We all have an expiration date. But I wish mine would be before his.

Outliving your child seems like the cruelest form of living torture. Not that I birthed my dog, but he is, in every sense, my son. Caring for a creature every minute of every day gives my life purpose. It’s a deep, precious kind of love. It’s a hum so gentle. I’m scared of the day silence will come.

I suppose grief will always be proof of love. I wonder how God grieved his son. I guess we get closer to God by losing our children too.

None of us like to contemplate death.

How is it possible I could love something who has never uttered a word to me? Never lied, yelled, betrayed me? How is this big love possible? I will only know the answer someday when we are both in Heaven.

I’m scared writing this because it feels like a bad omen.

Time creeps up on us.

We push away the bad, yet very realistic, thought:

“What will I do when I can’t

talk to them

hold them

kiss them

anymore?”

I shutter.

All the places I’ve been, all the happy memories I have, all of the horrific long nights, heartbreaks and moments of despair, he has been next to me.

None of us like to contemplate death.

My dog is eight years old and healthy but I guess losing him it isn’t a wildly unrealistic nightmare.

He’s a dog.

I’m a human.

I am not particularly special, but he is.

None of us like to contemplate death.

I used to be scared of watching my dog’s hairs turn grey, but they just make me love him more.

Time is a gift. Time is a gift. Time is a gift.

Questioning: could the God of the Universe really speak through a Preacher in Sneakers?

Asking: who do I look towards for moral guidance?

Because it sure isn’t season 3 of Euphoria (2026) or Mr. Beast.

I am convinced what many of us are actually hungry for isn’t meaning.

It’s formation.

We don’t simply want answers.

We want to become people of depth.

And we have to learn it from somewhere.

And perhaps it isn’t all in one place.

The moment I stepped off the train in Paris I felt him. Brother Lawrence, a French lay brother born in 1614 who spent much of his life washing dishes in a kitchen. He believed scrubbing pots could be just as holy as praying in a chapel. God’s presence wasn’t reserved for extraordinary people doing extraordinary things.

It could be found in ordinary faithfulness (if you chose to offer your attention that way) not fame.

New York Times columnist David Brooks argues that over the last century we've gradually traded moral formation for achievement. Our phones, our parents, our schools became places that taught us how to “succeed” rather than who to become.

Over 60% of children and teenagers now aspire to become social media influencers, driven primarily by the appeal of fame, perceived wealth, and a desire for creative self-expression and peer validation.

Yikes.

When was the last time an Instagram like made you feel better about yourself for more than 30 seconds?

Strong relationships, not wealth or career success, are the strongest predictor of happiness and health. Sounds a bit familiar to what a guy from Nazareth said a few thousand years ago.

And get this… For nearly ninety years, the Harvard Study of Adult Development has reached the same conclusion:

Fulfilling lives are not built on achievement. They are built by meaningful relationships.

In 2019, I left seminary.

I started traveling (literally and figuratively) outside of the U.S. Evangelical church.

I don’t think I’m alone.

I suspect many of us eventually arrive here. We spend years asking: What do I believe?

Then one day, after a breakup, an empty bank account, or an unfamiliar piece of grief staring back at us in the mirror, we begin asking a more unsettling question:

Who am I becoming?

Beneath our political debates, denominational divisions, and endless scrolling is a resounding hunger: a longing not merely to know more about God, but to understand who He is asking us to become.

Seven years later, I’m preparing to marry my fiancé in France. He is Catholic. I am Protestant. Somewhere along the way, I stopped asking whether I looked like a perfect Christian and started asking whether I looked anything like Christ.

Does the life I’m building reflect His will for me?

How would I even know?

The answers have never been contained in one place.

One church.

One small group.

One article.

One tradition.

If I could go back to the girl who left seminary, frightened by who she was becoming, I’d tell her not to worry.

God has never been confined to church walls.

He has always been waiting in kitchens. In cars. Around dinner tables. In the moments we often attempt to rush past.

So if you’re still looking for meaning, don’t start by seeking the perfect church, perfect theology or the perfect feeling.

Start by paying attention.

You may discover He has been waiting beside you all along.

And classic she way.

One of the most tell-tale signs of confidence in a woman isn’t what she wears, but how she wears it.

Carolyn Bessette Kennedy was a fashion publicist known for working for Calvin Klein until she married John F. Kennedy Jr. Her life and fashion sense became the subjects of intense media scrutiny afterwards. But she never wavered her sense of self.

Perhaps there will always be endless debate and gossip about Carolyn, but there's one thing for sure: she wasn't a conformist.

Not to the public.

Not to the Kennedy family.

Not to anyone.

Her signature style of neutral colors and simple design influences the masses still to this day.

