. They put me in a meditative trance, and I lose sight of what I’m doing — what I’m picking at, what I’m plucking. It isn’t until I come up for air and take a step back that I realize the damage I’ve caused. What have I done to myself? By college, I had developed an addiction to my magnifying mirror and tweezers. I spent hours in it each day, obsessing over each hair, every pore, sitting on the floor with the mirror between my legs. I had compulsively over-tweezed them until all that remained were two pencil-thin lines in a small, sad arch. They bore no resemblance to the ones I had in childhood. I had even gone so far as getting laser hair removal between my brows so that my unibrow would never grow back. I fixated on them each day. When I looked in the mirror, they were the first thing I saw. It wasn’t until after college when I moved to Paris that I took on the long, arduous, painful process of growing them in. Because French girls don’t have unnatural looking eyebrows, le duh.

It took me months. I vowed to not touch them during the process. I avoided mirrors for the most part, and I threw away my travel-size magnifying mirror I had brought. I simply applied my castor oil and brow-growth serum each night, letting them work their magic. And they did! I was elated to find that with a little self-control and restraint, I was able to grow back the eyebrows I had had as a little girl. No permanent damage had been done it seemed Except for... oh wait... what’s that? Are they uneven? Is my face unsymmetrical? Did they grow back oddly shaped? Why is one tail thinner than the other? And so, the obsession continued...

I moved back home from Paris and had been working at a medical spa for a few months when I first discovered microblading. It was a new cosmetic procedure everyone was doing, because women now wanted bold, bushy eyebrows à la Cara Delevingne. My brows were pretty bold and bushy, but they were still sparce in some spots and I wanted more. Microblading promised to give me what I pined for, and because I worked at the medical spa, I got it for free. The esthetician was just learning this new procedure we were to offer soon, and I would be her first client — her test dummy; her guinea pig. You had me at free. Say no more.

It didn’t dawn on me what exactly I was signing up for (a face tattoo) until it was too late. The process was medieval, torturous even. Tiny scrapes. Blood soaked gauze. The sound of skin scraping. The smell of ink. The welts and bruising and blisters after. I lay there frozen under the harsh lights, not unlike I was doing today with Anita in order to remove it. Scrapes of skin, over and over again to create tiny brushstrokes – scrape, scrape, scrape – like running fingernails against a chalkboard. But I endured. And for awhile, I was happy.

When the microblade began to fade, I got it touched up. And touched up again. And again. And again, across various states and with different technicians during my different stages of life and cities I called home. Each one had to try to match the pigment from the one before, and eventually they had been touched up so much and gone over so many times that they stopped fading. The semi-permanent had turned permanent.

I continued to use my brow-growth serum on top of my microblade for the fullest, fiercest brow. It now looks like Sharpie brows to me when I look at old photos, but I guess that’s what eyebrow blindness will do. I had two caterpillars on my face. Why had no one told me?! Well, one person did: Nate, and to know Nate is to love Nate. He lives in a different key than everyone else, and he is somehow both brutally honest and completely untrustworthy, meaning I would 1000% trust him to tell me if I look good or bad but maybe wouldn’t trust him with picking me up from the airport.

I had just started experimenting with creating content, and after posting a reel of myself reading one of my poems, Nate sent me a DM that read, “pluck the brows, with love. ily don’t take this personally *kissy-face emoji*.”

At first, I got defensive. These are eyebrows French girls have, okay Nate? You wouldn’t understand. But then I looked at myself in the videos I had posted – really looked — and realized he was right. I guess we see ourselves so often that we stop seeing ourselves clearly. I had become so accustomed to my overpowering brows that I had forgotten what I actually looked like underneath all the artificial enhancement.

I immediately booked an appointment with Anita.

Anita’s name should instead be Angel because that’s what she really is. I couldn’t have done this without her maternal comfort and care. I found her on Yelp, her five stars, glowing reviews, and convincing portfolio of before-and-after photos making me feel safe. I was in good hands. She took one look at my eyebrows and agreed they had to go. “You can’t even see how beautiful you really are. They truly overpower your entire face and even age and harden you.” Okay, Anita, tell me what you really think!

The laser removal process has been completely different from the original microblading process, but no less intense and traumatizing. Instead of scraping, there’s zapping. Instead of cutting, there’s burning. I can’t forget the smell of my own hair follicles being destroyed, and the frosted white aftereffect. I found myself laughing at the absurdity of it all each time I went to see her — paying someone to undo something I had paid someone else to do. Inflicting more harm in the name of healing. When does it end?

As Anita worked to remove years and years’ worth of pigment, her laser removed layers and layers of emotions, too. Every time I went to see her after lying still on her table — frozen, enduring, taking the pain, pushing through — I would sob after. I couldn’t help but think of all the self-inflicted hurt I had caused myself over the years. All the times I had tried to "fix" something that wasn't actually broken. All the pain I had endured in the name of improvement, only to create more problems that required more pain to solve. It was a metaphor for my entire life, really. I thought of all the times I had pretended things didn’t hurt when they actually did; pretended I liked something when I actually didn’t; pretended something felt good when it felt anything but; every time I’d faked a smile; faked an orgasm; faked anything.

Anita’s laser burned away years of bad decisions and bad boundaries, and it brought me back to myself. I thought about all the ways I had tried to control and perfect my appearance; my health; my life. The low-histamine diet that left me starving with a glorified eating disorder. The detox protocols that felt like a punishment. The sacrifices that only made me more self-righteous. All the ways I had tried to optimize and bio-hack myself out of my own authenticity. I guess sometimes the most healing thing you can do is stop trying so hard to heal.

