I’ve never been the kind of person who can simply decide to be over something. I prefer to revisit, reminisce, romanticize, and imagine alternative endings. I think about people I haven’t spoken to in years and transport my mind to places I would never want to step foot in again.

Letting go is not my forte. It never has been, but that’s never once stopped me from walking away.

For a long time, this contradiction made me feel crazy. How could I be so cutthroat yet so sentimental, so decisive yet so attached? It’s only recently that I’ve come to understand that it isn’t a contradiction at all, but a duality of attachment and self preservation.

I can love a place and still leave it. I can be grateful for a chapter and still know when it’s time to close it. I can care deeply about a person and recognize when our time in each others lives has come to an end. I can mourn what something meant to me without believing that means I have to return to it.

There are two distinct capacities within me: the one that attaches, and the one that walks away. Luckily, the part of me that attaches deeply to people is fiercely guarded by the part of me that has no problem severing any threat to my sense of self.

I used to believe that in order for something to be done, it had to feel done. It’s why I overstayed in relationships, revisited decisions I had already made, and chased closure long after there was nothing left to resolve.

Feelings are important, I’m a big feeler. But they aren’t always instructions. I can see now that my greatest gift is my ability to not let anything eclipse my allegiance to myself.

The more that I’ve practiced the act of walking away— while I still care, while I’m still attached—the clearer it’s become that I don’t have to feel ready to leave. I just have to do it.

It’s possible that I’ve never been bad at letting go. Maybe I’ve just misunderstood what it should feel like.

Maybe it isn’t forgetting, or detaching, or reaching some magical point where I no longer wonder what could have been.

Maybe its feeling all the feelings and doing it anyways.

I don’t think letting go is as graceful as people make it seem.

And who said I have to leave empty handed? I can carry pieces of what matter to me without allowing them to keep me where I no longer belong.

I’m the first Ruth in my family, my parents’ firstborn daughter, and the first granddaughter born to my grandmother through her daughter. I was born in the first hour of the first day of the first astrological sign, in the first year of the new millennium. I’m the first in my family to pursue my masters and the first to learn multiple foreign languages.

Being a First is my pride. I work it into every conversation and even when I don’t, you’ll see it in the way I move through the world. I spend everyday walking through doors no one in my family has ever knocked on, but you can tell I’m never walking alone. My parents’ audacity walks before me, showing me the path so clearly. My grandparents’ dreams and prayers walk immediately behind me, reminding me I am protected in this pursuit.

From the outside looking in, being a First can seem daunting, carrying the hopes of those who came before, and the possibilities of those who will come after, but the reality is a lot more freeing. We set precedent, we create the blueprint, we get the honor of lighting the flame.

Being the First has never been about being the only. It has always been about making sure I am not the last. I’ve gotten this far because those before me laid the groundwork by inching forward, taking every opportunity available to them and solidifying every ounce of progress.

As for me, the expectation is much greater. It’s not enough to hold my position or consolidate my power. I must reach back into the community that bred me and throw as many people, as far ahead of myself as possible. Sounds easy enough but this is where most people go wrong. In order to successfully position others in places you yourself haven’t reached, you have to prepare them—avail yourself and all of your resources to them. Who cares how far you launch someone if they don’t have any of the tools to land safely or thrive in that environment?

One last thing—being a First shouldn’t be associated with loneliness, although it often is. Sure, there might not be footprints in the sand to track, but there are millions of other Firsts all across the world, existing in their own context, carrying out our shared mission. If we do our job right, there’s no limit on what’s possible for those who come after us.

Throughout my childhood, there was simply no place for chaos or disorder. This was in large thanks to my dad, whom I used to call The Dictator. He is the second eldest son of a judge and you’d know it just by looking at him. He stands up straight, never hesitates, speaks with absolute certainty and acts with a decisiveness I can only describe as sharp.

When I was little I thought it was psychopathic that he did the exact same thing everyday without fail.

Woke up at 6am.

Made the bed.

Ate oatmeal, drank coffee.

Went to the gym.

