I was on FaceTime with my mom the other day—that’s what the 3 500 km distance has reduced our conversations to—desperately trying to explain how claustrophobic I feel. Not because my apartment is small. Ironically, it’s something much bigger that’s making me feel like the walls are caving in. Moving back after living abroad has been great, but I’d be lying if I said that the city I call home doesn’t feel a little small. Still, there was something more to this feeling of claustrophobia: I felt I was boxed in this course of life I picked by moving back.

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I went on to elaborate how I now am committed to living here and how stuck that makes me feel. A dream I spent so long chasing ended up making me feel trapped. I felt like by opening one door I had closed a hundred others. It’s now clear that anxiety clouded my judgement at that moment. I hate to bring up Plath’s fig tree—we really need a new metaphor to replace this with, because dare I say this one might be overused—, but I did feel like picking this life and this university meant letting all my other figs rot. However, the rest of my dreams haven’t been thrown away. Dreams don’t have expiration dates, so they will never rot. They are still there, waiting.

Choosing a dream isn’t like signing wedding vows. It doesn’t bind you to live that one dream from now on until you die. I take life so seriously that sometimes I forget how I’m allowed to try things and change my mind. I’m so terrified of making wrong decisions—if those even exist—that I’m adamant about having every choice I make be the correct one. This, however, is not only unrealistic but limiting. This way of thinking does bind me to one life, and I have way too many dreams to do that. In order to live all of them, I have to be okay with trying a million different things and not tying my identity to any of them, especially not the first thing I try. If I do that, I never get to be anything else.

The beautiful thing about life is that we aren’t fixed. We can choose to change courses overnight. Granted, it may take a little more time to get this change set in motion, but the mental switch is immediate, which is what triggers the rest.

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I can still study abroad in New York. I can still work in fashion in Paris. I can still write in London. (Can you tell I yearn to live in a big city?) I can still be whoever I want, wherever I want.

What a blessing it is to not know what I want in life, to have so many dreams be dear to me. I get to be a hundred things in this life instead of one. Not everyone can dream at that level, so I’m choosing to be grateful for an imagination that lets me do that. Being able to picture yourself in something bigger is guaranteed to take you further than those who go through life passively, never thinking that there might be something more out there.

For now, I’m going to see the beauty in this moment. Sometimes we forget how what now is our reality used to be a dream. I owe it to myself to not let that slip my mind and enjoy where I am. I look forward to seeing the leaves turn colors and the seasons change: something I wasn’t able to witness when living in Spain. I’m going not going to move mindlessly through this time of attending my dream university, but in the back of my mind I will keep the reminder that I can still be anything.

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Love,

Sarah <3

Stay a while!

Solo coffee dates

You shouldn’t spend your days at home doomscrolling simply because your friends are busy. Go to a cafe, bring your book or journal, and grab a table outside in the sunlight. I love doing things alone. It’s something that really helps me pour into my own cup. If nothing else, you can spend this coffee date catching up on your saved Substack articles—something I definitely need to do. It can be intimidating sitting alone, but learning to grab that table for one can turn out to be empowering and teach you to spend time with yourself. For those of you working, just because you are doesn’t mean your summer has to be wasted! Instead of spending your lunch break at the office, go to a cafe nearby!

One day road trip

Obviously you can take a longer one too, but I think we’ve forgotten that road trips don’t have to be long ones that require weeks of planning and savings. Whether you drive 15 minutes to the beach and spend the day there or a couple hours to a neighbouring town, you’re guaranteed a fun day. I recommend picking a location you haven’t been to or properly explored yet. The best part is that you can drive back home for the night. It’s so easy that there really is no excuse not to go. Me and my friends did this and spent the day walking around the city, had a picnic, and went thrifting.

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Make a summer brunch

Summer is the season of slow mornings and there isn’t a better way to spend them than inviting people over for brunch. You can either prepare a menu or have everyone bring a little something to share. There’s so many summer recipes to try: from lemon pies to colorful cocktails.

Freshen up your space

I just moved into my new apartment and plan to spend the month making it my own. Today I went shopping and found a number of cute things. End of summer also means sales at nearly every store. It’s the perfect time to redecorate and prepare for cozy fall nights. I know spring cleaning is a big thing, but who says there can’t be a summer cleaning? Open the windows, play your favorite music, and do a deep clean.

Reflect

Okay, I know I said it’s good to be present and enjoy summer, but it doesn’t hurt to be a little forward-thinking. I like to think of September as our second new year. A new school year means a fresh start, do some reflection before that. Some things that I’m going to wonder before starting my first year of university are the habits I want to have—and maintain throughout the year not just the first two weeks—and the targets I want to work towards. If your new year’s resolutions have long been abandoned, use this as a new opportunity. Make new, realistic goals that you can stick to.

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Paint outside

It’s one of those things that feels kind of wrong to do. You don’t really see many people setting up an art studio outside. However, spending time in nature is one of my favorite things to do during summer, so might as well combine that with something creative. Instead of painting from a reference photo on a screen—which is at least what I usually do—find inspiration from your surroundings. Paint what you see, what you feel. Take the pressure off and let your painting be imperfect. Sometimes we forget that we can do things purely for enjoyment instead of performance. You can go to a park or a river. If leaving the comfort of your home feels like too much, paint from your backyard or balcony.

Make a playlist

Basic, I know, but there’s something I love about curating a background track for each month. The songs I pick reflect the type of month I want to have. In my most recent post I wrote about how the music you listen to affects you and your mood. After reflecting on that, I was very intentional with the songs I added on my August playlist. It’s still a work in progress, and I’ll surely add songs as the month progresses. Nevertheless, some songs already on it are End of August by Noah Kahan; Carla’s Song by Harry Styles; and Paris, Texas by Lana Del Rey. Making a playlist is, in my opinion, the most low effort way to romanticize the starting month.

Have a readathon

If you have a day with no plans and too many unread books sitting on your shelf, this is a perfect activity for you. Pick out a few books and see how many you’ll be able to get through that day. Make it fun for you: buy your favorite snacks; switch locations, maybe go to a park and then to a cafe; or ask a friend to join you. You can read for two hours or maybe you’ll surprise yourself and end up spending the whole day reading. School always suffocates my desire to read, so I should get back to my tbr and cross off as many as I can before it starts.

I hope this little list left you feeling inspired about August. What a blessing it is to be able to start over each month. Reader, there is still a whole month of summer left. Don’t rush: take in the end of summer, because we all know we will yearn for this moment in a few months. Your future you is screaming at you to enjoy it!!