It is evident that she was her own muse.

Former colleagues at Calvin Klein often said Carolyn “had a very strong point of view” and others observed she “never looked like she was trying.”

Maybe this sounds like a “cool girl” to you.

But on the contrary:

I actually think she was trying. She just wasn’t trying to become Jackie Kennedy. She wasn’t trying to transform into a socialite draped in jewels or logos. She wasn’t trying to mold herself into the image that the public, the tabloids, or even her husband may have preferred.

Carolyn seemed unwilling to abandon her own taste in favor of other’s expectations.

I think that’s why women are still fascinated by her nearly three decades later.

Not because she was perfect. Not because she was effortlessly beautiful. But because she appeared to possess something many of us spend years trying to cultivate: a deep trust in her own instincts.

When was the last time you listened yours?

✍️ Reflect with me tomorrow— The Romance Association Sunday Self-Reflection prompts for paid subscribers.

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I was a part of the Eat-Pray-Love-post-COVID travel movement.

A 26-year-old American girl without a plan, just a plane ticket.

I backpacked through western Europe, free as bird. Eating whatever I wanted, falling in love, laying on beaches.

I knew I loved this place.

*By this place I meant, the continent where no one intricately knew me and therefore couldn’t hate or judge me.

The universe somehow granted me a very generous friend and citizen of France who helped me with my first Visa.

But since that day, ‘help’ has been sparse.

To put it quite frankly: whatever country you weren’t born in, doesn’t inherently want you there just because you want to be there.

There are some countries *like Taiwan, perhaps— who DO in fact want you there for economical growth and awareness purposes.

But most of the places you pin on your Pinterest boards; don’t.

Paris. London. The French countryside. These are places where dreams either die or thrive in direct proportion to your bank account. Do you have a job sponsoring your move? A husband? It’s much easier to save and retire than it is to be an expat. Perhaps you could marry someone or get offered a job, like I said, but those are extensive measures to take, right?

In total, I’ve spent approximately $42,000 living abroad.

Lawyers, immigration specialists, plane rides to and from home (some trips required to actually keep my Visa), immigration fees, monumental dual taxes, and silly things you can’t possibly budget for before moving; like paying someone to sponsor an apartment rental agreement because most places don’t trust or want to rent to expats.

Everything is the long way around.

Nothing is simple, straight forward or easy.

Last week I was on an engagement getaway in Porto with my fiancé. (Yes, a perk of living in Europe is the quick access to other countries)

Lounging at the hotel bar, an American couple cooed: “Wow, living in Paris with a dog, working for yourself, marrying a frenchman that works in wine! Sounds like a movie!”

A very, very expensive movie.

If I could go back, would I?

No.

I think the butterfly effect works itself out, and God has blessed me with a lot of once in a lifetime opportunities and experiences.

But before you think that the grass is greener on the other side of the world, don’t forget what good ol’ Joan Didion said in one sentence what I’ve been trying to say in this entire micro-essay:

Your gut answer is probably no.

Most of us have seen/read/heard enough to believe that.

But as I have been watching the television show The Chosen, I wanted to find the historical proof of religions treatment of women. Not just headlines.

I researched the three most popular world religions. And what I found was more complicated than I expected.

1. Buddhism

6th century B.C.E. in India.

A man named Siddhartha, born into wealth, walks out of his palace, sees suffering¹ and decides to change. His new philosophy: attachment to the ego is the root of suffering. His solution: let go of the self and stuff.

A beautiful idea.

And for a long time, it was lived out by men as he lead the Buddism movement. But women were shut out of monastic life for generations². The Buddha, in early texts, did not want to ordain women. His aunt, Mahapajapati, even asked three times before he agreed.

And when he did, he placed her under rules that kept her below any monk, even a new one. So the path was open. But not equal. (sounds a bit like today’s workforce if you ask me)

For women, the road to enlightenment still runs through male permission.

2. Islam

7th century Arabia.

A man name Muhammad in a desert retreats to a cave, claims he encounters God and returns to reshapes a society. Men were in deep poverty. It was tribal life. There was constant conflict. And of course, women had little value other than to bear children³.

But Muhammad’s message brought change.

Women could inherit⁴.

They could refuse marriage⁴.

They could seek divorce!!!

It was real progress (it still is) And yet, the system that formed around it set clear limits.

In many streams of Islam, women can not share the same space as men in public, civic, or religious life. Their practices include covering themselves; their bodies at least.

The ceiling is still there.

3. Christianity (AKA Jesus Christ of Nazareth’s Way)

1st century B.C.E. Bethlehem.

