Acne.

For the majority of my life, that word has been the ugliest of them all. The way it looks on paper, the way it sounds coming out of my mouth, and the way it makes me feel. Because since I can remember, this word has stuck painfully to my identity the same way a fresh wad of gum clings to the bottom of a new favorite pair of shoes.

It all started when I was in middle school, probably around the age of 12 or 13. At this age, I was going to dance practice almost every day. For 3-5 hours at a time, I would stand in front of huge, paneled mirrors analyzing myself and everyone around me. I became increasingly aware of my flaws which, at the time, felt numerous. Like many middle schoolers going through puberty, I noticed red bumps appearing scattered across my face like unwanted freckles. None of the girls I watched on TV or women I saw in magazines seemed to have these ugly eyesores, so why did I? I remember one of the very first skin regiments I tried out was the Dermalogica, “Clear Start” line for teens. My mom drove me to Ulta and, walking out of the store with my bright orange bag, I felt a jitter of hope and excitement. I thought to myself, “Soon, I might look normal again.”

I started washing my face every night and applying all sorts of potions and serums to ward off those ugly red dots. Nothing did the trick. So, I started wearing foundation — Neutrogena. I can so vividly picture that small, thick glass bottle of “Healthy Skin” foundation, slightly too orange-tinted, sitting in front of my mirror. I refused to go to school without putting it on and, most times, applied a freshened layer of it before going to dance practice. I knew that my sweat would cause it to streak and fade, but the thought of being bare faced in front of a mirror was too much to bear.

During high school, my mom took me to dermatologists, skin care professionals, and everyone in between. At 17 I didn’t know much about life, but I knew just about every skincare line on the market. Sleepovers were a nightmare — at the end of the night, I had to slip away into the bathroom to complete my multi-step skincare routine, only to return out to the group feeling as vulnerable as one does in those dreams where you accidentally show up to work naked. I knew it was irrational, but I constantly feared that my friends would be shocked to see what I had so diligently tried to hide for so long. I’ve always been someone anxious about my appearance, but my skin always took the cake for my biggest insecurity. I don’t think I went to high school even one day without makeup on. While there were periods of time where my acne would “calm down,” they were never long enough to let me forget about it. The dark spots that developed and scarred my skin made it so that even when I woke up and felt nothing but smoothness on my face, I couldn’t allow myself excitement. As soon as I got out of bed and walked to the mirror, all I could see were my scars and the way they made me feel ugly. Unwanted. Undesirable.

While most of my friends outgrew their acne, mine persisted with a vengeance in college. I underwent “Acne Boot Camp” with two or three different estheticians, but nothing fully solved my problem. I felt pangs of jealousy as my friends and roommates could go to class with bare faces and not think twice about it. It hardly felt like an option to walk across campus without my shield of makeup. Going to parties or bars with my sorority sisters, I felt anxiety creep into my chest at the thought of sweating off my makeup and being seen for who I really was. Before going out, my friends and I would often take pictures, and I would often scramble to offer my phone up to the photographer first — I wanted to be in control of deleting the pictures where you could see the imperfections on my face before sending them out to the group. And if I wasn’t quite quick enough, I would simply wait until that pang of anxiety shot through my chest when I received a, “_________ tagged you in a post” notification, not knowing if the photo that had been posted was one that would make me shrink when I saw it.

When I began dating my college boyfriend, I was ecstatic to feel beautiful in someone else’s eyes.

When I slept over at his apartment, I wore makeup.

One of the worst flare ups of acne I experienced was at the end of my freshman year of college. My family went to the Azores for the first time — one of the most surreal and stunning places I have ever seen with my own two eyes. When I look back at pictures from that trip though, I feel a sting because all I notice is how angry and red my skin looked. Though I was with my family, the people who have known and loved me longest, I still remember feeling so embarrassed to be out in public with them. The next brutal flare up came just in time for college graduation and the beginning of my master’s program. I distinctly remember getting my hair dyed before my graduation and sending a photo to my mom to show her my new hair.

I snapped a selfie in the driver’s seat of my car and opened photoshop to blur my skin and color correct my spots before pressing “send.”

In my adult life, one particular struggle I have is finding the courage to go to work without makeup (and I’m still working on this one). I am a teacher, so that means the majority of my work day is standing in front of groups of pre-teens and teenagers. Which means the majority of their work day involves looking at me. I know that I have the opportunity to empower my students who might be struggling with their confidence. And I know that in showing up and owning my insecurities, I have the chance to be the one who shows them that acne does not define who they are as a person. But alas, every day I experience a strange sort of deja vu as I walk through the hallways and still feel like that insecure 13 year old girl hiding behind a layer of Neutrogena liquid foundation.

The weight of my shame surrounding my struggles with acne has at times felt heavier than any other insecurity: only in the past couple of years did I start going to the gym without a layer of tinted moisturizer on my face. My heart still sinks at the thought of my makeup sweating off on a first date. Any activity that involves jumping into a body of water spikes my cortisol, knowing that committing to those plans means I can’t wear my usual armor of concealer.

I would be a total fraud to sit here and say that I have come around to embracing my acne or that I refuse to hide my skin anymore and I have boycotted makeup. But what I have realized is that acne is not what makes you beautiful or ugly. Reflecting on my truest and deepest friendships, I have never once thought to myself, “Oh yeah! I love her because she just has the most clear skin I’ve ever seen” or, “Gosh, she’s just so cool and fun, probably because she has no acne scars!” And I know deep down, none of my friends have had these thoughts either. No wine night or shopping trip or beach day has been defined by the number of scars or pimples on my face. In times of sadness or loss, no friend of loved one has ever denied me a hug or a shoulder to cry on because I wasn’t wearing makeup.

I have come to accept that for me, acne might just be permanent. So from time to time, I walk to the grocery store with not an ounce of makeup on my face. I send pictures to my best friend without the impulse to edit and blur my face. I accept that on my wedding day, I just might be asking a makeup artist to cover my dark spots. And on my wedding day, I bet that is going to be the least important conversation I have because acne is the least interesting thing about me.

And if I had to guess, it’s probably the least interesting thing about you, too. <3

Whenever it came time for the soccer unit in gym class, I felt nothing but dread. The thought of running outside in the heat, dirt caking onto my shoes and clothes, was practically a nightmare for a girl who preferred air conditioning, pink tights, and ballet buns. Nevertheless, it was a sport I secretly wanted to be part of. I remember watching the soccer players in my grade charge towards the ball and strike it with an effortlessness that I could never emulate, wishing I had just a bit more coordination when it came to sports with balls.