Love,

Sarah <3

Stay a while!

A sad song can never just be a song for me. It’s something so much bigger. Playing it sets the tone for that moment, which sets the tone for how the rest of my day is going to go. I believe this is how it is for a lot of us, whether we realize it or not. Something as harmless as a Spotify playlist has the power to send us spiralling on a day that was going great. If I’m getting ready in the morning while Phoebe Bridgers sings in the background, I can’t be that surprised when I feel melancholic before the day has even started.

However, because I am sensitive to the content I consume, I am also easily uplifted when consuming inspirational and positive content. I’ve put myself on an indefinite ban from sad music, and the shift in my mood has been so drastic it concerns me. How much have I been self-sabotaging my mood the past years with the assistance of my playlists? Turns out—shockingly—that being happy is a lot easier when there’s not someone in your ear whispering how miserable everything is.

We sing along to songs about how hurt we are and then wonder why we don’t seem to heal. The things we say over ourselves and our life have immeasurable power. You’re not healing because you’re stuck in the wallowing stage.

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When listening to depressive music, it’s tempting to identify yourself with it. This can make you feel seen and provide a sense of not being alone with your pain. It’s healthy to feel and process your emotions instead of suppressing them, and music is a useful tool for that. Nevertheless, for me and many others it has turned into something that’s making us comfortable and content in our sadness. It’s what is familiar. Blasting depressive songs can be an occasional occurrence or a stage in your healing, but it isn’t a situation you’re meant to stay in forever. It shouldn’t be a part of your everyday life, and it definitely shouldn’t be a step in your morning routine.

My focus here has been mainly on music, but obviously the same goes for all types of content. The media we choose to consume isn’t merely entertainment. It becomes a part of us. It shapes how we think: how we view life and ourselves. It’s never just something you watch or listen to and then go on as before. After consuming it you may forget about it but it still lives and grows within you: controlling your unconscious in ways that science has yet to study, but it should.

Thinking that you can consume to sad media without it affecting you is, in my opinion, unrealistic and naive.

We have the power to choose to watch and listen to things that can uplift us. There are many content creators that genuinely inspire and motivate me. One motivational podcast episode can be enough to give me a new perspective to life. One good song can be enough to make me smile. That’s the upside of being easily influenced by the content I consume. If you too are like this, use it to your advantage! Train your algorithm to feed you things that leave you with something positive.

I can’t wait to be happy or enjoy life when it’s perfect, because it never will be. There will always be good and bad things to fixate on. I want the songs I listen to, the movies I watch, and the things I read to be a reminder that life is actually so fun.

And now, go read more Substack articles that are good for your mind!!

Love,

Sarah <3

Stay a while! (some of my uplifting pieces!)

It’s natural to care about what others think about you. I’ve spent a lot of time obsessing over how I’m viewed in someone else’s eyes: analyzing how the things I do shape the way that image forms in their mind. Admittedly, I’ve also done and said certain things to be perceived in a certain light, posted pictures on social media with the ulterior motive of altering the person I am to others. It’s humbling yet necessary to ask myself whether I am doing something for myself or for others.

I know what kind of person I want to be when others are watching. Many of us have this figured out to a tee, but this isn’t the dilemma we should be concerned about. What’s more important—and something too many of us have dismissed—is what kind of person we want to be when no one is watching.

If you find yourself changing personalities like clothes depending on who you’re around, there might be a problem. This makes you a mirror instead of a person: always reflecting what’s standing in front of it.

It’s okay to have different responses to situations around different people, as long as they are all you. For example, if I get asked what my favorite book is, my response depends on who’s asking. This is merely because I have a lot of favorite books and will choose to recommend the one I surmise the other person would enjoy the most.

Being performative isn’t a problem necessarily, but it can turn into one if you’re compromising who you are. I’m the first to admit that there are things I do that many would deem as performative. Every morning I take my time making my breakfast look aesthetically pleasing—most likely a yogurt bowl and a coffee. If I’m reading a book, chances are there’s a matcha keeping me company. However, the key thing here is that I’m performative to romanticize the mundane in my life and make it more fun for me, not to seem different in someone else’s eyes.

Still, I won’t pretend that there haven’t been things I’ve done to be seen differently by others. I read Pride and Prejudice for the first time a few years ago. While I did read it for me, I do remember walking into school intentionally holding the book in my hand rather than stuffing it into my backpack. I guess to me getting others to view me as sophisticated was a nice bonus to reading the classic.

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This can be argued, but I don’t see anything wrong with doing something for yourself and also wanting others to know of it. The problem arises when you’re doing something only because you want others to know it or it becomes an obsessive need to have others know it. When you’re home and alone, do you find yourself reaching for the same book you read on the train? Are the opinions you present in front of others the same you have when you’re alone? These are the uncomfortable questions we should be asking ourselves.

Being authentic will always make you seem more interesting in others’ eyes. No one wants to be around a walking Pinterest board with no personality. People want to be around people. It’s understandable to want your life to be like your Pinterest vision board at times—I know I do—, but don’t make it into who you are.

I haven’t yet completely figured out what kind of person I want to be when no one is watching. However, it’s a good start to know what things I do for myself and what I do for others. I enjoy classic literature, but I also reach for contemporary fiction. I like Billy Joel, but Taylor Swift’s old songs also find their ways to my playlists. You can have eclectic interests and you should. It’s what gives you some depth.

Don’t limit yourself to what you think others will find palatable. Be more concerned with what type of person you want yourself to be and not what type of person you want others to see you as. Maybe then it becomes clear who you are when no one is watching.

Love,

Sarah <3

Stay a while!

I’ve spent a lot of my life grieving what once was, struggling to stay present in the moment I’m living. I was stuck in this negative mindset of thinking that my best moments were behind me—what a ridiculous thing to imagine before even reaching your 20s. That was until I came across one quote: the best is yet to come, which ended up giving me a whole new perspective on life.

After some reflection, I’ve realized how many things there are left to experience. So many places to visit, stories to write, foods to try, languages to learn, and people to meet. I love looking back to the moment I met someone who’s now a person I couldn’t live without. I had no idea how important they would turn out to be for me. You truly never know what’s waiting for you around the next corner. I think about all the places I’ve visited and, more importantly, how many places there are still left for me to see. Me and my friends got back from our graduation trip a week or so ago. Instead of lamenting it being over, we began throwing ideas about where our next trip would be to. I have no idea whether there will be a next trip, but I would rather wonder the possibilities the future has for us than mourn what now is a memory.