Took us to school.

Went to work.

Got off at 9 and home by exactly 9:15pm.

Showered.

Ate dinner, which was always salmon and salad and had one glass of red wine while watching TV with my mom.

I could be anywhere in the world and still tell you what he is doing with absolute certainty. I’d say he’s a creature of habit but that would imply there was no intentionality behind it, which couldn’t be further from the truth. I appreciate how much structure he gave our family. I never had to wonder what the next day would bring.

One thing about Abebe, he hates last minute plans. This is not the kind of man you could call and invite on a spontaneous adventure. He would write you off as silly and way too idle. Which is exactly what I was at 15.

Most weekends I preferred to stay home and read a book or watch a show but when a friend would call and suggest going to the mall or getting coffee, I’d get up and go without giving it a second thought. This frustrated him, and at the time I couldn’t understand why. It became the main point of contention between us. From my perspective, I was simply changing my mind as different options presented themselves, but what he saw was a girl without a strong sense of self, a girl who was willing to abandon her own agenda for any passing offer.

This sounds dramatic because it is. Just as he predicted, abandoning myself became a pattern that I carried throughout my teens and into my early twenties. I was a chronic people pleaser who couldn’t say no to others while having no problem disappointing myself.

He was trying to get me to understand at the ripe age of 15 that my life was precious, my time invaluable, and that every moment deserved to be spent deliberately—not handed over thoughtlessly to anyone who asked for it.

If my plan was to lay around all day, then I should do just that. If I told myself I’d go to the gym, then nothing should stop me.

“Ruth, be yourself” he’d say. What he really meant was, honor yourself. It was less about sticking to a rigid plan, and more about making sure that the voice inside my head, the one guiding my days, was always my own.

Keeping your word is a universal sign of respect, so why are we so often reluctant to extend that same respect towards ourselves?

I can’t help but feel like people love the idea of me a whole lot more than the real, flawed version.

It was made clear to me since childhood that I’m a lot to handle. I always chalked it up to me being a diva but I don’t think I realized how much I internalized that sentiment til now. I worship the people in my life, because I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude to those who can “deal with me”. Only in the last couple of months have I realized how ridiculous that sounds.

The one thing I get told over and over by those who love me is that I make them feel seen. How ironic. This is no accident though. For as long as I can remember, I have gone out of my way to make sure everyone around me knew that nothing could ever be too embarrassing, shameful or unhinged for me. You could tell me anything. I rationalize the irrational and make the insane feel sane. My go-to phrase being, “that’s the human experience!”.

And in the moments when they fear they are ‘too much’ for me, I fight to reassure them that their theatrics, impatience, stubbornness and indecisiveness, are not things I tolerate, they are integral parts of who they are. Parts I treasure deeply.

Somehow when it comes to me; my reactions are only ever too dramatic, my thoughts too chaotic, my demeanor too serious, my language too extreme. There is no nod of understanding waiting for me at the end of a spiel. Just a blank stare that echoes the tormenting belief that no one sees me.

Maybe that’s why I find so much comfort in the men I date. I actually think I intentionally pursue men who I know to be flawed, because they represent me. And in loving them, I’m proving to myself that it’s possible for deeply flawed people to be loved.

Speaking of love, I’ve only seen it once (romantically). The only man with the capability to love me, was also the only one who knew me. My high school boyfriend. Sounds juvenile, I know, but I have yet to feel as seen, accepted or cherished as I did then. He was without a doubt the most flawed person I’d ever met and the most intimate connection I’ve ever known. He would say “Ruth you’re perfect…wait, who are we kidding, you’re far from it. And I love you.”

‘And’, not ‘but’. ‘Because’, not ‘in spite of’. It’s still my reference point for love today.

He never had an idealized version of me in his head. He was never afraid to tell me when I was being a nightmare and I never hesitated to point out all of the ways in which he could irritate me. We fought like two people who weren’t concerned about losing each other—because we weren’t. But he always managed to spin the reality of who I was into something so beautiful. To me that was the highest form of love. It still is.