A child is conceived under strange circumstances, born to an unmarried woman, grows up as a carpenter and, is well… different. Jewish culture was patriarchal⁶. The daily prayers of Jewish men included this prayer of thanksgiving:

“Praise to God that he has not created me a woman.” ⁵

Read that again.

That was the prayer. -____-

This was the world Jesus walked into.

But he didn’t leave it that way.

Jesus did not dismiss women.

He did not flatter them.

He did not use them.

He took them seriously.

He had no ego to protect.

How many men do you know like that?

In Gospel of John⁷ chapter 4, Jesus meets a woman at a well in the middle of the day, alone. She is an outcast, a woman with a past, in today’s world we would call her a sl*t.

And the rule at the time was clear: do not speak to women in public.

Jesus does.

Jesus engages with a woman in what scholars have noted was the longest private conversation He had with any individual. ⁷

Ever.

“Many of the Samaritans of that town began to believe in him because of the word of the woman who testified.” -John 4:39

He reveals himself to her as the Messiah (before he tells his own disciples!!! ¹¹ ! THAT’S A BIG DEAL.)

The first evangelist in the Gospel of Jesus a woman with a complicated past who wasn’t supposed to be included.

Why is that?

The movement of Jesus and the institution built in His name begin to drift apart, obviously. Men like Tertullian¹³ start to shape the story, and later Thomas Aquinas¹⁴ says diabolical things like "women are “deficiens et occasionatus” – defective and misbegotten”.

These ideas kept forming, more and more by male Christian culture.

You see it now too.

In sexual abuse scandals with leaders like Carl Lentz or Robert Morris.

This is not the way of Jesus.

It is what happens when male power replaces love.

So.

Back to the question.

Which religion elevates women?

At it’s nucleus, it is Christianity.

NOT the Christianity shaped by power not the version used to silence women and call it virtue…

But the way of Jesus.

—

If this found you at the right moment — share it. With the women in your life who left the church because of what men did with Jesus’s name. With the men in your life who need to actually read the Gospels instead of just interpreting them. With anyone who has been told that Jesus hates women or abortion or gays. With anyone thinks faith and dignity are in conflict.

They were never supposed to be.

Sources:

1. On the founding of Buddhism and early teachings on suffering and detachment, see Peter Harvey, An Introduction to Buddhism.
   

2. The story of Mahāpajāpatī’s ordination and the rules placing nuns under monks appear in the Vinaya Pitaka. For modern analysis, see Bhikkhu Analayo, The Foundation History of the Nuns’ Order.
   

3. On the status of women in pre-Islamic Arabia and reforms introduced in early Islam, see Karen Armstrong, Muhammad: A Prophet for Our Time, and Leila Ahmed, Women and Gender in Islam.
   

4. Qur’anic references to women’s legal rights include inheritance (Qur’an 4:7), consent in marriage (4:19), and divorce (2:229).
   

5. The Jewish prayer thanking God for not being born a woman is recorded in the Talmud (Menachot 43b).
   

6. On first-century Jewish social norms and gender roles, see Jerusalem in the Time of Jesus, and Craig Keener, The IVP Bible Background Commentary.
   

7. The Samaritan woman account appears in Gospel of John 4. Scholars such as Craig Keener note it as Jesus’s longest recorded personal dialogue.
   

8. On the cultural skepticism toward women’s testimony in the ancient world, see Josephus, Antiquities of the Jews 4.8.15.
   

9. The healing of the bent-over woman and the phrase “daughter of Abraham” appear in Gospel of Luke 13:10–17.
   

10. Mary of Bethany sitting at Jesus’s feet as a disciple appears in Gospel of Luke 10:38–42.
    

11. On women as the first witnesses to the resurrection, see all four Gospels (e.g., Gospel of John 20). For analysis, see N. T. Wright, The Resurrection of the Son of God.
    

12. On the role of women in early Christianity, see Rodney Stark, The Rise of Christianity.
    

13. Tertullian, On the Apparel of Women.
    

14. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologica.
    

15. Dorothy Sayers, Are Women Human?
    

16. On Greco-Roman cultural influence on early Christianity, see Wayne Meeks, The First Urban Christians, and Kyle Harper, From Shame to Sin.

Women generations before ours married out of necessity.

Marriage determined whether a woman could survive, whether she would be accepted or discarded by society.

That is no longer true.

My twenties were full of adventure, excitement and yes, obviously love.

But disappointment after disappointment filled the cracks where I thought hope would fizzle in.

When my first real relationship ended, I realized I became someone I wasn’t before.

Polite. Agreeable. Caged.

I was 23 but going back to age 11, that girl knew she wanted to EXPLORE, create, be free.

To have a life that didn’t require permission.

Especially not from a man.