We never know what the future holds for us, so when you can expect anything, expect good things. I hope that no matter what stage of life I’m in, I’m able to retain this mentality and believe that my best time is still ahead. We also tend to notice the things we look out for. How many red cars did you see last week? You probably don’t even remember. Now think how many red cars you would see in a week if you were actively searching for them. Same goes for the good things in life.

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You can be simultaneously grateful for the things you’ve gotten to experience and excited about what’s to come. Appreciating the past doesn’t have to mean labelling it as superior to the present and the future. As the cliché states, as one door closes another one opens. We are always pushed into new seasons, which I believe all have something for us to gain.

Sometimes it’s hard to resist reopening old doors into rooms we’ve outgrown. I’ve forced some of those doors open and it has nearly always led me to the conclusion that they are better left closed. Trying to recreate something that no longer exists has proved to be harder than I initially thought. It just ends up feeling like walking in shoes that are too small. You may be able to put them on, but the second you begin taking steps the struggle starts.

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Many people think that life is short. I disagree. I think that life is long, and we have so many things to look forward to. I’ve recently graduated high school, and I can be enthusiastic about the room I’m now free to walk into, rather than dwelling on the one I’m being pushed out of. Instead of looking back at the doors life has closed on me, I want to look ahead to the endless supply of doors I can open. I don’t know what the rooms behind them hold for me, but I have a strong feeling that the best is yet to come.

Love,

Sarah <3

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Stay a while!

I’m greedy and reaching a bar everyone does isn’t enough for me. I want to be extraordinary. I want to be someone who sets the bar instead of standing on my tippy toes and having my fingers graze it.

My greed paralyzes me and leaves me stuck. There are so many dreams I hope to pursue and they all feel so mutually exclusive. I’m the most indecisive person I’ve ever met. How do you expect me to make such a binding and life altering decision when I take ten minutes to choose which bread to buy? I can’t pick a dream to say yes to, so I say no to all of them. Any of my dreams would be great, if only I could pick one.

A vivid imagination allows me to dream big. I can see myself pursuing writing—the only 9 to 5 I wouldn’t resent. My work would be impeccable and something that leaves people with a fresh perspective. Then another possible life captures my interest. Maybe I would rather go to art school and finally perfect my technique in sketching and painting. The pieces I could create would be incredible. Then I’m pulled back into reality and reminded that I’m going to university to study business. Of course, I create a dream life out of this too: I see myself working for big companies and bringing my creative ideas to life. My head turns again, and I’m reminded of how much I adore psychology and how I excelled at in school. Perhaps I should’ve chosen to study psychology in university.

There are many lives I can no longer live outside my imagination. I open the pandora box of things that could’ve been, and regret consumes me. I vision myself not quitting ballet and fulfilling my childhood dream of becoming a professional. I would live in a tiny apartment in a big city and barely be able to pay for my food, but that wouldn’t matter. Dancing would feed my hunger. We can be a lot of things in this life, but as an eighteen-year-old who hasn’t danced in years, I know I won’t become a professional ballerina.

My dreams are juicy figs in front of me. My mouth waters as I stand starving in front of the tree. I pick one, and as I bite into it the taste turns out to be bitter—I’m not immediately great. The other figs’ appeal grows. I throw the fig I bit on the ground and pick another one. It turns out to be just as bitter as its precursor. I’ll have a little taste of each dream and toss them away before even giving myself a real chance to become anything above average. Giving up and abandoning the idea seems more appealing than struggling and failing. Now I stand surrounded by half eaten figs representing my dreams—all a proof of my ability to try but inability to keep going. I attempt to pick one up, only to find it being eaten by worms.

I know I’m only eighteen and that’s nothing. I have my whole life ahead of me and can become whatever I want to, but it still feels as if every door around me is closing. Apparently, if you want to achieve the level of greatness I thirst for, you should’ve had your plan ready when you were learning to walk. I wasn’t born paint brush in hand or taking creative writing courses the second I learned to write. I was born and brought up normal, and I hate it.

Someone could say that I’m a hypocrite. I write pieces encouraging people to go after their dreams, while I set mine on the back burner the second I’m not perfect. Maybe I just know how much it hurts to not live out your dreams, so I push others towards it, hoping someone will learn from my mistakes.

At the same time, the pieces I write are for myself. Writing them gives me a sense of why I can’t seem to get where I want to—and where that even is in the first place. The encouraging posts are mostly me convincing myself to go after my dreams despite my perfectionism. All these interconnected pieces are simply me attempting to figure out what I want in life and how to get there. They may seem repetitive, but I hope that one day I’ll be writing about how I was able to overcome my procrastination and perfectionism. First, though, I think I need to smother my greed and pick one thing to become great at.

Love,

Sarah <3

The interconnected pieces in question:

I wonder what I would tell ten-year-old me about my life if I were able to have a conversation with her. If I passed her on the street, would she look at me with the same amusement she always look at older girls with?

After observing me, her childish naivety would lead her to conclude that my life must be perfect. I wouldn’t want to pop her bubble so I would smile and nod. I think she would be happy to discover that I still enjoy writing, though my work has shifted from imaginative stories to introspective essays. She would probably deem me as far smarter than I actually am.

As adults we view ourselves very differently than we did as children. With age we gain self-awareness and tend to notice the greatness of those around us. We begin to fixate on our limitations and somehow are unable to channel that same “I can do anything” mindset that many of us possessed as children.

Growing up used to be something exhilarating. It meant endless possibilities and opportunities. The chance to be anything. The excitement of it has been buried under responsibilities. Turns out ice cream for dinner isn’t exactly what being an adult is. Still, that doesn’t mean that your life now can’t have bits and pieces of the future you dreamed of as a child.

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Sometimes it can feel as if our lives have been mapped out for us. A lot of things are expected of us. The path you’re on may seem great to everyone else and be convenient, but only you know whether it’s what younger you would want. I know that if ten-year-old me would look at me she wouldn’t care for others’ admiration but whether I am staying true to myself. She wouldn’t want me compromising who I am. I hope that she would recognize herself in me instead of seeing a stranger—someone pretending to be something she knows we aren’t.