That wish never did come true, but I did come around to enjoying the game… just from the stands. I spent many nights in college attending our soccer games and slowly learned the ins and outs of the rules in addition to the culture of the game. What I most enjoyed about this experience actually had very little to do with the game of soccer, and more so to do with the people playing the game. Many of the soccer players on the team became my close friends, after I began dating one of them. I got to witness, of course, their bond as teammates on the field, but off of the field as well. These boys were CONSTANTLY together and possessed a level of closeness that I could only compare to the relationship of siblings. Sure, they got into arguments and heated conversations with one another from time to time, but at the end of the day, they came as a set – it was hard to find one of them in the dining hall without the others and so on and so forth. In bearing witness to their exhaustion after practices and their heartbreak after losses, it made watching the wins that much sweeter. I found myself giving a small slice of my heart over to the game each time they came running off the field beaming.

Though it took me 22 years to appreciate the game others always found beautiful, one could argue it’s always been in my blood. Growing up, my dad had always been a faithful follower of the Portuguese national team, as well as Benfica – one of Portugal’s most recognizable clubs to play in the Primeira Liga. In many of the stories he told us from growing up, my dad had mentioned his father’s dedication to watching the sport as well. Ironically enough, however, my dad was discouraged (maybe more accurately, disallowed) to play soccer, as his parents who had immigrated from Portugal hoped he would adopt a more American sport, like baseball or football. Despite never formally playing the game growing up, my dad’s passion for watching never died. My first real recollection of witnessing this was during the 2014 World Cup. My family had been temporarily living in the basement of our home as we were completing renovations, and it felt like there was a constant loop of soccer games gracing the television we all shared. That year, Portugal was eliminated after losing to Spain (who would ultimately go on to win the World Cup), but I remember my dad speaking with enthusiasm and real hope about a player named Cristiano Ronaldo.

And of course I quickly became a fan too because, well, have you seen the guy?

So, when it was announced that the 2026 World Cup would be hosted in North America, of course my dad was eager to find any way to make it to a game. He had never seen the team play in person before, and neither had my grandfather before he passed. With a stroke of luck and the help from some friends at FIFA, we scored tickets to a group stage game in Houston, TX – all four of us family members flying in from three different airports to watch the beautiful game. Upon walking into the stadium, the energy was unmatched: a sea of #7 jerseys as far as the eye could see. There were grandparents, toddlers, families, solo watchers, and just about anyone in between, all of them showing up to be part of this ritual that happens every four years.

After rapid-fire raiding the merchandise store, we made our way to our seats to watch the teams warm up. A group of friends in front of us asked if I would take their picture, and we asked the people behind us for the same. Looking around, it was hard to not feel emotional at the sense of togetherness being experienced: a feeling that is so uncommon in the everyday. As soon as the teams were done warming up, the formalities began and the national anthems of each country were played. Though I was busy taking in the whole scene, I noticed a tear in my dad’s eyes after the applause that followed the Portuguese national anthem. I didn’t quite have time to process it then because of the adrenaline (and stress), but now I see that this moment was yet another reminder that this game really is so beautiful. Though we had just four seats, generations were sitting in that moment with us:

My grandparents, who left the life so familiar and routine to them in Portugal to come to America.

My cousins scattered across big cities in America and tiny villages in Portugal, who I knew were watching that same game from work computers or home televisions – no matter the time difference.

And all of the relatives who I never got the chance to know – like my great grandmother, Carolina, who is my own namesake.

The game ended in a “draw that felt like a loss” – that’s what I kept telling people. But it was hard to walk out of the stadium pouting and feeling discouraged when we walked past a huge crowd of DR Congo fans gathered together chanting, dancing, and Facetiming relatives celebrating: this game was their first World Cup game in 52 years and they managed to score a goal on the team who many commentators believe has the potential to win it all. Seeing the happiness on the faces of those fans reminded me that this really isn’t much about athletics; it’s about the people you share the game with. Looking around and witnessing the pride that filled the hearts of fans from every nation gave me just a small glimpse into our primal desire as humans to feel connected. To feel like we are part of something bigger.

I guess this is my official apology letter to the game of soccer, because it turns out you’ve always been beautiful to me.

I know I sound like a bit of a lunatic, but I guess it really IS the little things in life that spark joy.

In typical Christmas morning style, I woke up before my alarm went off. First on my list: “Brew tea, cook breakfast, wash face.” So, in that order, the morning of my perfect day commenced. After a familiar routine of filing through my drawers and thumbing through my closet, I put together a favorite outfit and breezed out the front door to be met by air that my roommate and I deemed, “smelled like Spring.” On my walk to the coffee shop, I pass by countless others who look like they too, are embarking on their perfect day – hand in hand, tote bags over shoulders, rummaging through bags to dust off the sunglasses that haven’t been worn in months. My first pick is crowded, so I opt to keep walking down the street and order an almond latte from the place I take all of my visitors to when they are in town. The barista whizzes around behind the counter, and minutes pass before he can help me. He apologizes for the wait and I say, “no worries!”

I actually mean it, though. Too often we don’t allow ourselves the grace of moving slow and noticing. Those two minutes, as I stood at the counter, I read blurbs from flyers on the community board and looked through the selection of stickers they were selling to support local artists. I REALLY thought about what I wanted to drink, reading through all of the winter specials. I was grateful for the wait.

We made small talk and I slid the iPad back across the counter to him. Whether intentional or not, he crafted the latte in a mug that matched my outfit, so I smiled when he brought it to my table. Rather than downing a coffee in the driver’s seat of my car in a hurried rush to work, I sat and enjoyed the taste of this one while I read my book and looked around, noticing all of the other people who were taking part in the same ritual as me. Oh, how I love being human.

The next part of my best day ever involved a quick train ride to the Jackson stop, where I crossed a couple of streets and approached the Art Institute, gleaming in the pseudo-Spring sun. Out front, two men drumming on plastic buckets smile and say “have a blessed day,” as tourists walk by. I pre-ordered my ticket online, where I found out the admission today was free for Illinois residents – score. After passing through a security check and swiping a map from the front counter, I dig through my bag to find my headphones so that I can participate in my favorite tradition: listening to my perfectly-curated museum playlist that I created two years ago while I was only visiting Chicago.