Like everything else I struggle with in this life, this too, can be tied back to not feeling seen. One things clear, I have a long introspective road ahead of me but it’s always so gratifying to be able to peel back yet another layer.

For so many young women, sex is a dreadful, and often painful, added source of stress in their lives. They report feeling pain with penetration, whether through intimacy, inserting a tampon or getting a Pap smear.

Would you believe me if I said it was all in their head? The main culprit here is a condition called Vaginismus, which often goes undiagnosed.

Vaginismus is the involuntary contracting of the muscles around the vaginal opening that lead it to tighten. It can happen while you are attempting penetration or merely anticipating it. Although the exact cause remains unknown, the leading theory is that negative beliefs and anxiety about sex directly contribute to it.

So many women in my life have experienced this phenomenon. At the time, we didn’t know there was a word for it. They described their experiences to me by saying things like “my body built a wall, there was just no way through” or “it’s like my body just shut down and refused”. They began to think something was wrong with them.

And I began to notice something else.

Of all my friends who confided in me about this experience, it was only the women of color. My white girlfriends had never mentioned that kind of discomfort, even having made their sexual debuts much earlier. I had always known that culture and the stigmas that live within it shape many aspects of our lives, but it never occurred to me that our bodies might actually be listening, internalizing, and reacting accordingly.

In my community, sex is often avoided entirely as a subject matter. And when it is discussed, it’s rarely presented as a shared experience of intimacy and pleasure. Instead, it’s labeled dangerous and shameful—an interaction to avoid at all costs. And when it does inevitably occur, everyone mourns as if there’s been an unfathomable loss.

Framing a woman’s sexual debut as her “losing” her virginity is just one example of rhetoric that is inherently violent. Losing implies theft, as in damage. Suggesting that something is being taken from her, even when it’s on her own accord—stripping her of all autonomy.

In my culture, this messaging is well-intentioned. Parents and communities hope that fear will save their girls from teenage pregnancies, sexually transmitted infections, and preserve their childhood a little longer. However, the long term irreversible damage that is done to their relationship with a very healthy, natural part of themselves is too profound to be cast aside.

When sex is consistently framed as something dangerous, shameful, or painful, those beliefs don’t simply disappear once a woman becomes an adult. They linger in the nervous system, embedded in muscle memory, and often manifesting as literal physical pain. What began as cultural caution can become a lifelong struggle with intimacy.

When approached with consent, safety, and care, sex is not something women should have to brace themselves against. A physical act of intimacy that helps bring forth life is not something the body should instinctively resist.

Taboos about sex, especially in Ethiopian community, create these massive clouds of fear and anxiety that form silently over the course of years. But because we now know that our bodies internalize these sentiments, we must show extreme care with how we choose to engage these topics with our young girls.

Keeping in mind that the body is always listening.

You are who you say you are.

The power of the tongue is real and should not be taken lightly. Speak as if you’re an author writing about a character you adore. Their inner dialogue, their outer world—all shaped by your words. If you delay in writing your story, others will inevitably do it for you. What you tell yourself, what you tell the world, that is your truth. And your truth should be told with some bass in your voice.

Let go of the need to feel seen.

Don’t backtrack or water down your most profound statements in an effort to conform to an insecure, often confused society. IT WONT MAKE THEM SEE YOU ANY CLEARER. Speak with conviction. Say exactly what you mean, even if it’s jarring. There will be people out there who do see you.

BE DRAMATIC

The word dramatic used to trigger me. It’s so dismissive and quite frankly—too lazy of an assessment. So many people wish they could express themselves with the level of depth, candor and ingenuity that I do. What others call dramatic, I call utilizing my limited vocabulary in an attempt to convey some of the most complex, paradoxical conditions of the human experience. And given that I have yet to feel satisfied by my articulation, I don’t think the English language is dramatic enough.

Be radical in the way that you love.

When I say I love easily and I love everyone, I get skeptical looks. What I really mean is that I give love without reservation. I love strangers, I love people who disappoint me, I love those who love me, I love those with whom I will never see eye to eye.