As children our innocence and naivety causes us to be honest and unapologetically ourselves. Our dreams were untamed by fear or social pressure. That’s why it’s so important to look back to what mattered to you as a child. You probably still value the same things but have simply forgotten how important they are to you. Remember who you were as a child. Remember who you have been and still are.

It’s easy to get caught up in the world surrounding us. The validation it gives is extremely addictive. It’s a drug that can make you forget what you really want in life. Suddenly, it doesn’t matter whether you love what you’re doing, it only matters what those around you have to say about it. Somewhere along the road what works for others started to work for you too.

We get older and our minds change. I don’t dress the same or listen to the same music I did when I was younger. On surface level I don’t have a lot in common with ten-year-old me. Nevertheless, I hope that seeing what my life looks like right now would make her excited about growing up and for everything that is to come. I hope that seeing who I am today would make her more confident in who she is, because I am the same girl I was then. Time doesn’t have to change who you are.

Love,

Sarah

Stay a while! <3

Something that Emma Chamberlain once said in her podcast, Anything Goes, really stuck with me: “the rose we remember, the thorns we forget”.

Why do we romanticize the past?

Our memories are merely bits and pieces of the past, and the way our brains choose which parts to hold onto is nothing if not selective. Surprisingly, the emotion triggered by a bad experience passes much quicker than the joy of good ones. As nice as that is, it makes it so easy to yearn for the positive moments, even when they were surrounded by negativity that our minds gracefully allow to become blurry. Even though this stops us from dwelling too much on bad experiences, I’m not sure how much better it is to constantly pine over how amazing life used to be.

Due to our perception of the past being distorted, it’s so easy to romanticize it and lament our reality. Of course the present pales in comparison to a rose tinted version of the past.

A curse or a blessing?

Romanticizing the past actually isn’t all bad. A bias towards it increases our self-esteem. Recalling moments of success gives us courage to overcome current struggles. Anxiety triggered by the uncertainty of the present and future can be mitigated by holding onto a positive perception of the past: we are able to see how everything has always worked out. Still, as I mentioned before, romanticizing the past paves us a clear path to dissatisfaction with the present.

I often catch myself daydreaming about the past: my childhood now seems so precious and perfect. I’m even able to find some weird silver lining in the periods of my life that were awful to live through. Friendships full of problems I’ve managed to twist into something desirable. Convinced they were better than they actually were, I’ve went back only to realize that they ended for a good reason. Don’t forget the thorns.

Romanticize the present

Romantizing your life is a huge trend and naturally there’s talk about the downsides of it. While I do agree that there is a limit and not everything needs to look as if it’s straight out of a carefully curated vision board, romanticizing the present can help make it seem as bright as the past. I want to be as excited about the moment that I am living now as I am about the past. I want to appreciate what’s in front of me as much as I appreciate what no longer is. I want to view the present through the same rose tinted glasses that I view the past through.

Love,

Sarah

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Stay a while! <3

Everything you two share are things that used to be. The memories you have are ones that can’t be returned to or recreated because you no longer are the people who made them. Some might ask what happened with you two—a riddle that’s impossible to solve. There is no answer to that question, because nothing ever really did happen. You grew up and grew apart.

These friendships we lose as we sail through life make us wonder if there was something we could’ve done differently. Sometimes there is and sometimes there isn’t. I don’t know if there was a way I could’ve kept the people I’ve lost in my life. However, what I do know is that the friendships I’ve carried with me for more than a decade all share one thing: we’ve always gotten to know each other again and again as we grow up.

Me and my childhood friends are not the people we were when we were seven. Still, some of them I’ve remained close with. They have allowed me to change and grow, always welcoming the new version of me with open arms. In the same way, I have remained curious about them and gotten to know the new versions of them.

People aren’t fixed and treating friendships as if they are only sets them up for failure. Change needs to be embraced instead of feared. It can be something to keep bringing two people together instead of driving them apart. It’s a privilege to be friends with multiple versions of someone, to realise you two always find your way back together.

The way I recognize that I’m growing apart with someone is that all our conversations circle around the past. We laugh at old memories, because that’s all we share. I don’t know the person sitting in front of me, only who they used to be. The person I’m friends with doesn’t exist anymore, and if I want to salvage that friendship I need to make peace with that and become friends with who they are now. This doesn’t always work. Sometimes the amount of space between two people is so much it seems impossible to grow back together. I’m not saying it can’t be done, I’m saying it’s hard.

Just because we were friends with someone at one point doesn’t mean we always have to be. Sometimes it’s okay to grow apart. You can choose to appreciate what you two had and still choose to go your separate ways. That’s the beauty of growing apart. It’s like waving a white flag. You can pass them on street and smile because you still love them and have nothing against them. They were a part of your life at one point and sometimes that’s all they were meant to be.

If you want someone to stay in your life don’t be a stranger, and don’t let them become a stranger to you.

Love,

Sarah

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To me, everything good is something to be improved and every failure is something to be either overcome or swept under the rug. I am my life’s biggest work in progress.

I know I will never be perfect, yet the idea of it has this strange allure in my eyes. I like the idea of setting high goals and merely shrugging my shoulders when I achieve them: hiding all of my hard work and being seen as effortless.

So, I conceal my sharp edges knowing they might be out of sight but they sure aren’t out of mind. That doesn’t matter. Perception is what I care about. Through social media I’ve managed to convince myself that flawlessness can be achieved after all.

Not only do I crave to be perfect, I crave my whole life to be perceived as perfect. This facade has proved to be more exhausting than I thought it would. Because I’ve set perfection as the expectation, whenever something falls short of it I feel like my whole life comes crumbling down and I’m left under the debris.

My aim should be for progress instead of perfection. Expecting the latter sets me up for failure; how can I ever succeed when what I’m shooting for isn’t humanly possible? I wish I could keep going after making a mistake instead of abandoning the whole idea and telling myself “what was I thinking??”. I wish the fear of not being good at something wouldn’t hold me back from trying.

Being bad at something is uncomfortable, so I avoid it. If I can’t do something impeccably, why do it at all? Failing is a huge hit to my self-confidence, which is heavily reliant on performance. When I fail I tend to fixate on it and feel like an idiot for not being good. I don’t know how to be bad at something. This avoidance keeps me stuck in a zone that, while comfortable, provides no opportunities for growth or learning.

I’m trying to assimilate that life is supposed to be trial and error. I want to laugh when I fail and be able to move past it. I want to accept applause and bite my tongue so I don’t list all the mistakes I made. When I don’t reach a goal, I want to be proud of the hard work I put in and the fact that I tried instead of being embarrassed and labelling myself as a failure.