I started traveling after the breakup and to be honest, a friend gave me At The Center of All Beauty & I came to terms that perhaps my life was better off alone.

Then I met my fiancé.

In a foreign country.

And everything changed.

Yeah, yeah it is cliché! I’m sorry Liz Gilbert!

Him & I share values, faith, and long-term goals. There is friendship, desire and respect in our relationship. We help each other grow. We remind each other of our inherent worth found in God. He is my favorite person to hug at the end of the day. He is the optimism continually lighting up my life.

But if I am being honest, the reason 11-year-old me (she’s still inside!) agreed to the institution of marriage isn’t because he is my prince charming. Or financial provider. Or savior safety net.

It is because we are aligned.

(Though it is a terrible barometer of reality, love is powerful.)

Love is meaningful. Love can even be transcendent.

But love is not reliable.

It does not pay medical bills. It does not guarantee shared labor. It does not protect you legally, financially, or socially on its own.

Last year ’ essay “The Sociology of Begging Someone to Marry You” lodged itself in my brain where he explains the means of the “Waiting to Wed” reddit page.

“Waiting to Wed is… a place for people seeking advice on transitioning their lifestyles from being a couple to being married, with all the legal, emotional, financial, and social implications therein. Unfortunately, it’s mostly a place for people in terrible relationships to ask for advice on how to upgrade said relationship, as if the act of having a wedding will transform them, bless them, and make them new.”

This forum page brought me to the question: Why do so many women still want a husband so badly?

Is it a religious thing?

A cultural thing?

An economic thing?

For many, the answer would be something along the lines of… “I want to have a father to their unborn children… To have someone to grow old with… To have romance…” But if you keep digging after each of these answers like an annoying but curious toddler wanting to understand, the real answer is: fear. Fear of being left behind socially. Fear of aging out of desirability. Fear of loneliness in a culture that has hollowed out community and over-invested in romantic partnership. For some, the choice no longer feels like marriage or freedom; it feels like marriage or isolation.

You can read the reddit page yourself, but I think if you have to convince someone to marry you or meet your standards in 2026, don’t get married. No woman should have to plea for alignment. In fact, don’t all genders deserve someone whose vision of the future overlaps pretty naturally with our own? (BTW; All relationships have compromises and room to grow and change, I’m not saying anyone is a perfect puzzle piece for anyone else.)

I once almost changed religions for a man (*does Hail Mary) (I’m not catholic lol) This is coming from a girl would loves Jesus with her whole soul and literally went to Baptist seminary. (That’s a topic for a different time… I contain multitudes!) But I never want another woman to feel that particular ache or the panic of shaping herself into what a man wants in order to be accepted.

If I could go back, I would tell myself:

There is no bus you’re going to miss.

There is no Prince Charming.

There is no single shot at a good life.

There is only clarity, choice, and the courage to walk away from anything that requires you to beg to be chosen, or beg someone else to change for you.

Carolyn pleaded to John in episode 8,

“I am 33 years old. I’ve been working since I’m 15. Can’t my thing just be taking a beat to settle into my marriage and enjoy my life? I’m figuring it out. I don’t wanna just join some board because it would make you feel better when people ask me what I do at dinner parties.”

When I heard this, my chest caved in.

It felt modern.
Relatable.
Terrifying, to be honest.

Because historically (negating the 1% of nepo babies who actually have talent… our favorites Dakota Johnson and Maya Hawke)— women have to fight for their place.

And yet—

Carolyn lost everything when she ‘won’ a husband.

But she wasn’t the only one.

• Rosemary Kennedy — lobotomized in 1941, institutionalized until her death in 2005.

• Marilyn Monroe — died under “suspicious circumstances” after alleged affairs with two Kennedy brothers.

• Mary Jo Kopechne — left to die in a submerged car after Ted Kennedy drove off a bridge.

• Martha Moxley — murdered at 15 by a Kennedy nephew.

• Carolyn Bessette Kennedy — killed in a plane crash piloted by JFK Jr.

• Mary Richardson Kennedy — died by suicide after her marriage to RFK Jr. collapsed.

• Mimi Beardsley — groomed & sexually abused at 19 by JFK (then publicly slandered decades later)

Echoing Diabolical Lies,

Maybe the most dangerous part of these isn’t what happened. It’s how we’ve chosen to remember it.

We romanticize men.

Being ‘chosen’.

We mythologize the societal role family or stature or power plays.
We aestheticize relationships.

Instead of looking at things how they really are.

Women too often become collateral damage in a story still being sold as glamorous.

So no—

A ring

A last name

A ‘legacy’ as a wife, mother, sister isn’t a fairytale.

The Cinderella Story is the real Kennedy curse.