Now, as my eyebrows recover and my body flushes out the remnants, I am in a season of being. I’m just letting them be, letting them do their thing, letting my skin clear up when it’s ready. It sounds so simple, but for someone who has spent decades trying to control everything, it feels revolutionary. There’s still some residual ink I can see, some neon orange that pokes through, but I tell myself it’s okay to be imperfect, and it’ll go away eventually. It’s okay to be messy. It’s okay to have a breakout. It’s okay to be natural. It’s okay to be real. I may not look perfect, but I look more like Little Karli. And that feels like enough.

There was no going back.

Before this moment, I was completely unaware of my codependent tendencies. In fact, I couldn’t have properly defined the word “codependent” if you asked. I think I had some vague understanding of it that I had romanticized in my mind, like two people equally in love who do everything together or the “If you’re happy, I’m happy” sort of thing. Here’s what codependency really is: it’s putting everyone before yourself; it’s ignoring your own needs; it’s having no boundaries; it’s caring too much; it’s caretaking and rescuing; it’s people pleasing; it’s living inauthentically to you.

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Generally, codependency forms as a result of involvement with addiction. Here’s how it begins (maybe I do know after all...): Mom develops an addiction to prescription pain killers and creates an unstable home environment. You, being all of eleven years old, are limited in your control over the situation. So, instead, you adapt, and you do what you can to keep the peace and not make any more problems for mom. You also know that the heavy drinking that goes on at dad’s house is often unpredictable, so you try to stay out of the way there, too. And suddenly, the once spirited little girl has shrunk and silenced herself to survive, and she’s been doing it ever since. She is no longer freely being and expressing but is instead shifting her behavior — her authentic energy — in accordance with everyone else’s. She does this to maximize her sense of safety. It’s a survival skill, and she made it through her teens largely unscathed. Until one day, she discovered her first serious boyfriend was a heroin addict. And instead of breaking up with him, she empathized with him because she had been primed to do so. He was sick, right? And maybe a little like her mom she had begun to push away and felt guilty over. So, at seventeen, she took his sobriety on as her responsibility. She stayed by his side through withdrawal and rehab. She made his problems her problems. His addiction was her addiction. If he stayed sober, things were good. If he relapsed, things were bad. She did all she could to control the situation and his behavior. In the end, the inevitable happened: instead of one addict, there were two. Because she was now addicted to control.

The funny thing about codependents is that they think they are in control, but really they are the controlled. Because what we attempt to control ultimately controls us, right? Codependents will do a lot to control a situation or person. In fact, they are master manipulators not unlike true addicts, and as people pleasers, they constantly lie. As much as they “help” others, they really aren’t good people. Codependents don’t respond; they react. Their whole lives are merely a reactionary chain of events to other people’s lives. You can see now how they ultimately end up living one that has nothing to do with themselves...

I guess for me, I felt responsible for so much at a young age because everyone around me was acting responsible for so little. I developed the habit of taking on more than I could carry. I found myself in boundaryless job after job after job in adulthood with one monstruous egomaniac boss after the other. By the way, codependents make excellent employees — they do more than their share, never say no, don’t complain, and are meticulous in their work. That is, until they become scathingly angry and resentful seemingly by the flip of a switch, trading in their shiny halo for something a little more sinister you never saw coming. Many codependents seem depended on, but in reality, they are the dependent ones. They become emotionally intertwined and overly invested caretakers, rescuers, and pleasers. And why? Because they have such low self-worth that feeling needed feels good.

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The truth is, many codependents are barely surviving, and my own habits nearly killed me. I had indirectly allowed others to tell me what to do, think, say, be, and believe. I had no boundaries with others or myself, because I had no boundaries in childhood. I had not been mothered or parented properly to know my limits as an adult. I lost myself in every romantic relationship I had and abandoned my interests and beliefs for theirs. I was much more “be whatever you want me to be” than be myself when dating, and I always allowed people to project their problems and pain onto me. I took their sickness on as my own. I made their insecurities mine, their fears mine, and because I had no boundaries, I was instead blown about by every wind. No wonder my life had been chaos. All this time, I thought I was someone who made things happen, but I realized I had only been forcing them, and forcing my will eliminates any possibility of God’s. There were many moments where I questioned why the same things kept happening to me. Was I cursed? Why had God forsaken me? But he hadn’t — I had forsaken myself.

With time, I became aware of the cycles I kept repeating. I’d take on the role of caretaker or rescuer, and then, when the person I was rescuing didn’t do something according to my advice or plan, I’d become an angry and resentful victim of the situation. Many codependents at one point in their lives were actually victims, but now? They victimize themselves by their own behavior and create their own suffering without even noticing. How can you be a victim of life when it’s you who keeps choosing the short end of the stick? I realized I had remained loyal to everyone but me. I tried so hard to stay in control and help others “see the light,” but all that did was dim my own.

At first, it felt unnatural to say no and detach from others’ lives, but I knew it was the only way God could get through to intervene in my own. I had to stop getting in His way. I had to set boundaries and stick to them. On the surface, you would never guess I didn’t have any. Sometimes the ones who look the most in control, are the least in control where it actually matters. If you walked into my apartment, you’d find it spotlessly clean and tidy. It’s organized, orderly, and everything is in its place where it stays — a boundary so to speak. My inbox is always at zero. My bills are paid on time. My towels are centered and straight, and the spices all face forward. I’ve never missed a deadline. You could say I am a responsible person, but in many ways, I have ignored my highest responsibility — the one I have to my own heart.