No one and nothing is perfect. Maybe that’s beautiful and human.

I am a perfectionist, but I am trying not to be.

Love,

Sarah

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A piece of my soul is still living in my childhood home. Running around the backyard, jumping on the trampoline. I remember the last time I went to the house—already empty as if our life there had never happened—I could feel a shift inside me. A part of me stayed in that house when I walked out the last time. I hope she got herself the biggest bedroom.

A piece of my soul stayed behind in Paris as my plane took off. It’s strange how a quick trip had the effect that it did on me. No place has ever made me feel the same as Paris. I can feel the piece of me walking the lively, yellow streets at night. Feel her sit and read on park benches. Taking it all in.

A piece of my soul is laying on my friend’s couch. The same couch me and my best friends would whisper secrets at night when we were thirteen. It’s always so nostalgic going to her memory filled house. I think that piece of me there is always happy when I come back: happy that some things never change, happy that me and my friends still have late night talks on that same couch.

A piece of my soul will be left in Spain. As excited as I am about moving in a few weeks, I know that there’s a part of me that I won’t be able to pack into my suitcase. She will stay here. And that’s okay. She can enjoy the warm sunlight and swim in the salty waves as I walk against a snowy wind. I hope the idea of her will make the wind a little less freezing on my face. While no place has the same allure in my eyes as Paris, Spain might take its place—or at least make a close second. What a shame I never truly appreciate a place before I leave.

These are only a few examples of the many places that I’ve stained with memories, moments I know I can’t relive. Maybe that’s what makes them beautiful. Now, I visit them in my daydreams. They are where I picture myself when I need grounding. The deep emotional connection I have to these places, and the memories in them, has convinced me that I left a small piece of my soul there.

Love,

Sarah

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Even if you’re able to perfectly describe what you’re feeling—which most of us rarely are—the other person will still never see it through the same lens as you. When you hear a story it gets filtered through your own perception, your own past experiences, and your own values. We can never not be biased.

And what we are feeling isn’t just about that certain situation. Our feelings are affected by all of our experiences. If someone hasn’t been through the same things as you, how could they understand the significance of this situation? No amount of explaining can make them get it.

It makes me so sad to think that we will never fully understand each other. I think about the famous quote by Madison Beer a lot, “you’ll never walk in my shoes and I will never walk in yours”. She goes onto say that we should still be able to have empathy for each other. I agree. But is having empathy the same as understanding? Sometimes I don’t want your empathy but your understanding.

At the same time the idea of being known is terrifying. Maybe we don’t want people to see us for all that we really are, so we always hold back a piece of us to ourselves. Everyone you let into your life will always have the option to walk out of it. Someone who never knew you walking out hurts a lot less. You being the only person to know you brings a lot of security and a sense of empowerment. “Yeah, well they never knew me anyway” brings a strange feeling of comfort after someone decides to remove themselves from your life. “They knew all of me when they were in my life, and now they know all of me without being in it.” is a harder pill to swallow. It makes me sick running into strangers that know me.

The idea of not knowing the people around me is equally—if not more—heartbreaking. I want to know my family and friends. I want to understand, but what if I can’t? After all, I will never know what it was like for them, so how could I understand?

There are people that I am extremely close to. Still, I know there are pieces of them that I probably don’t know, or maybe I know but don’t understand. Not because I don’t want to or because I’m not trying, but simply because I can’t. And I’m not sure there can be knowing without understanding. One without the other is incomplete.

Not being known can be painful: someone getting you the candy you hate, or playing a song you don’t like. It’s those moments that make my stomach drop. There was no ill intent behind them. That makes it hurt even more. They wanted to do a nice thing, but ended up giving you a reminder of how they don’t know the simplest things about you. If someone doesn’t know the candy or songs you like, how could they know you on a deeper level?

On the upside, it’s the best feeling when someone knows the little things about you. When they cook you your favourite meal after you had a hard day and grab a plate at your house without asking where they are: they don’t have to, they know.

This can also happen on a deeper level. Someone walking you home, because they know you fear the dark. Someone calling you before a flight, because they know you are terrified of flying. Someone breathing with you, because they noticed you seemed anxious. People doing things like that without reminders, without asking, makes me feel like maybe someone does know me. If that’s how I define knowing me it means that knowing me is merely paying attention to the little things that usually are forgotten. Keeping a small mental note of things that I mention.

It brings me so much joy to know things about the people I love—even the little mundane ones. I want to buy you your favourite flowers, not just the ones I think are pretty. I want to know why it’s hard for you to trust others. I want to know what your dreams were as a child. I want to know you.

Maybe you can know someone if you’re willing. At the same time, you can be willing but not able. Willing to make all the mental notes and hear all the stores, but not able to fully comprehend.

And others always have the power to control who they choose to let to know them—or try to know them. You can’t know someone if they aren’t willing. Sometimes you don’t get the chance to try to understand and know them. Sometimes you watch from afar, trying to fill in the blanks you don’t know.

Someone opening up to you is the most intimate thing they can do. So when they do, don’t panic about responding. They rarely are looking for a solution or an analysis. Likely, all that they need is someone to listen. Someone to understand. Someone to know. After all, it’s lonely to be alone with things.

All of this is what came to my mind after listening to Willing and Able by Noah Kahan a few too many times.

Love,

Sarah

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“Who am I?”

There are a lot of ways to approach answering that question. The answer also depends on who’s giving it. To my school, I’m an 18 year old girl about to graduate. To my family, I’m the independent eldest daughter. To my friends, I am someone who they come to for advice. To the strangers I pass on the street, I am someone who’s in a rush and should smile a little more.

There are many different boxes I can be put into. However, the way I want to define myself to my readers is through the things I love.

I am the things I love

I’m always taking photos. My friends laugh at me for seeming like a tourist in my own city. I simply can’t resist the urge to take photos of everything surrounding me. Also, as someone who’s chronically nostalgic, I obviously need material to be nostalgic over. Hence, the need to capture everything. My favorite activity on a plane is blasting Scott Street and scrolling through my camera roll.

As I live by the coast, you’ll often find me at the beach either laying in direct sunlight in the hopes of getting tan lines or swimming in the waves. There’s probably a book next to me, but I rarely end up reaching for it. Somehow reading at the beach is much nicer in my head than in execution. Oh, and I’m probably eating an açai bowl.