Pure peace – the feeling of floating through exhibits and galleries, moving at whichever pace I please. Sometimes I stop to read the descriptions, sometimes I breeze by them. I snap pictures of my favorites and text them to friends who I think would enjoy. After a couple of hours, I exit only to find that the sun has grown stronger and the streets busier. In an effort to embrace this temporary warmth, I opt to shed my jacket and allow myself to enjoy defrosting (even if only temporary).

Before hopping on the train to head back to my neighborhood, I swing by another coffee shop to order a croissant. Why not? Growing up in the Midwest, these fake Spring days have always held a special place in my heart. In college, these were the days where my friends and I would charge up our Bluetooth speakers, grab blankets from the back of our cars, and sit outside with a drink in our hand. Before that, they were the days where us neighborhood kids would beg our parents to fund a lemonade stand, or have a fire pit and S’mores out back as soon as it got just dark and just chilly enough. Now, these are the days where I treat myself to a croissant and indulge in observing the joy on the faces of those walking by on Michigan Ave.

I skip down the stairs to the subway to catch a train home, feeling a blister forming on my heel, but not allowing it to burst the bubble of positivity I’ve cloaked myself in today. Scanning my Ventra card and pushing through the turnstile, I hear music coming from the platform below – someone is singing (which isn’t all too rare of an occurrence on public transportation). Out of habit, I began to untangle my headphones and queue up a song on my phone. But, as the singing grows less muffled with each step down the escalator, I recognize the song he is singing: “Unforgettable” by Nat King Cole. I have always been a sucker for old music, but this song remains among my very favorite.

I stuff my phone and headphones back into my bag and choose a spot nearby the man crooning on the platform. Dozens of passerby’s walk by with Airpods in their ears, likely not even hearing him. I glance to my left and see a woman gazing up at the man she is with, both of them giggling and singing along as she throws her arms around his neck. Someone else comes to stand by me, taking his headphones out too. For a moment, I feel my eyes welling with tears and I can’t quite figure out why. So, I let the moment pass by as I step onto the train car and take hold of a rubber, yellow handle to steady myself. The doors of the train meet to find each other in the middle, and the man’s singing becomes muffled once again as the car catapults forward.

This time, I untangle my headphones and I DO plug them in. I press “play” on the Nat King Cole album. This wasn’t part of the perfect day itinerary, but somehow it feels just right.

From here, I have nothing new or profound to say. All I have is a proclamation of gratitude for living: for noticing the lives being lived around me, for appreciating the beauty in a stranger’s voice, and for serendipity. But most of all, for being young and wholly alive in the most beautiful city on Earth on George Washington’s birthday.

To be completely honest, I have spent the past few days feeling dread at the sight of that number. So, in an attempt to feel better about all this growing up and changing, I did what I do best: I wrote about it.

I made myself a second mug of coffee and sat my 25 year old self down at my computer and told her as many of the things she’d learn or experience in her 26th year as I could remember. It went a little something like this:

1. Whenever you are tempted to online shop, open Depop and force yourself to really dig. Some of your favorite closet staples have been packaged up by strangers from across the country and sent straight to your doorstep. It’s surprisingly comforting to receive a new favorite item garnished with someone else’s favorite detergent.

2. Making playlists for people you love is a dying art form. This year, you started creating poems and playlists for your friend’s birthdays and special events. I think you should keep doing that.

3. No matter how old you get, you are not immune to hiccups in the Uber on your way home from a night out with your friends.

4. You mean more to people than you think you do. You should start to believe that.

5. Not every book you read, song you listen to, or movie you watch has to be good. Or popular. Or designated “cool.” You can experience things without having to worry about curating them. Then, decide for yourself what the verdict is.

6. Sparks by Coldplay will always make you cry. Bless the Telephone by Labi Siffre will always make you smile.

7. You went on dates! Some of them lovely, some of them awful, but you haven’t let your heart become hardened either way. You should be proud of that. Truly.

8. You moved to Chicago! It was scary, it was change, and it was hard. But you feel like you’re finally choosing yourself after years of prioritizing others first.

9. You will start a new job and it will be one of the most mentally and physically draining endeavors. You will wonder if you are doing anything right, then one day a student will tell you you’re one of the reasons they believe in themself. You’ll notice them looking for you in the stands at their basketball game.

10. Oh, you lost your favorite necklace down the drain of your old apartment (well, that or the vent). Don’t shoot the messenger.

11. There is always going to be a small piece of you that romanticizes the heartbreak of that one relationship. When that feeling calls, you should grant yourself the grace to feel it, but never sit in it long enough to forget the pain. And then, thank yourself for making it out on the other side.

12. You will send hundreds of voice memos to your long distance best friend. Most of them will be sent in rush-hour traffic, on walks, or while getting ready. Almost all of them will contain at least one piece of advice that will change your perspective on life. Lots of them will contain tears, but equally as many will capture cackles and laughing fits.

13. Saying goodbye to your first school will suck. You’ll feel sad about it often. Then you’ll always remind yourself how lucky you feel to have a place full of people worth missing so much.

14. You will start to appreciate the simplicity of making your coffee on a Sunday morning and getting back in bed to drink it.

15. Stick with me: You’re going to chop your hair. It won’t be as bad as you think. And you’ll finally heal your inner child who was traumatized by short hair in 2nd grade! Exciting stuff.

16. You won’t take holidays with your family for granted anymore. You’ll stop seeing your parent’s house in North Carolina as their “new house” and just as “home.”

17. You take transit to work. And to dinners and dates. You get to put your headphones in and stare out the window and think about how cool it is that you made this happen for yourself.

18. You will watch the White Sox beat the Cubs with your dad. And then watch the Cubs fans pout on the Red Line all the way home.

19. Even though it can often feel increasingly difficult, you still believe in your dreams. You don’t stop writing, even when it feels like nobody is listening and your words don’t matter.

20. You will meet incredible women who take you under their wing immediately. They include you, value you, laugh with you, and never make you feel like an outsider.

21. You will scream “All Night Longer” by Sammy Adams with your college roommates on a dance floor again. This time, without a Long Island from Brothers, but with all the same nostalgia.

22. For the first time, the vision board you taped onto your wall in January ACTUALLY looks like (a sibling to) your camera roll.

23. You will see snow again. A lot of it. And you won’t even feel that upset about scraping off your car (yet…).

24. Your car battery will die one morning before work. That afternoon, you will borrow jumper cables from your upstairs neighbor and, with the help of two friends and their dads on FaceTime, attempt to jump your car. You’ll fail. A neighbor will come outside and clip the cable where it’s actually supposed to go. Home is hundreds of miles away, but somehow in this moment, it feels like it’s right here.