Do you know of women who still glamourize the housewife life?

There were surprisingly, SO. MANY. MEN.

Men in groups. Men in Carhartt jackets and boots. Men with beers in their hands and smiles on their faces.

As the show went on, I began to notice: song after song, this artist’s lyrics were either deeply angry or deeply sorrowful.

He isn’t a very conventionally attractive man. He isn’t physically strong or stoic.

And it hit me: OH. Boys like him because he expresses what they can’t.

Or rather- what they’re too prideful, or perhaps just too scared to express: their emotions.

It’s funny how men tend to shut down the arts (generally speaking).

It is considered “girly” or “gay” to express oneself.

Yes, there are exceptions (for some reason, rockstars can wear makeup but drag queens can’t…?)

Which brings me to my question:

Why are men so suppressive to others, but when they find an experience (a song, a sport, a pet) they approve of, they temporarily allow it?

I’m so tired of living in this world where men put down others unless it benefits themselves.

Any ideas?

Around others, sure.

But especially within ourselves.

I looked up on Monday and I turned 30.

I’m pleasantly surprised with how my skin looks.

I’m shockingly proud of how my body feels.

I’m even-keeled at the fact that there’s no negative numbers on my bank account.

And yet, I’m empty.

Just in some spots.

The spots that hurt the most.

I think back to five, six, ten, years ago.

I had longer hair and a quicker wit.

I wasn’t scared of others opinions of me.

I said what I believed even if the thought was still baking.

I read the books I wanted.

I kissed the boys I thought were cute.

Yet, I was still following their rules.

I still plucked and starved and sucked in.

Girlhood can’t exist without this.

I was bold and fearless and stupid. I was beautiful and hungry.

I was alive.

I want to be visited by creativity again.
I want to feel on the edge of greatness.
I want to hold open my hand and let inspiration sink into each finger.

I want what we’ve all wanted from the beginning;

Freedom.

We went to church on Sundays and Wednesdays and prayed before meals, but there was no teeth-pulling for me and my brother to do anything we didn’t want to do.

Church always felt safe.

It always felt free.

When asked “where is your happy place?”

I’ve always had the same answer:

Vacation Bible School.

It sounds odd. Maybe it is. But I remember the mornings: the air heavy with heat, grass still wet, my hand in my mother’s. Doors wide and heavy, swinging open, swallowing the crowd.

The sanctuary was dark, tall.

Stained glass bled color onto the floor.

I dream about it sometimes.

I think memory drags us back when we’re lost.

There was something about the singing, arts and crafts, sweet snacks and stories that met every creative need I had. The Bible stories weren’t just pointless stories, they were ones about love.

About redemption.

Even those who don’t believe still admit the Bible is an epic.

Jesus is the ultimate hero.

I’ve studied theology and worked in the American church system.

I’ve visited hundreds of cathedrals and churches around the world.

Christianity has been tainted and broken; we live in a world where humans say one thing and do another.

I visited Assisi, Italy to see the home of Saint Francis.

How rarely do any of us stop ourselves from speaking.

I cried and cried here.

It reminded me that faith can still be home no matter where you are in the world.

Even now, a hymn or the taste of communion bread, I’m right back to that sanctuary.

Five years old.

Fingers sticky from glue. Laughing. Listening. Believing the world could be fixed.

Faith.

Memory.

Hard to tell the difference.

For me, belief lives in that church. Summer morning. Vacation Bible School.

Doors wide open.

Today I accidentally scrolled through Hailey Bieber’s Instagram.

This week her skincare brand, rhode, after being sold to e.l.f. Beauty for $1 billion, hit Sephora shelves across America.

She marked the moment at the New York Stock Exchange.
A serious suit.
Glasses to look credible.
A “pinch me” moment carefully staged for the cameras.

It was all deliberate.

The glasses were part of the performance, just as the face has always been the product.

Kim Kardashian, once titled her book Selfish;

At the time, it seemed like irony.
Now it reads like prophecy.

Hailey carried her ability to take a good selfie (and her father’s money, and his charisma) to its logical conclusion:

Capitalism.

Fame.

Success.

Beauty beyond reach

And yet…
you can buy a piece of it at Sephora for $30.

A century ago, most women would see maybe a dozen photos of themselves in a lifetime.

Now we confront our own faces all the freaking time.
Fractured.
Filtered.
Never perfect enough.

Since leaving America, I’ve noticed subtle differences in Europe.

French women still care deeply about appearance.
But their rituals are quieter.

A glance in a café window.
A lipstick check on the metro.
An “effortless” look that took hours in the bathroom but belongs to them, not their followers.