I’m a huge Netflix consumer. Is it productive? No, not really. Is there a chance of letting go of this habit? Also no, not really. I have a few shows that I rewatch religiously. Why would I try something new, when I know what I like? Some of my comfort shows are Gilmore Girls, Gossip Girl, and The Vampire Diaries. There’s many more, and if you name a show I’ve probably seen it.

I’m definitely more of a show person, but some honourable movie mentions are The Notebook, How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, and The Devil Wears Prada. I saw the remake a few days ago and thought it was amazing. Then again, I’m always convinced the movie I just watched was a cinematic revolution. Still, I stand by loving The Devil Wears Prada 2.

Due to loving movies about fashion, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that I also love fashion itself. You’ll often find me scrolling on vinted the second class gets dull. I’m currently fighting the urge to throw away all my clothes and build a whole new wardrobe. That, I feel like, would solve all of my problems. It would be everything if I would be able to work in something fashion-related in the future.

As I mentioned in one of my previous posts, I have a strong longing to be and experience everything. Naturally, this includes seeing as many places as possible. I’m never as happy as I am at the airport. I feel sorry for my friends, because I never stop declaring my love for my favorite city, Paris. The quick three day trip me and my best friend took there last October gets replayed in my head all the time. A couple of places I’m currently dying to visit are New York (obviously) and Sydney (despite having a phobia of all snakes, insects, and spiders. Oh and don’t get me started on whatever swims in their water).

Whenever I’m bored, I’ll listen to a podcast or music and go for a walk. You’d think I would get bored of walking the same route nearly everyday, but I never do. Another way to cure my boredom is spending time in the kitchen. Nothing compares to having a sweet smell waft through the house.

A passion that I always find myself going back to is art. I wish my efforts were more consistent, but even when months go without me touching my sketchbook I know I’ll pick it up again.

As someone who loves writing, it shouldn’t be a surprise that I also enjoy reading: always have, always will. My favorite books include Malibu Rising, Pride and Prejudice, and The Age of Innocence.

What do these things say about me?

Rewatching the same shows and walking the same routes tells that I enjoy comfort and familiarity and fear change. A passion for fashion and art represents my creativity and desire to express myself. Capturing everything on camera illustrates how I see beauty in everything and, as I mentioned before, my nostalgic nature. The need to see new places comes from my desire to experience and fear of not living life to the fullest. My love for the beach and long walks stems from my constant state of stress and the way spending time in nature calms down my nervous system.

This might’ve been the most incoherent thing I’ve written, but think of it as an authentic representation of me.

I hope this post felt informal, personal, and—at least in someway—relatable.

Love,

Sarah

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when i think about love i think about my friendships.

the word soulmate usually brings to mind movies and picture-perfect relationships. we think about someone who would be the one person to understand us without us explaining what’s wrong. someone to see us for all that we are. someone we want around even when we want to be alone.

despite the word soulmate being strongly tied to romance, my best friends have been the ones to teach me what love is and that soulmates can be found in platonic love.

intimacy, i think, is what differentiates platonic and romantic love for many people. however, intimacy can be equally present in friendships, it’s not solely something physical. it’s knowing the other person’s secrets and flaws, their fears and what their nightmares are about. intimacy can be found in listening to them after they’ve had a bad day without telling them how it’s not that big of deal, without urging them to be reasonable.

intimacy is also something that comes with time. it’s built. it’s also what allows the possibility of a soulmate-like connection between two people. so if intimacy can exist in friendships, why couldn’t soulmates?

as a society, our focus is set on romantic love. our books, movies, and music—all centered around it—only add to its allure. therefore, i suppose it’s no surprise that we chase that form of connection. however, that soulmate defining understanding can be found in a friendship just as deeply as in a romantic relationship.

we shouldn’t dismiss all the platonic love that we are surrounded by, or deem it as inferior. it’s the love that we fall back on when romantic love fails us. it’s the safety net in our lives.

my best friends have been the people to get me through the hardest stages of my life. they are the people that understand me on a soul level. not some guy.

we are busy searching for a soulmate in romance, when maybe that’s not where the soulmate we need in this season of life is. maybe it’s not that we don’t have a soulmate, we’re simply searching for them in the wrong places.

perhaps we have multiple soulmates, some romantic and some platonic. both types equally important to us.

i consider myself immensely blessed to have a best friend whom i get to call my soulmate. she has set a high standard for romantic love in my life.

“nearly everything i know about love, i’ve learnt in my long-term friendships with women” - everything i know about love, dolly alderton.

love,

sarah

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I used to paint. Was I perfect at it? Absolutely not, but more importantly, I enjoyed it. After receiving an art grade, however, that I wasn’t happy with, my paint brushes began to collect dust. I let that grade define my abilities and lost my love for creating something on a canvas.

Since then I’ve been waiting for my passion to return while unconsciously telling myself I wouldn’t paint until I was impeccably good at it. It sounds so self-contradicting and stupid saying it now, but that was the mental block that I was dealing with. I expected to just wake up one day as our generation’s Claude Monet.

Fear kills so many more dreams than failure. And in many things, such as painting, there truly is no failing. How can you fail in something creative? You can’t. As long as you create something, you’re winning.

Obviously, we want to be good at what we do. However, the fact is that you won’t wake up one day and know how to write a novel without ever having written before. The time will pass anyway, so you can either sit at the foot of the fig tree watching the fig, your dream, wither away, or you can grab it and just start. You can wait for perfection to find you, or you can go chase it.

My biggest fear in life used to be failure, and it still at times feels intimidating, but I’ve started to fear regret more than failure. I don’t want to be 80 years old wishing I had spent my life doing what I loved.

When you’re old, you’re not going to be thinking “thank goodness I didn’t publish my writing when I was younger, it would’ve been so embarrassing if I didn’t succeed”. There will be moments when following your passions is uncomfortable. People always have something to say, but I promise it’s always the people laughing that wish they were brave enough to chase their dreams. Don’t let them hold you at their level.

You can get what you want, or you can just get old.

You can spend your life doing what you love, or wishing you were doing it.

Love,

Sarah

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According to Los Angeles Times over 60% of gen z reported being lonely. That’s more than half of us.

Social media has facilitated communication, and in theory it should’ve made us the best connected generation of all. We were meant to have friends all around the world that we could talk to from the comfort of our bed. Did anyone paused to think how that might become a problem?