25. You painted your nails red three times this year! You used to be afraid of the commitment to standing out, but now you feel okay with that idea.

26. At the end of the year, you’ll feel a little lost. A little behind, even a little bit sad. But above all else, you’ll feel proud to be able to sit down with yourself and acknowledge just how incredibly lucky she is to have another go around at this whole living thing.

I picked up my coffee mug which was, by now, crusted with leftover foam and burnt cinnamon.

I stood up from the couch, and so did she.

With tears gathered in our eyes, we hugged each other tight and said, “here’s to 27.” So, here’s to it: To finding love wherever you make it, and leaving a little bit of it wherever you go.

Cheers, Sagittarius sister. Your life is just getting started.

I have always been a sucker for museums. History, art, you name it – when I visit a new city, one of the first searches I make is for the admission cost to whatever museums might be there (and, in all honesty, to investigate if they have a teacher discount). Something about the big, inviting marble staircases and tall, never-ending ceilings always find a way to pull me in. I don’t think I was always such a fan, but in my mid-twenties, I really began to find so much beauty in the concept of a building filled with relics of human emotion and expression.

Boston, New York, Chicago, Rome, Tokyo – there is always something so magical and comforting to me in the idea that no matter where you find yourself in the world, you can almost ALWAYS find some variation of a museum: a place that is entrusted to hold centuries of love, hope, despair, heartbreak, joy.

Recently, during one of my ritualistic, pre-bedtime Pinterest scrolls, I saw a quote that said, “You are a museum of everything you’ve ever loved.” In reading this, something clicked in my brain and stopped me in my tracks. For each smooth, marble statue I’ve seen illuminated in spotlights at a museum, a similar exhibit lives inside of me: except, it isn’t as conventionally beautiful. Instead, it comes in the form of ordering my usual at the bar: whiskey coke, the drink you introduced me to and I spent months stealing sips out of at bars in dozens of cities and dive bars.

No antique gold framing that holds oil paintings of rippling waters, just my favorite playlist of Dolly Parton and Marty Robbins that we play on a Bluetooth speaker as we paint our nails and hang our heads out the window to watch the sunset. When someone asks what my favorite scent is, I confidently answer “pine trees,” because that is the smell that filled my car as I drove along the North Carolina highways towards the coast. I toss on a colorful winter scarf from my collection without thinking and slick my hair into a bun, somewhere deep down knowing that to so many of my friends, they know that as my signature look.

In the morning before work, I spray on the “Vanilla Skin” perfume that a stranger in a bar bathroom recommended to me when I complimented the way she smelled. I like to think that somewhere out there, she is wearing the light pink OPI color that I wrote in her Notes app. When I reach for a set of press-on nails at Walgreens, a memory from our first day of high school flashes into my brain and maybe a deeper part of me thinks about how wild it is that we have seen every version of each other since 2006. And when I stop to take a picture of the sunset settling over the city while I crawl home on the Kennedy, part of me knows I picked up that habit from my Dad who sends a beach house sunset photo in the family group chat without fail every time.

As I fasten on my pair of ballet flats (well, one of the five), I might smile to myself, knowing that (thanks to my former students) I won’t be able to look at them without calling them “fairy shoes” anymore. The Anne Lamott book that sits on my dresser (the one I recommend to everyone) — one of many books we bonded over and is a constant reminder of our unlikely friendship. My regular coffee order, the brand of pens I buy, the ache I feel in my chest when I hear “Piano Man,” or the way I do my winged eyeliner…just like you taught me as we blasted Esther Rose in your tiny, slanted bathroom.

There are quite literally thousands of other pieces of my life that I could dissect, could attach to someone or something I love. Or loved. I like to think that in framing memories this way, it’s quite difficult to look back with regret or sadness on any piece of your past. How privileged are we to be living, walking, breathing exhibits of years of love, pain, hope, and connection.

And when you put it this way, maybe the reason we love and cherish museums is because for a moment, we see a little bit of ourselves hanging in those grand hallways.

I’ve spent the grand majority of my life in the Midwest. What this has meant is that most of my life, I experienced the slow sliding of summer into fall. And this was always followed by the harsh jolting of fall into a cold, grey winter. One thing I have never been able to explain is my love of the sting of cold air entering my lungs as I walk to my mailbox, or the way my warm breath creates little clouds in front of my face as I hustle from one place to the next.

Something about winter has always been magical to me, much of which I attribute to my beloved family holiday traditions and my unexplainable obsession with Christmas music and pine scented candles. Oh, and my birthday too I suppose.

Fall, though, has always been a complicated time for me. Every year, though I know it’s coming, the changing of the leaves stops me in my tracks and forces me to notice summer taking its final breaths – it’s a bittersweet feeling that is sometimes uncomfortable. Autumn pulls you by the scarf and, in its fiery beauty of oranges, reds, and yellows, it somehow makes dying look beautiful.

I think this is what has always intrigued me about winter’s predecessor, because in what other circumstance can endings look so inviting? In addition, I find that come autumn, the changing of the leaves is one of the only constants in my Octobers, aside from periods of intense sadness and heaviness.

It seems that every October for as long as I can remember, my life has turned upside down. But perhaps that’s what makes winter so sacred to me; it is the time where I can rebuild myself, brick by brick, in the stillness of snow days and pitch-black of 5 o’clock evenings.

My Octobers have been tainted by heartbreak, tragedy, and loneliness – all while strolling past those same changing leaves. And just as those same leaves can count on changing from bright green to burnt orange and back again, I too can place my faith in knowing that each challenging October is followed by the comfort of an inviting, cozy December… and then a promise-filled April.

This year, I am spending my first October back in the Midwest after being away for three years. Walking to the train in the morning, I find myself taking an extra moment to sit with the feeling of cold Chicago air stinging my lungs.

And for the first time in a long time, the sting of this October doesn’t jolt me. It doesn’t shake me to my core, or pull me under in a panic. For the first time in a long time, I can stand under a fiery red tree, feel its leaves roll off of my back, and crunch under my shoes, all without tensing my shoulders or holding my breath. I know that for every impossible October I have lived, there is a hopeful one waiting for me in the future.

There will be an October where I hold the hand of someone I love, where I accomplish a goal I never thought possible, and where I might experience some of the happiest moments of my life.

October, you remind me that the only constant in life might be the changing of leaves — But isn’t that the beauty of it all?