So, in the spirit of spring, I will be cultivating my own garden. I won’t water yours before I’ve watered my own. If yours doesn’t grow, I won’t tell mine to stop. And, in fact, I think I’ll stop playing gardener and God altogether. Those are roles I was never meant for. I am the rose with roots that blooms — whose only job is to make life a little more beautiful while I’m here.

She was fifteen minutes late.

I was a few minutes early and made sure to grab a table outside.

We are both wearing loose fitting clothes and no bra.

Her eyebrows are over-plucked where mine have grown in.

She apologizes and tells me she’s a little hungover.

I laugh softly and tell her it’s okay.

I mention I don’t drink anymore and ask her what she did last night.

She said she went to a party with her boyfriend, but his ex-girlfriend was there.

I know that she drank too much to settle her nerves because she never feels good enough.

I don’t have it in me to tell her we still feel that way.

Finally, we order.

She gets an iced vanilla latte.

I order an herbal iced tea.

I tell her I don’t drink coffee or caffeine anymore.

She asks why, and I tell her it makes me anxious.

I tell her my heart is sensitive.

I look in her eyes and can sense she feels the same but can’t admit it.

I tell her it’s so good to see her.

I grab her hand which is the same as mine although we are different people.

I look at her body knowing she still feels safe in it.

Detached, maybe, but safe.

She hasn’t yet known grief or fear or sickness.

I wish I could remember what that feels like.

She tells me it’s good to get out of the house.

I tell her this is the first time I’ve left my apartment all week.

I explain I finally have my own place, and it’s been the happiest time in my life.

She says she can’t wait to live by herself one day, and we both agree we love spending time alone.

She tells me she’s going to the movies after this.

She loves film and wants to work in Hollywood.

I tell her I used to work in Hollywood and think it’s overrated, but I love movies, too.

I tell her I am going to church after this.

She says she doesn’t believe in God.

I look closely at her skin and wish I still had it.

It’s rosy and sunburnt from her spring break trip to Mexico.

She says it was the first time she’s been out of the country.

I tell her I’ve been to over twenty and even lived in Paris.

She says her mom loves Paris, but they haven’t spoken in months.

I tell her to call her mom while she still can.

I then give her a hug goodbye and struggle to let go.

I want to tell her I’ve searched for her everywhere and have fought endlessly to feel like she does right now.

My eyes swell with tears, but she just smiles and tells me we’ll see each other again in a few years.

*Inspired by the original poem from Jennae Cecilia.

Despite a compromised immune system and divorced parents, I had a relatively normal and happy childhood. My sister and I lived primarily with our mom. Wednesdays and every other weekend were spent with our dad, and we were both enrolled in public school where I always cried being dropped off. I’d plead with whichever parent it was for them to stay. I remember both of them promising me vehemently they wouldn’t leave and would remain in the back of the classroom. They promised me. Repeatedly, I’d swing my little head back from my little desk to check that they were still there. Until one of those times, they wouldn’t be, and I’d sink into abandonment.

One day on the playground, I had been picking up wood chips when a seesaw smacked me straight in the face. I immediately felt an enormous horn grow where my brow bone used to be. A nearby teacher threw me over their shoulder and rushed me to the nurse’s office as I wailed. I was supposed to transfer schools the following week, and it was because of this incident I’d have to do it with a black eye. I’d go on to do a lot of things in life this way – with a black eye, a broken heart, a bruised ego, or worst yet, alone. But I showed up that first day at my new school with a big, black eye and pigtails igniting quite the influence.

Although I had many friends and did well in school, I never wanted to go. I became exceptionally skilled at convincing my mom to let me stay home. I was notorious for missing class and carried this honor all through high school. Once I turned sixteen, I stopped involving my mom at all in the matter. I’d get up and get dressed as if heading to school and then spend the entire day driving around in my car or hanging out at the mall. I used to call the attendance line’s answering machine and pretend to be my mother calling me out of class for the day. The irony that the majority of my childhood and adolescence were spent faking being sick only to grow up having to fake being well is not lost on me.

Those months I spent in a controlled environment as a newborn turned me into one control-obsessed adult. As I got older and my health got worse, I only became more controlling and co-dependent. I wasn’t always like this, you see. But I didn’t always feel this way either. I used to travel, take risks, and have adventures. I used to be fun. I used to eat whatever I wanted and sleep wherever I could find. But I guess I faked being sick one too many times. If “faking it till you make it” means acting as if you possess a certain quality until you actually develop that quality, then can faking being sick make you actually sick? I couldn’t help but feel I had unintentionally done this to myself or taken something on that wasn’t my own. And in my quest to get better, I only got worse.

When you become sick and begin to spiral, you inevitably enter into a state of survival. When you’re in survival, you will focus on one thing only – your environment. Why? Because that is where the perceived danger is. Something out there is making me sick. We begin to think in terms of worst-case scenarios in an attempt to prepare for survival because it gives us a false sense of control. And we become addicted to this very way of thinking because that sense of control gives us a hit of dopamine and hope.

I told myself that if I could just control my environment enough, I would regain my health. I did whatever I could to enforce this. I controlled the indoor air. I controlled the temperature. I controlled the humidity levels. I controlled the water. I controlled what I ate. I controlled what I drank. I controlled the supplements I took. I controlled the EMF exposure. I read every ingredient list on every label. Everything was filtered. Everything was purified. Everything was nontoxic. Everything was organic. Everything was sterile.

And in turn, my world became smaller and smaller. I became more isolated. My energy field shrank. My frequency weakened. Until, one day, I looked around and saw that I was all alone living in a box not unlike the one I was placed in as a baby. Except this time, I had put myself there. I was the one who placed these limitations on myself. I was the one who wouldn’t let anyone, or anything, get too close for fear of losing control. And all this time, I never once thought to control what I was thinking.