We no longer need to go out into the real world to meet people and connect with others. We do it by typing a text and hoping the person doesn’t ghost us. We do it by liking a photo our friend posted that only makes us compare our life to theirs. We do it by posting a photo we hope shows people how great our life is.

We are so busy building a life online that we forget to live the one that is actually real.

Real world communication has become embarrassing. When was the last time you went up to someone on the street and began talking? How crazy is it that that’s how we were meant to form connections, instead of stalking someone on instagram and liking their stories in the hopes that they do the same, and then maybe we’ll be brave enough to dm them.

With social media we have free access to people’s lives. I think all this information about others has eliminated the curiosity we used to feel towards the people around us. Who cares how the girl’s day next to you at the bus stop is going? You’ve already been bombarded with 50 people’s daily highlights and complaints within the time that you’ve been waiting for the bus.

It breaks my heart walking past a family sitting at a restaurant and seeing them all silently scroll. Then again, I'm a hypocrite, as I’m unable to resist the urge to open my phone while spending time with my close ones. I’m always one foot in this life and one foot in the virtual reality inside our phones.

We are so connected, yet so disconnected.

Our screen time is so high that we are scared to check it, and meaningful conversations with our loved ones infrequent. Key word conversations, not texts, not even calls. Conversations. Conversations about something deeper than which photo I should post on my Instagram. No wonder we feel lonely, when that’s the depth of so many friendships, at least in my experience.

I think social media has been a cheap replacement for real connections, which are vital for humans. We have put a bandage on a bleeding wound, hoping it’ll heal. Only, it won’t heal. It bleeds through. This bleeding is shows up in the statistics of gen z’s loneliness.

Gen z keeps breaking the records in anxiety, depression, and loneliness. Wow, we have so many great titles. Of course, these mental health issues are the sum of a thousand things, but we can't overlook social media’s role in our isolation.

It’s not even surprising that we feel this way. Of course, loneliness is what results from seeing hundreds of people living what seems a much better life than our own. However, the sad truth revealed to us by the facts is that the chances are that those people feel the same exact loneliness.

Then things really escalated: AI was introduced to our lonely, connection desperate generation.

People began saying it as a joke, “Chat gpt is like my best friend”, “I tell everything to Chat gpt”, “Chat gpt is literally my therapist”. Is anyone else distraught to the point of feeling sick, when they hear those comments? They are cries of help disguised as silly remarks.

We are so desperate for human connection.

We talk to AI as if it was a real person. First, our connection with our close ones went from real life to texting. Now, those texts with real people have been traded for texts with a computer.

There’s a whole other problem of people going to AI with their mental health problems. I won’t go into that further than just to say please, please don’t do it.

I’m not sure how we can begin to tackle the loneliness pandemic that we are in, but in an individual level, I think it’s about the small moments. Reach out to someone and ask them to spend time in person, even if it’s just to sit and do nothing. Now that communication online is so easy, we no longer feel the need to have these “useless” hangouts with our close ones. It feels as if making plans to spend real time together should have some special reason. It doesn’t.

I believe the cure to loneliness are deeper, real connections with others. The only way to form those is to put down the phone and step back into the real world. It’s uncomfortable, but only because we’ve gotten used to artificial reality.

Love,

Sarah

Nothing makes my stomach drop like someone pointing out how shy I am when I thought I was doing good.

I was proud of myself for doing a great job at being social until you pointed out how much I fidget with my hands: “you’re kinda introverted aren’t you?”. I became conscious of the way I’d been cracking my knuckles and felt ashamed. The facade I’d put on had failed. He saw right through my efforts at being extroverted. I felt myself sinking in my seat.

Somehow the way he’d pointed out my diffidence felt condescending. What I got out of it was that I was small and impotent. Why does calling me introverted, or whatever synonym people choose to use, feel like an insult? I was talking about this with a friend a few days ago, and I told her how calling me quiet is the biggest insult you can give me. Surprisingly, she felt the contrary: to her, getting called talkative was insulting. I would love to be called chatty for once.

Maybe the hatred I have for being deemed as shy by someone is due to that not being how I identify myself. As a kid, I was extremely social: the kind that goes up to strangers and ends up making ten new friends. I was loud and always had something to say. My confidence came from my social skills.

I never understood why some people were more reserved. To me they seemed boring. Obviously, now I know that being quiet doesn’t make you any less interesting; however, it kills me that I know that’s how others perceive me. After all, that’s how eleven year old me would perceive me.

Though, as a teenager I became less social due to many reasons, unsurprisingly anxiety being one of them, I still don’t box myself as someone timid. Maybe I’m a self-hating introvert who never got past the first stage of grief: denial. Sure, I’m reserved around new people, but once I’m comfortable I’m a whole podcast - at least that’s how I see it. Nonetheless, I’ve found myself to be an unreliable narrator when it comes to dissecting my sociability. During our conversation, I asked my friend whether she would describe me as talkative. When she took a moment to think something died inside me. I had failed. One of the people closest to me still didn’t discern me as social, despite that being how I would’ve described myself around her.

I think I long to be called talkative, despite it having negative connotations to some, because that’s what I was like as a child. The social butterfly still lives dormant somewhere inside me, at least that’s what I want to believe.

That’s why my stomach drops when you point out how shy I am. Being taciturn has merely been my coping mechanism against anxiety, perhaps for so long that it has integrated into a part of my character.

My combat with anxiety came and went. Obviously, I still experience it occasionally, but I no longer rehearse conversations in my head that I may or may not have to carry out later. Anxiety is no longer something I consider myself to struggle with. I always thought that the timidness would pack its bags with anxiety and sail into the sunset together; however, that was not the case.

Maybe the shift in my character was caused by anxiety, maybe not. Perhaps it’s common to go from an extrovert to an introvert as you grow up. Moreover, I definitely attribute some of that change to covid and having to experience quarantine when I was 13. After we came back to school, one of my teachers pulled me aside and asked me if I was okay, as she had noticed I was abnormally closed up. So, maybe it was that, maybe it was anxiety, or maybe it was nothing tragic and simply me growing up.

I’m still unsure whether this is reversible, or whether I even should be aiming to reverse it. Nevertheless, I do feel more like myself whenever I make the effort to be social. It’s not my objective to change who I am or suddenly become the loudest in the room. I purely long to be seen as capable in basic human interactions, and not have the other person point out how shy and introverted I seem. Pointing it out like that, mid interaction, tells me that you find me incompetent.