Let people wonder how you are able to smile in the face of hate or why you are so comfortable in rooms you aren’t welcome in. Allow them to witness your love in motion. Loving people isn’t just showering them with affection. Sometimes, the most sincere act of love is simple tolerance.

But remember, your capacity to love others is determined by how well you love yourself. So love yourself radically—through your worst mistakes and your ugliest moments.

Forgive. Then forgive again.

We have to remember just how limited our understanding of one another truly is. We catch only a glimpse of our very best friends’ lived experience, never-mind a total strangers’. Knowing this will help you reconcile the fact that people will mistreat you throughout your life. Not because you deserve it or because they are inherently cruel. But because on any given day, we are the sum total of all we have endured and despite our best intentions, there will inevitably be moments when the weight of the ugly eclipses our capacity for kindness or consideration.

Offenses should inform you, not harden you.

You pick up on a back handed compliment, or you feel slighted by a snarky remark—allow it to inform you. Instead of taking it personally and being reactive, take note of it and see it as nothing more than a piece of information about how that person perceives you or your relationship at that moment. Use that data to recalibrate and show up differently (if you choose to do so).

This doesn’t mean become distant or stand offish. Simply, begin tailoring what you say to your new circumstance (which you should always be doing). If you sense a bit of jealousy, be more reserved about your wins. If you sense agitation, change the subject entirely. If you feel like you’re being baited, take control of the conversation and be the one to ask questions. This makes you an informed decision maker, not a reactive mirror.

Never misrepresent God.

If you are a person of faith, this is the single most important thing.

When you feel yourself turning into someone you don’t recognize—mean spirited, ugly, rude, exclusive, selfish, apathetic—immediately remove yourself, and interrogate why. By doing this, you get a better understanding of your behavioral patterns while simultaneously shielding those you love (which should be everyone) from what will undoubtedly be regrettable words/actions.

You must keep in mind that every encounter a person has with you, is an encounter they have with God. If you are angry, impatient, unforgiving, unjust or cruel, they will perceive God to be all of those things as well.

Why? Because the spirit lives within you. What does that mean?

While you are walking this earth, you are a human representative of a divine being. Think of our diplomats—when they are in other countries, they are acting as official representatives of the United States. Because their conduct directly influences how foreign nationals view the US, its policies, and its citizens, they are held to a higher standard than the average American tourist. They must always conduct themselves in a manner that is reflective of the values of the United States. It’s no different being a Christian.

Of course, the human experience comes with its own afflictions, so no one is saying you’re not allowed to feel anger or resentment from time to time. But feeling something and being something are two different things. I can feel jealousy, without becoming a jealous person. Emotions are real, and they are fleeting. Interrogate them so you can manage them.

Much like the diplomats, the ways in which we conduct ourselves as Christians in this world, directly correlates to how people will view and treat God. To put it simply, you are either representing him accurately or inaccurately. With every interaction, you have the opportunity to allow the Holy Spirit to shine through you or show up as yourself—whoever you happen to be feeling like that day.

My point is, you do not need to walk around evangelizing (in fact—please don’t).

Be kind, be inclusive, be unyielding in your efforts to serve others, be relentless in your pursuit of people’s hearts, show patience, show grace, show empathy, be a leader, be a safe haven. It’s not that complicated. Emulate the character, soul, and heart of Jesus Christ and things should start to make sense.

I have the unique misfortune of falling for men who wouldn’t know what love was if it walked into the room naked.

I was recently called a maneater by someone I care about deeply and although this is a term I’ve heard time and time again from past flings, it got me thinking. I couldn’t help but laugh—not because it was funny, but because it implied that I had enough control over my own emotions to manipulate others.

The most common reasoning behind this accusation is that, these men find themselves doing, saying and feelings things they hadn’t felt before we met, which leads them to believe that the only logical explanation is that I’ve put a spell on them. Now granted, no one wants to feel that they are acting out of control, especially men, but I find it sad how absolutely terrified—on a cellular level— they are of falling in love. Not the idea of it, but the literal act.