As I sit at the coffee shop table that now practically has my name written on it, this is the thought that invades my brain. Not because I don’t love English literature and education – teaching has been the single most fulfilling, rewarding, and special thing I have ever done in my life. My brain betrays me in conjuring this thought out of a place of desperation: here I sit, a 27 year old with two degrees, passion, drive, creativity, and strong communication skills, yet my email is flooded with rejection. Even worse, the phantom rejections that never even hit my inbox – in a world where it takes less than three minutes to ask ChatGPT to craft a warm, yet concise and firm, rejection email, many companies seemingly can’t be bothered. In my heart, I feel a weird and unsettling tug-of-war because the profession that has brought me so much joy and purpose – the one that I KNOW is the backbone for fostering curiosity and dreams in our country’s youth – is precisely the thing that is seemingly tying me down and holding me back. It is the thing securing me a spot in the “rejection” pile of resumes at every corporate job I apply to.

It is a difficult and impossible phenomenon, leaving the profession you love. The reality is that a career in education is one of the most difficult to sustain as a single-income household in our country: With the cost of living rising rapidly, and the responsibilities and expectations of teachers rising alongside it, it is a job that often takes more than it is capable of giving. While I would never in a million years take back the time I spent earning my master’s in education or the years spent in the classroom, I recognize now at 27 that if I hope to never become a jaded and bitter teacher, I need to leave before letting those feelings eclipse the ones of pure love and gratitude for education.

Thus, I decided to embark on the journey of pursuing my passion for creativity in a new career field, ideally marketing. Something that feels almost too obvious to point out is that when you apply for a job, the recruiter doesn’t magically come to understand your drive, uniqueness, and articulate way of speaking. Rather, they see you by way of a tidy, 8.5 x 11 inch sheet of paper with three bullet pointed work experiences listed in chronological order. When your strength is in community building, in creating, in making connections – how do you go about breaking out of that metaphorical, 8.5 x 11 inch, jail cell? In my experience, you don’t. It feels as though many are skeptical of my prospect for success in career fields outside of education because I am “only” a teacher. So, as “just a teacher,” let me tell you what they are overlooking:

1. We are forward-thinking and innovative. You can probably count on one hand the number of times you’ve seen a teenager willingly read a copy of Hamlet when their smartphone is available to them. Teachers often have the most unwilling audience sitting in front of them. Each day, we walk in with the goal of pitching an idea to this group of critical customers, and often it takes trial and error, determination, and creativity to do so. I spend hours tailoring lesson plans to fit the needs of my students, my “customers,” to ensure not only their interest and excitement, but also their success – I am trained to consistently think of what best suits the needs of my clients with constant reevaluation and frequent feedback.

2. We are dedicated. I won’t even attempt to add up the number of hours I have spent outside of contracted, paid hours, doing work. In fact, it is MORE common than not for me to spend at least a handful of hours on my Saturday or Sunday grading essays, writing exams, updating my gradebook, or coming up with new lesson ideas. Do I receive incentive for doing this? No. Do I receive “overtime” pay for this? No. I do it because I am dedicated to the success of my students. I am dedicated to providing meaningful, constructive feedback to them to assist in their true understanding and learning. In the corporate world, you might say I am, “dedicated to delivering high-quality, cutting edge materials to my clients while focusing on their specific needs and offering tailored solutions to roadblocks in their growth.”

3. We are charismatic and effective communicators. I spend all day, every day, interacting with upwards of 150 people. Between students, coworkers, and parents, I am constantly pivoting from one conversation/meeting/class to another. Each of these categories of individuals require me to wear different “hats,” as I am constantly shifting my way of speaking, way of presenting thoughts and ideas, and refocusing on new goals and objectives with each interaction. Whether I am presenting a lesson on rhetorical strategies by way of song lyrics to a class of 17 year olds, conducting a meeting for and planning events alongside the Hispanic and Latino Student Union, or meeting with a parent at the end of their work day via Zoom to discuss strategies for student success, each audience receives a tailored version of me – a version that listens to their concerns, recognizes their needs, and seeks to offer a plan for success based on their desired outcomes.

4. We care. Teaching is a mission-driven profession: at the end of the day, teachers do what we do because we believe in the greater mission of providing the tool of education to students in hopes that it will open doors of opportunity for them. While teaching remains one of the most poorly-compensated professions, its employees continue to do what they do out of unwavering belief in its mission. We are a people who need nothing more than the simple BELIEF in something to ignite our drive for success. Teaching is so much more than creating lesson plans and grading essays, it is collaborating with great, young minds to encourage a generation of thinkers, doers, and believers. Despite being undervalued, teachers show up fearlessly each day (sometimes hours before the corporate work day begins) because they care. Who better to have on your team than someone who enters the workplace each day with steady dedication to your mission?

I could continue to present the long list of qualities that I not only think, but know, make teachers some of the most valuable assets to the corporate job market. Though this chapter of my life may be closing, I will carry with me the invaluable skills, lessons, and strategies that only an education degree and classroom experience could provide. Becoming a teacher and living in the world of education has been one of the greatest blessings of my life – I entered the profession with a clear view of the hurdles that would stand in my way, yet took the risk.

So take that risk. Hire that teacher who has “no industry experience.” High risk, high reward…

Isn’t that right, corporate America?

After making your descent from stairs on the opposite side of the stage, you are whisked into flurries of photography flash and, eventually, find yourself with a celebratory drink in hand – people want to celebrate you, and your accomplishments.

After crawling out of the post-graduation haze of excitement, you are suddenly expected to enter into “the real world” – this becomes the only phase of schooling where you might spend the next ten years expending time, exerting great effort, and exercising patience and perseverance, yet no clinking of glasses will ensue to shout your praises. No leather-bound diploma book will find its way into your hands.

THIS phase, your first ten years of adulthood (let’s call it 20-30 years of age), is really like its own special academy. It is unspoken schooling. It is the academic endeavor of learning yourself, and how to be that. And how to come back from incredible heartbreak, or a really embarrassing night out at the bar. Or how to scrape a car windshield window before 7 AM with a credit card because you moved to the South and swore you’d never need that ice scraper in the trunk. Maybe even how to meet strangers for coffee – and how to REALLY, truly listen when other people speak.

The first few years will feel like a rush: so much freedom and excitement for what could be. The world will feel like yours, but you’ll take your first few credit hours of “how to combat the fear of missing out,” and just barely make a passing grade. As you watch your friends score their first ‘big girl job,’ or move to a new city, you’ll enroll in the first course of your newly-declared minor of “comparison” – you have a special interest in it right now, but it’ll be short-lived, and thus will only manifest as an asterisk next to your declared major (which you still have yet to decide on).