Call me anything, but please, please don’t call me introverted.

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Love,

Sarah

I’ve lived abroad in Spain for nearly four years. It has always been my plan to move back for university, but now that my flight is booked it suddenly feels so real. My feelings about moving back, much like how they were when moving here, are mixed. The immense excitement and anticipation I feel is laced with doubts about whether I’ve made the correct decision, if there even is such a thing.

Honestly, I should probably make a whole post about the experience of living abroad. There’s so much to unpack, and I don’t want to have to cram it all in here. Let me know if that’s something you’d be interested in, and I’ll write more about it. After all, I do feel qualified to give my two cents on the topic.

However, in short, the past three and a half years have felt like a roller coaster: one moment I’m at the top and the next I’m falling so hard that air leaves my lungs. Nevertheless, I wouldn’t change it for anything. The girl I am now is in all the best ways so different from the one prior to moving. Living abroad will force you to grow and get to know yourself in a way I could’ve never imagined. I guess when you go through periods of time when you truly are all you’ve got, you build a strong relationship with yourself. Before, I had lived in one city and gone to one school with the same people my whole life. Obviously, there’s nothing wrong with that; I actually wasn’t too keen on moving when my family pitched the idea. However, how are you supposed to know who you are, when it feels like that has already been decided by those around you when you were ten? If self-discovery is what you yearn for, pack your bags.

So, why have I always known that I would probably end up moving back after graduation? I suffer from chronic homesickness.

Throughout my time here there has been a quiet yet persistent voice in the back of my mind. Homesickness can have a sweet and longing voice, but in my case it has tended to raise it at me to the point that makes me unable to breathe. Its screams are the waves I drown into while everyone else living abroad swims above me. When you’re underwater, everything else sounds muffled and distant, that’s what homesickness does to me. Homesickness is my guardian angel: always looking over me. Its acuity shouldn’t be overlooked, it knows precisely what small moments to surprise me in. Though, I can’t really be caught off guard anymore, can I, when it’s the shadow behind me wherever I go.

The funny thing about homesickness is that it’s something you can’t prepare for. I never realized how much I loved home until I left. That’s the sad thing about humans, we never appreciate something until it’s taken away from us.

All of this is to say, homesickness finally caught up to me, or I merely stopped running from it and succumbed. Either way, a couple weeks ago I committed to moving back after graduation. Despite the nuances of doubt, I feel confident in my decision. I love Spain, I’ve simply come to the conclusion that I want to be a frequent visitor, not a resident.

Moving back home can feel like going backwards. I think that’s why I was scared to make the decision, in spite of knowing that it was the right one for me. I also felt ungrateful for not being fully satisfied with what I know so many people would cut an arm off. This was what got me into sending applications to universities in Spain while knowing that it wasn’t what I wanted. It scares me how close I came to committing to a school I didn’t want to go to, only because I felt it was what I should want.

Returning home after living abroad isn’t crawling back after a failed attempt at living out your dreams. The experiences won’t be left here, I will carry them into this new chapter of my life. It has been such a richness to immerse myself in another culture and meet the amazing people I have met. Still, I am thrilled about moving: the days will be counted. I think that’s a sign that I’ve made the right decision. This has been great, but I’m ready to go home now.

Love,

Sarah

I see your reposts on TikTok and wonder if you’re okay, but I don’t text you. The space between us grows, and the texts I do send start to sound oddly formal. I’m scared I’ll forget how to talk to you.

I hear other people talk about someone with your name, but the person doesn’t sound like you. Your life seems so great on social media, I wonder if it really is. The realization that I’ve become one of the people whose knowledge of you is limited to what you post on social media hits me hard. I know the same about you as everyone else, even though I used to know everything.

Two summers ago we hugged goodbye and promised we wouldn’t grow apart. Saying that, I guess, was the beginning of growing apart. The distance between us mentally is even greater than geographically. I get asked about you, and I’m not sure how to respond, so I just say that “we still talk, sometimes”. Our conversations are sporadic, but when we do talk it still feels like it used to. After talking, I take guesses whether we’ll start to grow back together.

We dance in the space between best friends and strangers. Nothing happened and there’s no bad blood. The birthday card you gave me is still up on my wall. I read it sometimes and wonder when it all changed, what the moment was when we became background characters in each other’s lives.

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Love,

Sarah

I want to be everything.

The problem, however, arises from my endeavour to do everything and do it perfectly. I don’t cope well with mistakes. Once I realize I have failed at something, I feel myself getting smaller and smaller as the voice in my head gets louder and louder screaming what a fool I am. As Amy March famously stated, “I want to be great or nothing”. The only thing stronger than my desire to be everything is to be perfect, which is why I am currently doing none of the things I wish I was.

I want to be a ballerina in the opera. I want to learn French and live in Paris. I want to start painting again: return to the girl whose work my art teacher called exquisite. I want to experience spring in Copenhagen. I want to publish my poetry. I want to move to the countryside and own horses. I want to become a journalist in New York: hasty coffee runs in my Chanel boots - Andrea Sachs style. I want to start a podcast and discuss everything from politics to psychology.

Nevertheless, something in me always shuts these things down. Okay, maybe I’ve missed the train with the ballerina dream by quitting when I was 11. However, there is no reason as to why I couldn’t learn French or pick up my paint brushes currently collecting dust. Knowing that I will struggle is what ultimately makes me push these daydreams out of my mind and revert my focus to my teacher and his dull voice. I can’t stand the idea of having an accent while speaking broken French or painting and it not looking like Monet’s. Struggling while searching my vacant brain for a word in French while the person whom I am speaking with stares at me unimpressed would simply put me to my grave.

Setting unrealistic standards is what I use as an excuse to stay lazy instead of chasing after what I know I want.

I’ll write this post and reflect in my journal about how I long for this and that; however, I can’t actually picture myself doing the things I dream of. It breaks my heart to admit it, but I truly don’t believe I will ever move out of the city and own those horses. Maybe I’m more amused by the idea of these things than actually carrying them out. I love to think about them and scroll through Pinterest planning a life in which I have horse stables and a cottage, yet who knows if I would be fulfilled by that. It’s easy to romanticize something so far from my reality, to imagine how in those lives I would be happier. It’s the whole Midnight Library concept. Still, I wouldn’t mind trying on a life in which I never quit ballet and would be surrounded by the opera’s golden glory.

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Love,

Sarah