I have never, not once, been in control of my emotions when in love. My mind, my heart and my sanity are all at the mercy of whoever I find myself entangled with in that moment in time. It’s not always fun but part of the deal is relinquishing control. It’s fascinating how two people can have such wildly different perspectives to the same experience.

In all honesty, the term maneater, in and of itself isn’t offensive. I personally have no objections to being perceived as sexy, cunning and dominant. It’s a compliment really. I’d own it— if it were true.

We all know how obsessed I am with feeling seen, but that need is much more pronounced in my romantic relationships. If no one in this world can see me for who I am then I begin to question if “who I am” even exists. Acknowledgement is only an expression of recognition, and not a requisite for existence, but for me, it’s all the same.

The fact that, despite my very best efforts to communicate openly, I cannot manage to convey an accurate version of myself—or even one I recognize— is nerve wrecking.

How is it possible to be tormented by my emotions on a daily basis, feel so deeply, share those feelings candidly, and still manage to come off as some detached, calculated, femme-fatale seductress?

Maybe it’s part of my wiring—coded into my DNA to protect me from those who would take advantage of my unconditionally loving nature. Or it’s simply a built in deterrent to any man that is not my husband.

I’m not sure that there’s anything I can do that would correct this misconception, and at this point, I don’t think I care to. It’s clear to me that my partners and I have mirrored experiences, and that their interpretation is based on their own jaded understanding of love.

But because this is such a reoccurring theme in my life, its very well possible that my future spouse will stand out to me solely based on the fact that he will not view falling in love as an attack on his person, but instead, an opportunity to surrender to something divine.

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I’ll never forget March 21, 2019. Not because it was my 18th birthday, but because I spent that afternoon sobbing in the bathroom between legislative sessions at my state’s Model General Assembly. I had accidentally opened a rejection email from my dream school at 11am that morning. It wasn’t surprising, but it was the first in a long line of wakeup calls I desperately needed.

“I expected more from you”, was a phrase I heard on repeat that year. It felt like everyone I knew was personally disappointed in me. At the time, I couldn’t understand why so many people had such a vested interest in my success.

Caring what others thought of me almost killed me. Literally. This might shock people considering my reputation to be the high functioning, wildly ambitious, charismatic girl who needed no validation. That was very intentional branding on my part. I don’t think anyone has ever been crueler to me, than myself.

That year, everything changed, but I didn't. I graduated, started college, moved into my dorm, all the things that come with turning 18. Yet, I remained my same stagnant self, clinging to the comfort of predictable failure. It wasn’t until I was 20 and reading an email notifying me that I had lost my full ride, that I finally woke up.

It forced me to confront my shadow self and figure out why I was so intent on sabotaging my own life—a story for another time. I slowly began to realize that everyone I resented all those years, was just holding a mirror up to me. Reflecting back my enormous potential and how careless I was with it.

Looking back, it baffles me how much time I wasted. Stuck in my own head. Thinking, planning, dreaming, but never doing. One minute I’m 15, fantasizing about the future, then I blink, and I’m 20. Physically living in that future but mentally, emotionally and psychologically, elsewhere.

I wish I could go back and shake high school Ruth awake sooner. But I also know that, without those years, she would have never learned the true price of stagnancy.

Life moves forward, even when we don’t and time has a way of punishing those who overstay their visit. It will create challenges in an effort to catalyze us into action, and the more we dig our heels in, the more insufferable things will become. But everyday, we get a choice. We can do something, anything, to move ourselves even a millimeter forward.

I have a difficult time discussing the genocide in Gaza with some of my white American friends, mainly because we are processing what we are seeing very differently. They’ve never known war, their families have never been in mortal danger, their parents have never fought for liberation, their grandparents never knew starvation at the hands of another…the list goes on. It’s not a bad thing, nor is it meant to imply that their lives are free of hardship or grief, it’s just a notable difference in our background that helps explain why we react the way we do.