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The hardest thing I’ve ever had to learn is that the control I thought I had wasn’t even real. Control is an illusion, and so long as we stay chasing it, we will never be present. We will never have joy. We will never be happy. None of us are ever in control; we only think we are. We don’t experience the world as it is – we can only experience the world as we perceive it to be. If you’re constantly telling yourself that the world is a dangerous, unpredictable place that needs controlled, you will never be able to thrive in it.

The world will never be the controlled environment I crave. This world is unpredictable because life is unpredictable. I have lost jobs at a moment’s notice. My health has changed in an instant. Anything can happen at any time regardless of how hard you’re holding on or how well you think you’ve prepared for the worst. So, when holding on begins to hurt more than help, the only thing left to do is let go.

The hardest thing I’ve ever had to do is release control; to say goodbye to my white-knuckled grip; to surrender. It is a constant practice, and I have left deeply imbedded claw marks on everything I’ve let go of – each finger of my small but mighty hand peeled back one by one. But those marks are my daily reminder that letting go is necessary and life is simply better lived outside the box. Because living in a box makes for a small life. And if nothing else, my life will be big and beautiful.

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Because it was a school trip, we had a strict itinerary to adhere to and little freedom. Our parents had paid for dinners, museum passes, train tickets, and everything up front. There was little exception or excuse to deviate from the schedule. Upon landing in Paris, we had only time to drop our bags at the hotel before jumping into the program. I spent my entire first day ever in Paris with vomit in my hair. This was my first taste of real travel, and it couldn’t have been more humiliating. But I pushed through, as I so often have had to do in life. I walked those streets of Paris for the first time, the smell of my crusty vomit mixing with fresh baked bread and cigarette smoke.

My only priority that trip was being able to legally drink at the age of eighteen, even though I had been doing it back home illegally since I was thirteen. I couldn’t tell you what we saw or where we went. I returned home to Indiana with a digital camera full of photos I couldn’t explain. I’m pretty sure I uploaded a photo to Facebook of myself in front of the gates of Versailles captioned, “me in front of this big, gold gate thingy lol.”

At eighteen, I had zero appreciation for art, culture, foreign languages, history, architecture. I had cheated my way through French class and skipped a lot of school. I wasn’t irresponsible; I just hated being told what to do. I think even back then on that first trip to Europe, I knew this was no way to travel. I hated having an itinerary. I hated having obligations. I desperately wanted to roam the streets aimlessly and take a nap in a park somewhere. Had I been able to do that, I would’ve left knowing Paris a little better than I did maybe.

Instead, we rose early, ate crappy hotel breakfasts, and waited in line – everywhere. We waited in line outside the Louvre. We waited in line inside the Louvre. We waited in line at Notre Dame. We waited in line at the Arc de Triomphe. We waited in line at the Eiffel Tower. We waited in line at the Musée d'Orsay. We waited in line at the Musée de l'Orangerie. We waited in line at the metro. We stood next to paintings and sculptures, snapping photos of us reenacting the poses of Renaissance art. On our allotted one-hour lunch breaks, we would browse sex shops, chug wine, and secretly buy bottles of Absinthe to bring home. I drank a lot back then. I guess mine was the generation of binge drinking. Half gallons. Cheap vodka. Empty water bottles. Repeat. I would often drink to black out. It was fun to not remember. It was nice to have an excuse for your actions. “Sorry, I was blacked out,” had become a signature phrase.

I once was so blacked out, I fell asleep in the shower with the water running, flooded the whole bathroom, and broke my cellphone. There were multiple occasions where I got so drunk, I couldn’t walk. I’d lie down on the bathroom floor or wherever I had managed to make it until my legs gave out, dry heaving and spitting down my chest. I once was so blacked out, I punched my friend. I once was so blacked out, I jumped out of a moving car. I once was so blacked out, I peed the bed. But the worst black outs came after my first love and high-school boyfriend broke my heart. This was what I was drinking to forget while on that school trip to Europe.

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I had never had a serious boyfriend before, and I went into the relationship completely naïve. I was young and inexperienced; he was a bit older. There were plenty of red flags that I happily ignored. He went to a private Catholic school and had an air of affluence. I liked him for a few reasons:

1. He didn’t go to my school. This instantly made him more interesting.

2. He was a grade older. This made him hotter by default.

3. He actually was hot.

He was tall with brown eyes, brown hair, a preppy boyish charm but in reality was a total “bad boy.” I had no idea at the time just how much trouble and trauma he would cause me. I was warned early on of his ex-girlfriend, but I think maybe that’s also why I liked him. He was elusive. He always felt just out of reach – like I never fully had him, and back then, I sort of enjoyed that kind of challenge. Rumors of him cheating on me with her swirled. The worst part was that his ex was in his immediate and close friend group, so I always had to see her when we hung out with his friends and went to parties.

I suppose that’s also why I drank so much. I was nervous to be around them both together. I could’ve had any guy I wanted back then, but I went for the one I knew I could never have – even if he was technically my “boyfriend.” I finally confronted him the day before my junior prom only for him to deny it. The truth is, he rarely told the truth. In the beginning, when things are new and exciting, you are willing to overlook the leaps your stomach does and internal alarm sirens that go off – because we’re just having fun, it's nothing serious. But then, without even realizing or wanting it to occur, it does get serious. In fact, it got really serious when he almost died from a heroin overdose a year into our relationship, and I didn’t even know he did drugs.