By contrast, Americans are trained in visibility.
We are taught that to be seen is to be real.

Take the 9+ looks Hailey sported in less than 48 hours.

A revolving door of looks for paparazzi…
…and for herself.

I’m not immune either.

My phone logged 607 photos last month:
Copper asleep.
My boyfriend with a glass of wine.
Myself in a bathroom mirror.

I almost never look back.

The archive swells.
Memory thins.
And I feel haunted not by scarcity, but by excess.

The danger here isn’t vanity.

It’s fragmentation.

To stare at our own faces this often is to split in two:
The self that lives vs. the self that performs.

We start to believe the performing self is the only one that matters.

Hailey is not the exception.
She is the parable.

A young woman who perfected the act of looking at herself until the world agreed it was worth a billion dollars.

But it’s not just her.

It’s us.

Every scroll.
Every pose.
Every flicker of belief that in recording ourselves, we might finally be worthy of being seen.

👉 If this made you pause, share it with a friend who needs to see their beauty beyond their Instagram.

Risk.

Hope.

Timing.

Missed calls.

When you haven’t felt validation or sex or romance in a while, nostalgia creeps in: It whispers:
“Maybe it was easier when we didn’t have everything at our fingertips.”

Maybe love didn’t feel so far away back then.

Maybe it didn’t feel so crowded and so lonely all at once.

But I rebuttal this idea.

The grass isn’t the greener. The politics have just changed the watering system.

I have no interest in going back 10, 20, 50 years in order to feel “courted”.

Women don’t need men anymore. And that used to be the entire premise of relationships leading to marriage.

Women now have a lot of check lists. Non-negotiables. Boundaries.

These things aren’t bad. But are they a mask in order to stop vulnerability?

I think our generation’s inability to access fulfillment is coated in nostalgia and lies about what human connection is about.

The idea we’ve been sold about Prince Charming is bullshit, but now it is becoming shockingly evident that the verb dating has a different connotation to everyone from every nationality and every culture.

I date because I love the man I am with and enjoy being his girlfriend. I admire him and he admires me. We are a good team.

He is not my captain.

He is not my savior.

He is my partner.

I have not spent much time on dating apps. My experience has been limited as I agreed to create a profile with my friend a few years ago. The idea was that she could meet some new people in the city she moved to after college (spoiler alert: she married the guy she met off Hinge)

All of my relationships could be told in a “meet-cute” fate sort of way.

But honestly, I think all relationships hold water if you let them.

Meeting someone off an app is just as cool as meeting at a book store.

Being with someone for a full night of awakeness and connection and talking can be just as deep as 9 years.

The universe is as open to the possibility of letting love in as you let yourself accept. (This Isn’t to say you only receive when you’re ready for it… Sometimes love hits you like a bulldozer)

But I was thinking how important it is as I approach 30 to tell my younger self:

Connection is possible,
but you have to choose it.
With intention. With risk.

It was playful and cheeky; foreign men in Paris giving their takes on their dating and sex lives.

As an American girl living in France, I’ve learned that relationships here look nothing like the unwritten rules (I guess some were written. Cue the insatiable Why Men Love Bitches) I grew up with.

Americans want rules.

Categories.

Boxes.

So here is my very American list of pros and cons to dating French boys:

Pros

• Labels. In the U.S. we almost immediately start asking, “Are we talking? Dating? Exclusive? Serious? Engaged? Dead?” French boys skip all that. You’re just… together. Or not. And that’s it.

• Equality. No weird power trip around the check. You take turns getting the bill. Nobody’s trying to prove masculinity with a credit card (mostly because they don’t have credit cards).

• Partnership. French guys don’t do the whole “alpha male” thing. They were raised on equality (it is literally in their national motto)

Cons

• Language barriers. Nuance often lives in idioms and untranslatable phrases. Connection relies on gestures more than words. So unless you’re bilingual, get ready for some miscommunication.

• Ambiguity Without labels, it can feel confusing or unstable. You never quite know where you stand. Security doesn’t come until way later.

• Less verbal affirmation. Don’t expect many “I love you’s” from friends or partners. Devotion is quieter and less obvious.

What it means

America loves clarity. France loves nuance.

The longer I live between two cultures, the clearer the split becomes.

Neither is right or wrong. But being caught between them has forced me to loosen my grip. Maybe not everything needs to be defined. Maybe not every stage requires a name. Maybe some loves are better when they float.

I don’t feel comfortable in many of my clothes anymore after gaining weight in my arms this year.

This truth comes from the ravenous amount of immigrant-entrepreneur-second-puberty stress.

I wish I could have told myself moving across the world after rehab alone wouldn’t be like Eat, Pray, Love.