The middle chunk of years you might chop your hair, or get your nose pierced. You’ll do an independent study on style, and you’ll frequent Pinterest as your educational tech tool of choice. This is your favorite class so far, and you start to feel like you are gaining clarity in what your concentration of study might be – creativity. Love for creativity will manifest itself through color in your closet, and eclectic thrifted art on your walls. Occasionally, it will show up at your doorstep in the form of a set of knitting needles and wool yarn that you ordered online.

As a current student in this phase of the school of life, I have realized this is what I want to do with my life: I want to be creative.

Not in the way that invites paint splattered overalls into my closet, or the kind whose home is littered with stashes of blank canvases and cups of muddy water and wood-handled brushes, though. The creativity that I long to possess in my life comes in the form of letters and journals filled with thoughtful noticings and occasional lightbulb moments. A sort of characteristic that encourages trips to art museums and reading of poetry (even though I might truthfully hate it). In the last handful of years required to earn this degree, the courses become more specialized and, thus, look a little different for everyone.

Me? I can only begin to imagine what the schedule of classes I’ll enroll in will look like. Right now, I am still working up the courage to finally declare that major. But what I do know is that, just like any other path of study I have embarked on in the past, I will one day (not too far from now) get to hear that Pomp and Circumstance and feel a immense sense of accomplishment once again. Champagne glasses will kiss, and I will have finished yet another phase of life. Until then, I will take a page from any great university students’ book: don’t take everything so seriously, have a drink on a weeknight with a friend when they need one, embrace chaos and change, and be curious. And, I guess, hope for the best.

This week, I am on a break from school which has given me time to brainstorm some ideas for my Substack. I don’t think it is any coincidence that it’s when I am not teaching that I have the most creative energy! In pondering what my goals are for this platform and what I hope to do with it, I have decided that the best way to hold myself accountable is by incorporating a monthly “newsletter” style post: this will be the first of (hopefully) many! While each newsletter may look slightly different, I really want it to serve as a space for me to keep track of all of my monthly favorites: music, books, style/fashion, photos, quotes, miscellaneous thoughts. So, here goes nothing! And as always, thanks for being here <3

Books:

Okay, so I didn’t read ALL three of these in February. But since I didn’t do a newsletter, I am sneaking a January read onto this list as well. Pretty unusual, but I would actually recommend all three of these books. Two of the three were on my list as reads to encourage growth in my creative processes and, truthfully, they were both incredibly inspiring, helpful, and beautifully written.

1. Intermezzo by Sally Rooney. As a fan of all of her work, I knew I needed to get my hands on Rooney’s newest book. While it wasn’t my favorite of her novels, I really appreciated her attention to detail regarding the complexities of relationships, which is littered throughout both of the main storylines. Rooney challenges modern conventions of love and what it means to be in love, which I enjoyed. It is pretty typical in many modern-romance novels for readers to be met with cliches involving the “opposites who attract” trope that unfold predictably and offers a happily-ever-after conclusion, but Rooney artfully exposes the harsh realities and sometimes-ugly truths involved with this common meeting of opposing souls. It took me a while to get through this one (because life got busy), and I honestly think I would’ve enjoyed it more if I read it over a shorter time span.

2. The Creative Act by Rick Rubin. This book came recommended to me by not one, but two of my closest friends. So, naturally, I already knew it was going to be good. I would definitely recommend this book to anyone who is interested in learning more about how to structure their life in a way to allow for more natural creativity. One of the biggest ideas that Rubin explores here is the common misconception that “Creatives” are born, not made, and that only conventional artists have creative capabilities (i.e. musicians, writers, painters, artists, etc.). Rubin insists that ALL people have the tools and ability to be creative, as creativity is exercised by normal, everyday people all the time — whether it be creating a new dinner recipe, taking a new route to work, compiling a playlist, or organizing a gallery wall in your new apartment. As someone who is actively trying to work on stimulating my own creativity and striving towards artistic goals, I have found this book to be enlightening and mentally stimulating. Oh, it also has an incredibly aesthetic cover, so when you are done reading, it could make a great addition to your living room coffee table.

3. Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. This is probably my favorite of the three books on my February list. Lamott’s witty, colorful, and sometimes in-your-face style of writing kept me invested the whole way through, as she details her greatest tips and tricks for aspiring writers. The book is structured in such a way that it takes you from the brainstorming phase of writing, all the way through revision, editing, and publication. I found this book to be incredibly motivating and appreciated her matter-of-fact tone when discussing some of the most intimidating steps of the writing process. If you are someone who is interested in the craft of writing, I would recommend this book over and over again!

Music:

My plan for each newsletter is to craft a Spotify playlist (sorry, Apple Music listeners) of the songs I have been loving that month. Without further adieu, here is February’s playlist: Winter Blues by carls

Fashion & Style:

Some trends I have been loving lately:

1. Chunky jewelry. I recently bought the most adorable charm necklace from Happily Made Co. and I could not recommend her jewelry enough! Personally, I am a gold jewelry gal, but even chunky silver hoop earrings are growing on me. Another great option for cheap, waterproof jewelry is Hey Harper — I bought a couple of rings and bracelets from this company in June of 2024 and have worn the pieces every day since then (even in the ocean, working out, showering, etc etc) and have not seen any tarnishing!

2. Loafers + Ballet Flats. Okay, call me addicted — I seriously cannot stop eyeing these styles. My two newest favorite pairs of shoes in my rotation are my silver Dolce Vita flats and my dusty pink ballet-style flats from Circus NY. I love both of these brands and they always have the most adorable styles. Recently, I have been looking for a pair of brown leather loafers… so, perhaps expect a review on those in March.

3. Baggy jeans. Okay, this isn’t a new one but the Hollister low rise boyfriend jeans have had me in a chokehold for the past few months. I have them in a couple different washes and I have loved pairing them with some fun flats and tight cardigans. The fact that you can both dress up and dress down this style of jean, depending on the accessories you pair with them, makes them incredibly versatile — I have worn them with oversized sweatshirts to coffee shops, and on dates with tight tops and kitten heels. You will most definitely get your $$’s worth on these. Love.

4. Shoulder bags. This year, my parents got me the bag of my dreams for my birthday (linking it here for you) and I couldn’t be more obsessed! While the crossbody bag had her moment, I am really loving the elevated look that a shoulder bag creates, even with a very simple outfit. One of the details I love most about this bag is the oversized, gold buckle… it is simply to die for.