I dated him for two whole years through addiction and withdrawal. I was cheated on, lied to, manipulated, gaslighted, and emotionally abused. But I was an addict, too. I just didn’t know it at the time. I was addicted to the stress, to the adrenaline, to the worry, to the pain, to the cortisol spikes, to the chaos, to the belief that I was not good enough – my own destructive pattern I would be forced to confront later in life. But this was everything I was drinking to forget those few weeks abroad after graduation. When I got back home, I told myself it was time to start doing things differently. I decided I didn’t want to go to liberal arts college in the fall to be close to him anymore. I instead accepted an offer to Purdue University which is where I’d meet the next boy I fell in love with.

He had an ex-girlfriend, too…

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I could have sat there forever in shock if it weren’t for the Italian grandmother of my host family coming in to check on me. She was the only one there at the time; the rest of the family was at the beach. She had heard me crying and came in through the patio doors. She spoke to me in Italian because she didn’t know any English, but the problem was that I didn’t know any Italian despite being in Italy for the summer. I looked at her, my eyes surely glazed over, until she began to pantomime an emotion resembling my current state.

“Sì” I said.

“Perché?”

“My mom…mia mamma.”

“Ah, tua mamma?”

“Sì”

She then began asking me in Italian what was wrong with my mom, and I didn’t know how to respond. I thought I remembered the right word, so I tried my best with uncertainty.

“Morte?” I said with a questioning inflection.

“Male?” She responded, which is what she probably thought I meant to say.

Knowing male meant bad or sick in Italian, it was time to try something else to get her to understand. My mom had just died and here I was being faced with a language barrier that began to feel more like a mimicry. It was as if I had got roped into a game of charades and dealt the worst cards possible. Seriously, how does one pantomime that their mother died? I’d like to see you try.

I know the use of phones in charades is considered cheating, but these were clearly desperate times. I got out my iPhone which was still connected to Wi-Fi. I pulled up my translating app. So many times I had typed words into it just curious to see what the outcome would be. I wonder how you say this in Italian… Random words…. Silly words…. But this time there was real meaning behind these words. “My mom died,” I typed. “Mia madre è morta” I stared at the words waiting for them to register but even then it didn’t seem real. My grief had apparently gotten lost in translation.

After accurately telling the grandmother my news, I decided to go to the beach. I just remember sitting there, staring at the water and waiting for someone to come up and tell me what to do in this situation. I kept waiting for someone to say, “Hey, your mom just died, right? Come with me.” But no one came, and no one does. There’s no instruction manual that tells you what to do in the minutes, hours, days following the death of a loved one. It really wasn’t hard to act normal. I was so far away and so far removed from the situation that it didn’t seem it actually happened. I was already thousands of miles away from my mom – how many more thousand was heaven?

I eventually crossed the ocean and made my way home. I spent time with my family and friends. I attended my mother’s service, and I went through all of her belongings for hours each day. Her life had been reduced to trash bags and boxes. I had no idea all of the stuff she kept. Every card, every drawing, every school project, every report card, every letter, every picture, every day planner, every grocery list. I read letters she kept from all the boys who adored her growing up. I read her list of things to buy for my 6th birthday party. I read her steps she planned to take to get better. I got to know her as a daughter, a friend, a girlfriend, a sister, a wife, a woman, an addict, an angel. And here, all this time, I just thought she was my mother.

I later returned to Sardinia full of resentment towards its beauty. I drowned myself in a sea of sun-drenched sadness each day. I had given up on my mom years ago because I thought I knew who she was, but the truth is that I really had no idea. I never thought to consider what she went through and what it must have been like for her. I forgot all she did for me. I forgot she was a person. I forgot how hard it must have been to be her and instead of helping her, I pushed her away. Now, all my contempt had been replaced with compassion, and I hated myself for coming to it too late. The worst kind of love is the love with nowhere to go.

I only stayed because I knew that she would have wanted me to, but the sting of saltwater was no match for the sting of my regret that summer. I was consumed with guilt. If God could forgive me, why couldn’t I forgive myself? I saw her everywhere. I saw her in the stars. I saw her in my sleep. And I saw all the ways I had screwed up. I saw her in the blue water, the white sand, the salty breeze, the rocky coasts, and the hot sun that was so bright it wouldn’t let me not squint my eyes and smile – if only in spite.

But eventually, after many years and miles traveled, I began to see things clearly.

Maybe I wasn’t a terrible person, and maybe it wasn’t my fault.

Maybe I was just young, and maybe it was as simple as that.

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That was ten years ago, but as they say, it still feels like yesterday. They also say time heals all wounds, but I know that not to be true. There are some things that time can’t heal or even touch – as if they have been frozen; as if the pain has been preserved to stay fresh and feed on. Pain can become an addiction, after all, and I’ve often caught myself licking my wounds. But what can I say? Some things you just never recover from.

Last year while I was living in Arizona and about to embark on a Bee Venom Therapy (BVT) journey in an attempt to heal from Lyme disease, I met with a woman named Nancy over a video call. The purpose of our call was for Nancy to walk me through the basics of BVT, as she had already successfully healed from it herself. I knew Nancy as an expert in this modality and the admin on a popular Facebook group she created for others seeking help and guidance – a secret society, if you will. What I didn’t know about Nancy was that she was an intuit and a medium.

As soon as our call began, Nancy declared without prompting that I have people on the other side who are supporting me. She paused and then continued to explain she was receiving a message from a grandmother type energy or spirit. I looked at her blankly. “Someone maternal or nurturing, maybe?” she asked. Without hesitation, I said, “yes, my mom.” Nancy paused again and said, “I’m seeing a lot of flowers... I want to say roses? I’m seeing lots of roses.” My stomach sank and swelled in one swift motion. Because of course they were roses. Of course my middle name is Rose. Of course my mom always called me “Rosey.” Of course she sketched roses in every card she gave me. And of course, her only message for me was this: she is with me, and she is proud of me.