When I was 22, I was on a flight from Burbank to Dallas.

A woman with a wide-brimmed hat turned to me and said, “You and that dog will live in France one day.”

I didn’t believe in witches. But I believed her.

I had no idea how much “one day” would cost.

I wore a white dress today, and I began to think about another. I was twelve, barefoot in my parents’ kitchen and my mother was telling me to peel potatoes for Sunday lunch. I did it the way I did most things then— sullen, defiant and too fast. I didn’t want to spend time creating. I only wanted to consume.

The potato slipped. The blade did what blades do.

The blood came fast.

We still went to church that morning. 

I am older now. And I now know you have choices. You can peel the potatoes obediently and eat in peace. Or peel them angry, ruin your dress, and eat in bitterness.

The potatoes will get peeled either way.

Sometimes I think God’s tasks are as like potatoes. If only we would slow down and peel. If only we would trust the hands that created us.

I look in a reflection of a window and see my arms; I used to flinch and curl into myself at the sight of fat on my body. But living here has been necessary for the menu of my life. I used to rush. I used to starve.

Now I savor.

Maybe I am prideful in claiming to know God’s lesson plans or intentions with His children. I am no Abraham. I am no Job.

But I find this a test of sorts— will I rush past, peel until I am bloody, and scream at the holy weight I needed to gain in order to live?

Or will accept it, and sit down at the table of life?

This morning I wore a white dress.

This morning, it stayed white.

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I’ve lived in France.

I’ve lived inside an eating disorder.

And I’ve lived free from one.

And if there’s one thing I know for sure: it’s that beauty has never been about beauty.

It’s always been about control.

In America, the obsession with “perfect” bodies is relentless. Thin, curvy, toned pilates bullshit body… whatever the trend. The rise of influencers and celebrities only amplifies this. Take the Kardashians—curves and slimness blended into a new impossible standard. But underneath, it’s still about control, social stature, and worth.

If you’re tired of feeling like your worth is dictated by a number or a mirror reflection, check out the full Cageless podcast episode on Youtube or your favorite streaming platform.

But the truth is: I’m just a little more tired.

P.S. You can listen to the full episode on the Cageless podcast or watch it on YouTube.

Last week, I picked up a 4-year visa at the prefecture in Paris. The process was chaotic (as most things involving French paperwork are) but when I saw the expiration date stamped 2029, I let out air I didn’t know I’d been holding.

As I approach 30, I find myself craving stability in a way I never used to.

I spent my twenties chasing freedom—backpacking, freelancing, falling in and out of love, building a life in a language I didn’t speak.

And now I’m aching for roots.

For a kind of homeness I didn’t think I’d want.

We don’t talk enough about how much internal rewiring it takes to live a life led by intuition instead of fear. And how exhausting it can be.

I’ve spent a lot of time studying the women in my family. The choices they made. The dreams they deferred. Other dreams they chose instead. I carry their courage. Their quiet rebellions. Their fire. I am, in many ways, their wildest outcome.

And yet, none of this makes me more “successful” than someone who stayed. Staying is also brave. Starting over isn’t better—it’s just different. We each choose our hard. We each make peace in our own way.

You can learn to become your own home. In fact, your body is the only home you have on this side of heaven… might as well make peace with it ;)

Here’s to self-trust.

To quiet victories.

To reimagining success.

Cageless is a reader-supported publication <3

Listening to older women characters recall how unsustainable it was.

The parties.

The work.

The drugs.

The fast-paced selfish living they partook in, in order to build a career. (When really what they meant was: in order to experience “real” life.) One beyond the comfort of their hometowns.

I guess subconsciously I wanted that too. Or at least that is what I was sold.

My original plan from 6-years-old was to move to Hollywood. Make movies like Gene Kelly in Singin’ in the Rain and be in sunshine. Yet, when I actually lived there, the dream became uncomfortable. After my moral formation at 21, I had no interest in sacrificing comfort, sleep, or sexuality in order to be successful.

I wanted to patchwork a life from the things I loved. Sun. My dog. Beauty. Creativity. Freedom.

Paris is rarely these things.

Yet here I am.

The city is sort of a toxic relationship. I guess we are all inevitably bound to have one in our 20s.

On the good days it is good. Real heaven.

On the bad days, it’s bad. You wonder why you gave up so much ease for a life of difficulty as an immigrant.

My biggest complaint at the moment is my body. Well, I guess what’s always my biggest complaint no matter where I live in the world. I have gained stress weight on my arms that drives me crazy. The more I Google how to fix it, the more I get the same answers: less food, more exercise, better sleep, cut down stress. It feels impossible to achieve those things consistently here. I am living by the will of the city’s pace. Not my own.