5. Bobs. Yes, I am biased as someone who now rocks the collarbone-length hair… HOWEVER, I feel the need to reiterate the love I have for this hairstyle. I am someone who has traditionally always had long locks, but chopping my hair this winter has given me a huge confidence boost: for some reason, short hair makes me feel more mature and sophisticated. Initially, I was worried that I would be limited with styling options, but I have come to realize that there are SO many fun ways to wear your bob. Not to mention, your hair essentially becomes an accessory to every outfit! Whether you are styling it in space buns, with clips, or just wearing a basic blowout, the bob IS the moment. 10/10 recommend.

Travels:

In the past month, I have made a few weekend getaways! Here is my travel roundup:

1. Carolina Mountains (Banner Elk, NC, Boone, NC, and Hickory, NC). Over the New Year, my family and I spent a few days in a cabin in the mountains of NC. This was the perfect getaway, and we were able to spend lots of time playing games, working on puzzles, cooking some delicious food, and doing some shopping in Blowing Rock. I have always been a huge fan of the mountains, so I was stoked to have the chance to visit them in the winter — especially since we were able to wake up to ~tiny~ snow flurries one morning! A few weekends later, I drove to Hickory to visit one of my besties as she is completing her final PT clinical rotation there. While a chunk of our time was spent rotting in bed watching the latest season of Love Is Blind and sipping on Diet Coke’s, we made our way to an adorable antique mall, a couple of delicious spots for brunch and sandwiches, and even a wine bar downtown Hickory where we shared sips and a charcuterie board. One thing I love about living in North Carolina is that I have easy access to both the beach (2 hrs away) and the mountains (4 hrs away), so I try to take advantage of these opportunities as frequently as possible.

2. New York City. Last weekend, I traveled to one of my new favorite places (even though up until about 6 months ago I insisted that I hated it!!). While I was in NYC, I endured some of the coldest days of the year, but that didn’t put a damper on my mood. The first day, I ate at Carnegie Diner and Cafe (which was delicious) before seeing one of my favorite shows: Hamilton. While I saw this show back in 2017, I was jittery the moment the curtains opened, as if it were my first time. The next couple days, I spent time shopping on and around 5th Ave., seeing a recital at Carnegie Hall, walking around the Met, listening to a NY Philharmonic show at the Lincoln Center, and eating DELICIOUS, cupped pepperoni pizzas. Every time I visit a city with public transit, my faith in humanity seems to be restored — sorry to my 2013 Ford Escape. I left my trip with a new pair of fuzzy, black earmuffs, a full camera roll, and a reinvigorated dream to move to a city: what more could a girl ask for?

Camera Crumbs:

To round out my first newsletter, I figured I would add a few snapshots of my life as of late. Until next time, friends!

XXOO,

Carls

As I continued through the day, I pondered what the reason could be for this widespread indifference – granted, we were talking inches, not feet, of snow… but it still felt so bizarre to be in this space of some weird role reversal. Suddenly, I was the one trying to stir up excitement in my students, urging them to make snow angels and drink hot chocolate with their friends, even if they felt silly. As I write this, all of the snow (not even an inch) is melted off of car windshields and treetops, and all that is left is wet pavement and the remnants of salt that was generously sprinkled on my front stoop. However, I still have this uneasy feeling – the feeling that for some reason, excitement is not so easy to come by in our world today. In a world full of mobile ordering and self-checkouts, internet searches and viral TikToks urging you to buy a workout set that “costs less than a pizza!”, almost all of the consuming that we partake in in our modern society happens instantly and without acknowledgment. As attention spans grow shorter due to rapidly scrolling through 12 second videos, so does our desire to take part in any habit or hobby that requires extended, sustained effort. One of those “habits or hobbies” that seems to be struggling as a result? Dating.

Now, I am not here to slander the phenomenon that is online dating… I am just as guilty as the next person for falling victim to loneliness and turning to dating apps to fill a void with scrolling, swiping, and liking. This being said, I think that is why I am a qualified subject to speak on the matter. In my life, it seemed that dating apps really rose to their peak during the height of the COVID-19 pandemic. During this time, people craved companionship more than almost anything else. So, because we couldn’t leave our couches, we took to searching for soulmates on our smartphones. And for a while, it wasn’t so bad – I actually ended up meeting one of my long-term boyfriends back in the day through Hinge. But as time has gone on and society has begun to return to a time of socials, mixers, and mingling, it seems that dating has stayed in 2020. Each week, I swing by new coffeeshops – a place that all of my relatives and coupled friends frequently cite as a “great place to meet someone.” Upon entering, I see the same sight (with some variation) no matter which establishment, city, or zip code I am in: twenty-somethings with earphones hugging their skulls, anywhere between 1-3 screens in front of their faces, and a perspiring iced vanilla latte leaving rings on the table – not exactly screaming “I am looking for someone to approach me!”

This isn’t specific to coffee shops, though. The real crisis lies in our lack of “third spaces,” an idea that I ironically learned about from a stranger on the internet. The concept of a third space is that we should all have a space that is not 1, home, or 2, work. For some people, this third space might be the gym, a favorite cafe, a bar where they meet friends at 2x a week for a beer, or a book club that meets at a wine bar. While it is true that people may continue to physically enter the aforementioned spaces, the overwhelming majority of people do so in a bubble of personal space. Headphones at the gym or coffee shop signal that you don’t intend on listening to others, scrolling on your phone at the counter while the bartender crafts your “something to take the edge off” signals that you aren’t interested in entertaining conversation. It is no wonder that people refer to the time we are living in as an epidemic of loneliness – we can’t even manage to go into public without isolating ourselves.

Where we have found comfort and company, however, is in our phones… with strangers. I have no reason to believe I am the first person in the world to use the term “intimacy burnout,” but for the sake of this piece, let’s pretend I am telling you something Earth-shatteringly new.

For those of you who have ever had the pleasure of being a user of any dating app, you know that at any given time, you may have upwards of 10, 15, even 20, viable “matches” who sit in your inbox until you decide you’d like to engage with them. Let’s say you finally send that message and hit it off with one of your matches. Then, they ask for your number, so you send it over their way on some sort of dystopian virtual-bar-napkin that is Hinge messages. This is where the damage begins.