Shortly after that call, I came across the book It Didn’t Start With You written by psychologist Mark Wolynn. Mark holds the belief that those most susceptible to experiencing chronic illness, be it mold toxicity or Lyme disease, generally all have one thing in common – “motherlessness.” This could mean a few different things: early infant or childhood separation from mom, feelings of abandonment from mom, a mom with substance abuse or addiction issues, or death. When I think of my mom, I think of all of the above.

How can I summarize the importance of a mother? She is the most vital person from point of conception. As an infant, she is your world. Her job it is to make you feel safe, make you feel loved, make you feel cared for and connected. Her womb is your first home. A separation from her is a separation from life itself. And if there is a separation, it opens you up to outside influence in many forms – toxicity, illness, danger, abuse, disease. Because isn’t disease at its core a state of dis-ease? Unease? An unshakeable uneasy feeling in one’s own body? I can’t remember the last time I didn’t feel it.

I have been searching for safety my entire life – that sensation where your nervous system melts and dissolves. I used to feel it when my mom picked me up from sleepovers if I was homesick. It was instant comfort and relief and the deep knowing that all was right again. Perhaps that’s the real illness or disease at hand in my body – homesickness. I just want to go home, but home is not here, and everything’s a counterfeit.

I’ve searched for home in partners, in places, in people. I’ve tried my best to replicate it, but a mother’s love cannot be found anywhere else. I pray to God for a love that makes me feel safe again, but all He replies is that He’s here.

I wish that was enough for me.

I am finally learning what it means to walk with faith – to not be a fair-weather follower, flimsy, and fragile, but to instead stand on a firm foundation. To praise God even more when things fall apart. To be grateful and gracious in the midst of trouble. This path is not filled with rainbows and butterflies and shiny, happy things, but is plentiful with persecution and pain where nothing is promised. 

A few months ago, I got baptized in water, but it has felt more like a baptism by fire. I naively expected life to get easier – it didn’t. No one warned me that it may get even harder. But I never prayed for an easy life – I prayed for an interesting one. And the truth is that an interesting life is often deeply uncomfortable. 

In the book Brave New World, it’s implied that the culture of comfort makes God obsolete. People often turn to God only once their rock bottom impels them to seek something beyond the physical world. My rock bottoms have led me to the rock I stand on. 

And yet still, each night I pray for healing and happiness knowing that if those prayers are answered pre-maturely, I may stop seeking Him. It’s easy to praise God when things are good; it’s even easier to forget Him. Would my discomfort dissolving right now really be the best thing for me? Perhaps God knows something I don’t. Perhaps I need further humbling. 

If all the pain, suffering, trials, and troubles didn’t exist, our physical and materialistic world would never lose its allure. While some may see pleasure and comfort as the pinnacle and point of life, I’d argue it’s a barrier to growth and to God. 

As for me, I don’t just want “good” things – I want God things.

A few things about Cat… Cat was the absolute best when she wasn’t the fucking worst. Bright, blonde hair, huge boobs, long legs, and big, brown doe eyes. She was three years younger than me but spoke to me as if she was much older to the point I often forgot she wasn’t. She was incredibly convincing — you had to be careful. Anytime you were with Cat, you were merely a guest on The Cat Show. She was captivating and engaging, and she spoke with such passion and conviction. But listen a little closer, and you’d find she merely regurgitated the thoughts and opinions of artists she admired and quoted The New York Times. She didn’t know how to think for herself or be alone, and she fell in love with someone new every week. She was pure emotion, driven by sex and a longing to be loved. One only had to spend a short time with her to see how insecure she actually was. The loudest people always are, and she desperately overcompensated. One year on my birthday at The Standard rooftop pool with friends and family, she insisted on being topless to avoid tan lines. This was not a topless pool, and it was also my birthday, but hey, why should I have any of the attention? Her giant D-cups served as pool floaties. And yet, I liked going out with her. She made me look good — the quiet, mysterious one with a magnetic pull while she babbled breathlessly and grazed the arms of men. There was no doubting she was fun, and she always had a way of meeting the right people. Cat had been a good friend to me, too. Whether it was for personal gain or not, I didn’t really care.

Let me be clear: I was screwed from the start. Before I ever moved to Hollywood, my perception of what it would be like was forever imprinted on by this night. Cat booked us an Uber Premier SUV with the director’s credit card. It was the height of awards season, and we were on our way to a pre-Oscar party at the Chateau. I felt underdressed and out of place wearing a simple black dress from Madewell and matching heels. Cat insisted I put a champagne-colored velvet bomber jacket over it to look more the part. If you’ve ever caught yourself thinking, “I wonder what Leonardo DiCaprio is doing right now,” I could’ve told you. He was sitting on the foot end of a long reclining lounge chair outside by the iconic pool – party guests swarming him like summer mosquitoes. I thought to myself, “That’s it. We can go home, and I can die happy. I ‘met’ Leo.” But then, it was time to go to the penthouse – the real party. Apparently, the pool gathering was just a teaser trailer. I was quickly shuffled through the dark halls, full of quiet whispers and history of the greats who had partied there before me. I found myself sharing an elevator with Bob Odenkirk from Better Call Saul. It’s a strange feeling seeing celebrities in real life. Of course, you don’t personally know them, but your body reacts as though you do, seemingly without control or even consciously. If you’ve ever ran into an ex and experienced that visceral response – near panic – towards a person whom your body had been hardwired to recognize but in actuality, you don’t really know this person anymore or at all now. This was sort of how it felt being in a room with celebrities I knew and simultaneously didn’t know. I tried not to stare.