The feminist in me revolts from such criticism against the cellulite. “How DARE you belittle a body that has fought so hard for you to be alive!”

This voice is right.

Living in America, my priority was to look good and achieve more. It ruled my life. It rules most girl’s lives.

But the older I have gotten, the less I judge anything or anyone physically. I have gained weight but I have also gained freedom. Experience. Culture.

Women’s bodies weren’t created to be canvases for the male gaze.

I see now how media has lied to us about what safety is. Safety isn’t found in shirt size or Instagram photo or guy on one knee. Safety is found within. Within your mind, home, and relationships that care about your well-being.

Your joy.

Your goodness.

I’m sitting at Palais Royal and I just met a girl in tight spandex shorts. She is blonde and bubbly and started to pet my dog. “Do you live here?” she asks in English. I can tell she is American.

“Yes,” I respond.

“Oh what a dream! I wish I could do that.”

She’s 18 and on vacation with her family.

“You can,” I respond.

Under my breath I thought,

“At your own risk.”

Working remote in Paris isn’t exactly like in the U.S. There’s an unspoken etiquette. You might picture sitting at a little table on a cobblestone terrace as you jot down your next great memoir idea on a notepad. But real-life isn’t always that aesthetic.

Sometimes it’s just…needing Wi-Fi and a plug.

But, I’ve found a few spots that manage to hit both: practical and poetic. I only share these with friends and family (mostly because I am not an influencer and I am sure there are plenty of great guides out there) But I have lived in the 9th for years and keep up pretty adamantly with the coffee scene.

After living in the 9th for years, I’ve developed a mental formula:

Tall enough tables
Chill baristas
Plugs (the holy grail)
A decent drink menu
Not too loud, not too silent

Here’s where I go when I need to write, edit, or just stare out the window and pretend I’m the main character.

My Routine

I usually pack my laptop, headphones, and a journal, and rotate between a café and working from home depending on my vibe. Life here is less about productivity and more about feeling creative. I usually try to read books at a park or church steps if I want to be outside.

These boundaries makes work and enjoyment feel balanced in my life, and every day here can be a part of the adventure.

The Shops

1. Papillote – 15 Rue Chaptal, 75009

Tucked away a few streets over from Moulin Rouge, this one feels like a little community cocoon. The baristas are chill (and speak English), there’s no pressure to rush. No one’s judging your laptop stickers. Bonus: the coffee and alternatives (kombucha, cookies, and really good savory plates) are very good.

2. Loutsa Torrefacteur Passage Jouffroy–10 Boulevard Montmartre, 75009

This place is tucked away in my secret favorite passage way. I’ve never seen it crowded and the coffee is roasted in house. Plugs galore and great for working solo or a meeting.

3. Café Pigale – 9 Rue Frochot, 75009

This one’s for the serious café-hoppers. The vibe is more Brooklyn-meets-Paris, with minimalist decor and a rotation of digital nomads and artistic freelancers. You can work next door in the hotel lobby as well.

4. KB Coffee Roasters – 53 Avenue Trudaine, 75009

A classic. Great terrace, strong coffee, and good energy. You’ll find people in every corner—from American students working on essays to French creatives storyboarding short films. It is often busy on the weekends, but you probably shouldn’t be working anyway. I come here when I want to feel inspired and focused, and somehow…cool?

5. Torré – 52 rue Lafayette, 75009

A new one! This opened in February and is owned by the nicest Brazilian man. There is plenty of room inside and outside (when the weather is nice) and the treats are all homemade. I love the energy in this place. I love that no one really knows about it yet.

Even your to-do list can feel romantic if you read it in cursive at a café window.

So if you’re visiting—or living here—and wondering where to go to get stuff done (and maybe fall a little more in love with your life), these spots are a good place to start.

Your parents made you from themselves.

Your ideas work the same way.

You are a collection of everything that has shaped you:

The people.

The stars.

The mouths and that song you heard on the radio.

Your favorite movie wasn’t made by the director.

It wasn’t written by the screenwriter.

It was created from all ideas of the names you see on the credits screen. Along with the people who made them;

dead and alive.

You were made in the image of God.

You don’t exist alone.

You are not original.

But you are one of a kind.

This week, we explored Annie Ernaux—a writer who refused to look away from life’s truths. She wrote about the things women were told to keep quiet: unbeautiful love, loss without redemption, bodies and shame.

Her work is proof that telling the truth in an unflinchingly manner is an act of liberation.

What parts of our own stories have we been taught to soften?

Honesty is not just about telling the truth to others. It’s also about telling the truth to ourselves

This week, let’s reflect on truth, memory, and finding the courage to say the things we’ve been taught to hide.

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