I’ve spent every single night for the past 3 years, praying to God to cover my grandmother’s house, as the fighting continues on her front steps. I spend most days trying to imagine how it must’ve felt for my dad to walk away from his future and into guerrilla warfare when he was my age, all in the name of liberation. I get nauseous at the thought of the horrifying things my mother was subjected to during wartime. My heart physically aches when I picture my grandmother’s anguish as military forces tore her beloved 17-year-old son from their home—not knowing that the next time she’d see any trace of him would be 30 years later, when she recognized his shirt in a mass grave.My bloodline is no stranger to heart ache or grief.

I have no idea why my life has been free of war, starvation, or any other form of harm. I don’t deserve it any more than my parents or grandparents did. Lucky me (deragatory), I don’t just survive, I get to thrive. The first in my family line to do so. This isn’t unique in my world though, my friends’ parents either fled from war torn countries or endured all sorts of unimaginable abuse during Jim Crow. When we talk about the horrific scenes coming out of Gaza, there is this solemn understanding, I can’t quite explain. It’s more than basic empathy. It’s a deep resonance with the pain, an ownership of the suffering. It’s always personal.

That’s why, 8 months ago, when a white man tried having a “friendly debate” with me over “what is going on in Palestine”, I couldn't get three words out before breaking into tears. I kept thinking—how dare he? I was so disturbed, I didn’t sleep that night. He couldn't understand why I was having “such an emotional reaction”, so I asked him if he had ever met a Palestinian or if this is just something he reads about online, and of course, it was the ladder. To him, and most white Americans, what’s going on in Gaza—and the rest of the Middle East and Africa for that matter—is just a headline you skim by in the New York Times on the way to complete the morning crossword. A “complex issue of international law”, that you spar with your poli sci buddies over, before moving on to the rate of unemployment.

I couldn't wrap my head around how it wasn’t as deeply gutting for him as it was for me. But that fury slowly turned into envy.

I wish I couldn’t personally relate to the most harrowing things I was reading.

I wish it was all happening in some far away distant land that I had no connection to.

I wish that the horrors that filled my screen were closer to a fantasy film than anything my family and I would ever know.

I wish what I was reading didn’t mirror stories my family has told me of some of their darkest days.

Although I’m sure most of my white American friends empathize with the Palestinian plight, in the end, it’s still something they can never fully comprehend, and I hope they are eternally grateful for that. I myself, have lived a life full of privilege and still, the shadow of my family’s unjust suffering is one that lengthens with me, no matter how far I run. Most days, it makes me angry to have been given such a fortunate life when I did nothing to deserve it, but there are moments when I’m able to recognize and appreciate the unique blend of perspective and opportunity I’ve been afforded.

One glimpse at my grandmothers smiling face is enough to make me fall apart completely. Knowing someone I love so much, someone so kind and full of joy—has had to bear witness to some of the most heinous human acts, is enough to turn me into an absolute monster. But then I remember that it’s okay to feel so deeply, to be devastated by the cruelty that’s taken place in the past, and the one that continues on today. Indifference would be inhuman.

If there’s one thing I’ve taken from the Palestinian struggle, as well as my own family’s—it’s that you must find a reason to smile. If you can’t find one, then you create one, not just for yourself but for others. That’s how we’ve made it this far and it’s how we’ll make it through.

May we all live to see their resilient smiles shine ever so bright in a free Palestine, inshAllah.

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When people ask me what my biggest fear is, I always say bugs because it’s easier than explaining that the mere thought of losing my parents before I’m able to give them the life they deserve, brings me to my knees.

I told my brother last week that I feel like I’m walking through life with a bomb strapped to my back-unable to see the timer but forced to listen to the clicking every minute of the day. It haunts me. The day that timer runs out, my world will explode, never to be the same again. All opportunity lost.

Sometimes I ask myself if there is anything in life that I truly want. Something that would still matter to me, even if my parent’s weren’t around to witness it. I can’t think of a single thing. I’m not sure if this is a byproduct of being the child of immigrants or if I was simply born to take on this posture of servitude.