The hardest part was deciphering how to act in a small penthouse suite shared with some of the greatest actors of all time. Tom Hanks. Meryl Streep. Jude Law. Leonardo DiCaprio (it can’t hurt to mention him again). Even Steven Spielberg was there. Do I act like I don’t know them or do know them? They can’t possibly think I don’t know who they are. Do I introduce myself? Should I tell them I’m a big fan? I went straight for the bar and pounded whiskey on ice – just a little something to settle the nerves, and keep ‘em coming, please. I soon found myself standing next to Tobey Maguire. We exchanged a subtle hello, and moments later I figured it was the perfect opportunity to ask him what he does for a living. He smiled, shook his head, and looked away – “Good one,” he said. And again, I thought, “I made Tobey laugh. We can go home now. I can die happy.”

I was sublimely and supremely drunk by this point. The penthouse at the Chateau Marmont has a rooftop balcony that overlooks Sunset Boulevard. The billboards lit up and beckoned me. “I want to live this life,” I thought. I would do whatever it took no matter the cost – not realizing that it would cost me everything.

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This is the story of how I first made my way out to California once I landed back on U.S. soil. The sentiments expressed towards America in this story are a little different than the ones I hold today, but I still love my country. At the time this took place, I had no real chronic health issues. Well, I probably did, but I wasn’t yet aware. I still drank wine. I still ate gluten. I still had an appetite for adventure. Most importantly, I still felt like myself. And so, begins my journey…

I had about $3.58 cents in my bank account and no current job prospects when I got the text. One of my best friends at the time had recently moved out to Los Angeles and messaged me in the evening on Tuesday, July 19th, 2016.

“Come and visit and see if you would like to live out here.”

And again…

“Wait actually I have a huge proposition for you.”

Her huge proposition went as follows: my friend’s mom was leaving in a day to drive her car out to California, but her mom did not want to make the trip alone. If I was willing to, I could go with her and split the drive. Her mom would pay for all expenses of the trip. I could see my friend, see my sister who lives in Costa Mesa, and see if Los Angeles was where I’d like to live next.

I was already itching to travel, itching to get out of Indiana. I knew I had to go West, and here was my opportunity. I jumped on it. A day later, I was sleeping in my friend’s old bedroom waiting for my early morning alarm to go off. I couldn’t sleep. We started out at 5 A.M. on July 21st. I felt exhausted. My eyes burned, but my heart felt anxious. I sat in the passenger seat and looked through the side-view mirror. The sun was rising behind us; the moon still in front of us; everything ahead of us. We were officially on the road.

America is best discovered by car. It is so vast, so wide, so open. The only way to truly see it is to explore its every crevice and curve. Perhaps it is because I grew up driving down to Florida for spring break. A 17-hour journey was made feasible in my childish mind. The idea that roads could take you anywhere, that they all lead somewhere, that even if you don’t know where you’re going, you’ll get there — where you’re meant to be — eventually. No distance was too far. I remember stopping at gas stations along the way. I’d step out of the car and feel the air had become saltier. “We’re getting close,” I’d think to myself excitedly. The best part about driving is that you get to not only see, but feel, the world change before you as you go.

We drove just about everywhere growing up. Florida. New York. Chicago. Minnesota. We all packed into the same car, brought our favorite snacks, played our favorite music. And isn’t that part of the American Dream, with its all-American road trip? Happy families piled in, buckled up safely? Singing songs and laughing? Silently sleeping? Playing in the backseat? America invented the road trip. We were born and raised on winding roads; lonely interstates; fast food drive-thrus; corner gas stations; roadside rest stops; Route 66. There’s no greater country to embark on a road trip than America.

I had always dreamed of driving out West. I was happy to reconnect with my country on the road after having lived away for so long. “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” America was built on the belief that everyone is created equally and deserves their dream; that hard work pays off; that a mixture of cultures and foods and languages is beautiful. So, I stretched my arms out wide as we drove, hoping to hug the whole nation.

I brought books to read during the drive but found the American landscape was a much more interesting story. We drove through Indiana, Illinois, Missouri, Oklahoma… I looked out the window and saw nothing but sameness. Flat land. Fast food chains and shopping malls. Little businesses and little lives. I kept thinking to myself, “Wow, there’s someone who goes there every day, to work at the McDonald’s off Exit 42, or to the ‘Jan’s Costume Jewelry’… I suppose Jan goes there every day, and that’s her life…” Everyone’s just trying to make it in America leading tiny, uniformed lives. Surviving. And what about me? Will I end up just another person living a small and insignificant life somewhere? Working day after day at a business no one knows about unless it passes you by through the car? The middle of America is like driving through abandonment. Do people actually live in these houses off the highway in the midst of nothing? And are they happy? And if they’re happy with this, why can’t I be happy with what I have? And will I ever be happy?

By the time we reached our motel in Oklahoma City, I was beaten with heavy thoughts and sleep deprivation. I showered, got drunk off red wine, and watched Pretty Woman on the television. It was one of the best nights I’d had since returning from Paris. I was far from home again. I was sleeping in a strange bed. I was lost and unsure. Yet, I am never so certain as when I am in motion — when I am on a trip fluttering from place to place. I become blinded when I’m stationary and unable to see anything objectively. But travel…travel is my meditation. It’s how I gain my clarity. It’s when I see my life for what it is; decide what I really want. The clearest I’ve ever seen myself was through the reflection of a window, with the world passing me by on the other side.

We rose early again in the morning, July 22nd, with Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona on the itinerary. The story of the American landscape began to pick up as we reached the latter half of New Mexico. New Mexico, with its sunny skies and rosy deserts. We made our way through Albuquerque, stopped off at Denny’s for a cheeseburger, and continued on Route 66 towards Arizona. More desert and red rocks were on the horizon. I was so relieved to finally reach Flagstaff. A mountain town with a college friendly vibe, Flagstaff, Arizona is definitely a place I could spend some time. I was more than pleased to stay the evening in this ponderosa pine-covered city. We showered, got dressed, and headed to the Lumberyard Brewing Co. for dinner, which is actually a brewery inside of an old lumberyard. As we waited for our table, we enjoyed drinks outside under the string lights and watched as a train went by. Once we were seated, I ordered honey BBQ ribs, macaroni and cheese, a salad, and a raspberry infused beer for dinner. The food was great, the conversation even better. I was once again happy, feeling utterly amused at how I had gotten myself here. A day ago, I was sitting in my old bedroom, staring blankly, with nothing to look forward to. And now? I was eating and drinking well in breathtaking Arizona. My belly and soul were full that night. I slept peacefully and dreamt of tomorrow’s next adventure with the roads that still remained.

Saturday, July 23rd, was the day we would finally reach California. But first, we had some activities planned. We opted for a more scenic route from Flagstaff to take us through the Oak Creek Canyon, the second most visited destination in Arizona. Fleetwood Mac played on the stereo as we traversed to the bottom, about 13 miles. The sedimentary rock walls of the canyon appeared grander and grander around every turn. Blue skies, green trees, white, tan, and red sandstone. All of these colors swirled and swayed around in my eyes. As we drove onward, I wished deeply we had more time to explore this gorgeous nature. Thankfully, we made a pit-stop at the Red Rock State Park in Sedona. We hiked the Bunkhouse Trail, over the Kingfisher Bridge, up to the House of Apache Fire. Again, I wished for more time, especially because two of the most scenic trails were closed off due to the Oak Creek flooding. The only way to reach these scenic overlooks was to hike all the way around. Still, our short time in the Red Rock State Park was worthy of a visit. We saw a black and yellow colored snake, multiple lizards, and pleasant views. I mistakenly wore jeans and a t-shirt which resulted in my undressing in the parking lot to change. After that, we decided we deserved In-N-Out. I got a cheeseburger “animal style” with French fries, and we were off again for California.

There is a psychological disorder known as “Paris Syndrome” that’s mostly seen in Japanese tourists. They visit Paris and experience severe shock due to discovering Paris is in fact not how it appears in popular movies and television. Paris is not whitewashed nor perfect. It is a dirty, crowded, and often noisy city just like any other. Although, it is still my favorite city in the world. But it is important to let go of these idealized images we carry when we travel, even if we hope they are true. Nowhere in the world looks like the movies. However, California comes pretty close. I suppose that’s why it’s where they are made. I was raised on movies. I have worshipped Hollywood for most of my life, and I even studied film in college. I’ve got the student loan debt to prove it.

After my initial road trip to check things out, it took me two years of living at home in Indiana to get my shit together before I could move. I worked three part-time jobs, had zero social life, and managed to save a couple thousand dollars. During this time, I also suffered a traumatic brain injury that would be the catalyst for so much chronic illness and debilitating symptoms in the coming years – I just didn’t know it at the time.

I didn’t know that the concept of travel would be forever changed for me.

I didn’t know that it would be years and years before I’d ever return to Paris again.

I didn’t know my liver and adrenals were already completely taxed.

I didn’t know I would move directly into toxic mold when I got to Los Angeles.

I didn’t know I would get my foot in the door and go straight to the top of the industry.

I didn’t know I’d meet my heroes.

I didn’t know I’d unmask monsters.

I didn’t know that everything they say about Hollywood is true.

I didn’t know that while I was working 14-hour days hustling for big-budget casting offices, living my “dream,” that I was also slowly dying – in more ways than one.

I didn’t know that Los Angeles would be the beginning of the end for me.

But I would soon find out.  

Before I hand back my engagement ring.

Before I throw away everything I own.

Before I get my blood drawn for what feels like the hundredth time.

Before I board the plane.

Before I quit my job.

Before I change my career.

Before I say goodbye.

Before I move myself from California to Florida.

And then Florida to Arizona.

And then Arizona to Texas – all within the same year.

Before another disappointing doctor’s appointment.

Before I inject myself with medicine.

Before I sting myself with bees.

Before I try another supplement.

Before I do another cleanse.

Before I detox all the bullshit.

Before I give up bread. And alcohol. And coffee. And sugar. And sex.

Before I learn to forgive.

Before I break the cycle.

Before I bite my tongue.

Before I look you up on Instagram.

Before I let you see me cry.

Before I kill my ego.

Before I surrender.

Before I ask for help.

Before I face my demons.

Before I find God.

“Will this hurt?” The answer is yes. It hurts. All of it. Healing will hurt, and I’m proof it takes a lot more than time. I wish I could tell you just how much it takes to heal and what it will cost. Certainly, it will cost you your old self – your old beliefs, your old habits, your old values, your old life. It will cost you your relationships. It will cost you your dreams. It will cost you your comfort. It will cost you money you may or may not have.

But something amazing lies on the other side of all the devastation. You may just find you’re stronger than you think and step into your God-given grit. You’ll find your purpose. You’ll find your people, and you may even find a little piece of paradise on the outskirts of Austin.

That’s the thing about healing – it hurts, but it hurts so good.

Behind every “before” statement above is a story of healing, and those are just some of the stories I plan to tell here.

Thank you for following along.