When I made the decision to join the Peace Corps at 23, I had to think long and hard about whether this was the right decision—not for me, but for my parents. I asked myself, how could I rationalize being away for two years? What will I gain and what will they lose?

I told myself that this opportunity—although emotionally taxing— would better position me for the future, and open doors that would later change our lives. Two years in exchange for a lifetime of opportunities. That was the trade I made.

What I didn’t expect, was the overwhelming sense of fear everyday that I was gone. I met my parent’s in Ethiopia in April, eight months into my service, and I couldn’t help but notice that they had aged—even in the short period of time we were apart. It forced me to put a magnifying glass to the tradeoff I had made the year prior and interrogate every factor that led me to that decision.

Was I wrong to leave?

Am I being selfish?

Am I going hard enough?

Is what I’m doing worth my absence at home?

Will I be able to forgive myself if something happens and I’m not there?

The clicking of the bomb never stops.

There’s a profound sense of pride and purpose that comes with knowing how much my life is valued. On one hand, I feel like I’m being crushed by the weight of time passing, on the other, I’m on this mad dash for greatness, refusing to settle for mediocrity in any area of my life. I guess it’s true—pressure does make diamonds.

Sometimes I’m jealous of people who aren’t plagued by a sense of duty to their family, whose very existence wasn’t made possible by the suffering of others. I imagine there’s a lightness in the way they move through life.

As for me—I will remain painfully aware of every sacrifice made in my name, and live every second ensuring it wasn’t done so in vain. The least I can do for those who came before me, is everything.

Share The Pathos of It All

It seems like every time I go on social media, I’m being diagnosed with a new disorder. At one point, I started to believe what I was reading…then I used my remaining brain cells to conclude that the world has indeed, gone mad.

This obsession with naming, classifying and categorizing everything in order to validate its existence is exhausting. If you fall in love with someone “too quickly”, you’re told you’re experiencing limerence—an obsessive neurochemical response. If you allow your faith to guide you, you’re going through spiritual psychosis. If you’re extremely excited about something new in your life, you’re having a manic episode.

As someone who experiences all of my emotions at full capacity—like we were intended to—it’s frustrating to have those feelings mislabeled and compartmentalized. As uncomfortable as it can feel to be overcome with emotion, it’s also the only way I know I’m alive. When I’m buzzing with so much anticipation, I can barely feel my legs, or when my heart feels so heavy I think my chest will cave in. I used to hate that I couldn’t feel things at a moderate level—it was exhausting. It wasn’t til I got into my 20’s that I realized that this was what the human experience was about.

Emotions are fleeting—that’s the beauty of them. You’re supposed to allow them to move through you, even briefly consume you. HOW ELSE WOULD YOU KNOW YOU’RE ALIVE? If simply existing was enough, we would be sponges in the ocean. Our consciousness is one thing but our affectivity is what makes us truly alive.

Think about when you first develop a crush on someone. The rush you get when they text you. The excitement you feel as you take an extra shot at the pre-game in case you see them out. The yearning for their constant presence. The anticipation of the first kiss. The optimism that fills your head and gives you daydreams of a romantic future. These are the moments we live for, even if they’re short-lived. Why would I reduce all of this to fit into some cookie cutter phrase out of a BSM book?

I understand the need to understand oneself, but the first step to actually achieving that is realizing that we cannot bind the boundless. These titles only serve as boundaries, restricting us from feeling the way we were created to; deeply, sincerely and with no regard for classification.

So to my fellow big feelers-keep on!

I asked a man this week if he would rather find the love of his life and risk losing her to death or another person, or never find her at all and only experience mediocre love for the rest of his life. He instantly chose the ladder. His justification—he could not allow himself to feel deeply enough, and risk being disappointed or hurt by those feelings in the end.

I was baffled by his response. How could anyone actively choose to experience life at a 5 when we were born with the capacity to live at a 10? Being risk-adverse is acceptable in terms of tangible transactions, but love—a spiritual exchange— requires you to go all in, if you want any return on your investment. Believe me, I have gone through my fare share of heartache, but I’ve never once entertained the idea of abandoning love all together.

Sure, heartbreak is debilitating, and soul crushing, and feels like an endless darkness that’s swallowing you whole. But, that’s the price we pay for getting to experience life at a 10. We don’t get to choose which emotions we feel to the fullest. It’s all or nothing.

It makes me sad that the fear of an unintended outcome is what deters people from allowing love in. It was never supposed to be about the outcome. Love is an experience. It’s supposed to evoke emotions within us, that in turn, trigger responses that lead us towards our purpose. Actions we may have otherwise written off as unfeasible and never taken. That’s the power it wields—it helps us do the impossible.

Have you ever noticed that the happiest, most fulfilled people on earth are those who are madly in love? Not just with a person, but with things and places. They’re able to weather endless storms and find the beauty in every season. That’s because with love comes wisdom—a true, unadulterated understanding of this life. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my short 24 years, it’s that love exists in abundance. It’s everything, everywhere, all at once. Just waiting to be recognized.

I hope we as a society stop rejecting the very best parts of the human experience out of fear of the unknown. Some truths don’t need to be rationalized. Death is the price we pay for this life and grief is the price we pay for its love.

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To be fair, I used to think nonchalance was hot. There was something alluring about a man that couldn’t be bothered or moved. I equated it with stability. Then I dated a man who never had a reaction to anything. He would shrug his shoulders at every inconvenience and moment of misfortune. It drove me insane.

As someone who happens to have an opinion on everything, I grew irritated by his lack of care pretty quickly. I didn’t quite understand why, until we ended up on a serious topic one day. We were talking about a humanitarian crisis in another part of the world. He had absolutely no input, nothing to add besides the occasional deep sigh accompanied by the usual “yeah that’s fucked up”. That was the day I was able to identify the disqualifying factor of all disqualifying factors. Nonchalance.

Given the state of the world today, I think the most unattractive thing a man can be is indifferent, neutral, or passive. The inability to care—or care enough—about things outside of himself was a BLARING RED FLAG in general. But especially in times like these, when chaos, hardship and uncertainty touch every single household (unless you’re DJT). As far as I’m concerned, any man that can’t recognize this is either arrogant—the point of delusion, or ignorant— to the point of stupidity. It’s one thing to not have an opinion on what shape of pasta you prefer or how many sugars you want in your coffee, but to not be able to take a stance on matters of life, is a sign of weak character.

It’s also worth noting that someone who doesn’t care about anything outside of their orbit, could not possibly care about you in the way that you deserve. It's impossible, they are too self involved—unable to see past their own desires.

So, to all the big feelers out there—I hope you never settle for lackluster displays of empathy. Instead, choose to share your life with people who evoke passion and pathos—we will all be better for it.

I don’t think I’m exceptional in this way—just the product of a careful balance of nature and nurture. I, like everyone else, was born with an innate sense of self but had the fortune of being raised by a village that protected and cultivated that spirit. Throughout my childhood, I was always asked for my opinion, considered when making decisions, and made to feel important. Having never entertained the idea that my thoughts were irrelevant or unworthy, I was able to walk into every room with a deep sense of belonging.

And yet, for as long as I can remember, I’ve had this incessant need to feel truly seen. What a shocker—the girl who overshares in every conversation doesn’t feel seen. Despite my openness and candor, I often find myself feeling misunderstood and misrepresented. Maybe it’s because I have an Aquarius moon, or because I’ve yet to fully accept the fact that people can and will perceive me in a way I don’t recognize myself. Nevertheless, this unrelenting need has dwelled inside me for the past two decades, and I suspect it will remain.

I could always stick to talking to myself, but what I’ve come to realize is that all people, have a desire to see and feel seen. That, at our best, we are understanding and appreciating one another.

That’s what inspired me to start writing here. The hope that my words—unclad and stung together in sincerity, will illustrate my thoughts—irrational and sometimes contradictory, in a way that makes me feel seen.

I hope they do the same for you.