You may end up meeting up with someone that very same day, or, more commonly, you may engage in a game of ping-pong of “good morning” and “how’s your day?” which eventually may continue on for so long that they actually know more about your day to day schedule, your workout routine, and your work stressors than they know about the color of your eyes or your go-to drink at the bar. And this is where my idea of “intimacy burnout” comes into play: we so quickly and so casually connect with total strangers about our taste in music, our career anxieties, our comfort shows, and sometimes, even go so far as swapping trauma stories, before even meeting our suitors face-to-face. But this isn’t just specific to dating apps, millions of people indulge in this false sense of closeness every day on apps like TikTok, Instagram, Snapchat, etc., by posting vulnerable and personal content. For years during a global pandemic, we had to find a new way to connect with each other and, during those years, the internet was the perfect place for us to do this. Now that the world has begun to function normally in many ways, we have failed to catch back up with it – trapped inside our one bedroom apartments, our faces illuminated by phone screens. It is a true tragedy, yet I remain unsure how to fix it… part of me wonders if there will ever be a time where the cute guy from across the bar brazenly cuts through a crowd to ask for my number. There have, in fact, been times where I have been sitting feet away from a previous dating app match at a restaurant or directly across the room from them at a coffee shop, and not a word was exchanged between us, despite making frantic and knowing eye contact.

I am not fearful that “love as we know it” is dead; I have seen enough successful love stories unfold in my life to know that there is no absence of love itself in our world. That being said, I worry that many twenty-somethings simply lack that same excitement and vigor my students were lacking in our conversations about snow days. Perhaps we, as a society, simply suffer from an intense pessimism after being scorned so many times by violence, terrorism, disaster, and hate, and our way of coping is by numbing ourselves with mindless scrolling and consumption (sorry, heavy)... but does that mean our zest for love has to suffer too? There is something artificially comforting about an exciting text conversation that keeps you up in bed past midnight, grinning from ear to ear like a lovesick teenager… but at what cost? I believe we are doing ourselves a disservice by pacifying our deep desire to be known and seen with meaningless banter and false perception of connection.

In 2025, I am making the executive decision for us all that dating apps and hours of fruitless scrolling are, indeed, out of style. The antidote to indifference might just start with the thrill of leaving your number on a napkin and hoping for the best. And even if that unknown number never texts you, isn’t it just the thrill of possibility that reminds us of the exhilarating opportunity we have to be alive and experience unanticipated snow days?

As soon as the clock turned and marked our entrance into a new, bright and shiny year, I let myself believe in a silly old wives tale out of a place of desperation for partnership. After experiencing a period of singleness that felt so lonely, what I longed for was someone to share life with in 2024. So, I consulted the internet and, along with thousands of others, chewed and swallowed 12 pieces of fruit that were supposed to bring me love.

This year, I traveled to two new countries – Italy and Japan – both with a hoard of 35+ students who helped me to live in a headspace of childlike-wonder as I encountered stunning architecture, tried new foods, and participated in foreign traditions. In the “in between” moments spent waiting in lines, sitting on buses, and grabbing hotel breakfast, I tried my best to stay present and remain observant. I let myself really sink into conversations with the people around me, genuinely curious in coming to know them not as students and coworkers, but as individuals who had so much wisdom to share. I returned back home from these trips jet-lagged and in desperate need of alone time, but so fulfilled and eternally grateful. Yet, I still longed for love.

I took weekend trips to Chicago, New York, Boston, Nashville, Surf City, the Outer Banks. In between the 30,000+ steps taken most days, I attended concerts, baseball games, comedy shows, caught up with my best friend over coffee(s), soaked up the sun on beach blankets, watched the sun rise and fall, laughed so hard that my stomach cramped, reunited with fellow college and grad school survivors, and searched up apartments on Zillow in just about every place. I think I have fallen in love with Boston at least two or three times in the process.

Countless moments of sharing places with friends I love, yet I still pleaded for more. “I just want to be IN love,” I would articulate over voice memos. “When will it be MY turn?”

Just when I began to accept defeat, I met someone.

Someone who became my biggest supporter, who knew exactly the way I like my coffee in the mornings and didn’t let me skimp when I contemplated getting a Nespresso, even though it was more expensive than the Keurig. Folded my clothes just right and knew exactly the “favorites” that I wanted to be hung up on my clothing rack for easy access. Who encouraged me to treat myself to fun, new bedsheets just because. Someone who hated to see me cry, but knew sometimes I needed it. Suddenly, I never had to worry about opening up a little package and seeing silver peek out, because they knew me enough to know I only wear gold. Who takes pictures of me when I wear winged liner because they know it makes me feel confident. The funniest part about it all, is that this person wasn’t new to my life in any way.

She had been with me as I boarded my plane to Rome – she ordered me a glass of champagne on my way home from Boston, just because it was my birthday. She dogeared pages in my books. She encouraged me to use my expensive perfume on normal days. All along, I was too busy looking for love in the form of some tall, dark and handsome human that I overlooked the abundance of it that lived within me.

As someone who has spent years in long-term relationships, pouring into partners and relying on validation to feel whole, I’m thankful that my 12 grapes proved to be duds. Thank goodness someone didn’t have to come into my life to show me that I am worth loving – that I am worth taking space. I have learned more about who I am in the past 12 months because I’ve learned that love is inherent to who I am, rather than something I have to spend my life scouring street corners for.

So, here’s to my 26th year. And my 27th. And all of the years I’ll be lucky enough to live after that. Here’s to a New Year that won’t start with cross-legged, sitting under a table with a bowl of grapes – because in 2024, I DID find love – I found that I am full of it.

If teaching is my day job, writing is my passion. Writing brings me a reignited vigor for experiencing life, constantly reminding me to find beauty and meaning in the mundane around me. As I transition into a period of my life where I am willing to take risks and begin calling myself a “writer,” I have pushed myself to feel comfortable promoting my writing to anyone and everyone willing to listen. In my wildest of dreams, my Substack will become a successful platform where I share my thoughts and ideas to hundreds of complete strangers who may feel seen and heard through my writing. For now, I am still in awe and humbled by the fact that there are 38 loyal subscribers who care to read what I have to say. Among these 38 subscribers are friends, family, strangers, and coworkers. And among these 38 subscribers, there are two subscribers who pay $8 a month to read my work – one is my junior year English teacher.

Maybe it is because I reflect on the growth that has occurred within me since the days I sat in her 7^th period English class in St. Martin’s Hall, or maybe it is because I am confronted with the overwhelming feeling of having someone wholeheartedly believe in you – either way, I can’t help but swallow the lump in my throat and blink back the tears in my eyes when I stop to really think about the way her active and passive support has encouraged me to chase my dreams.

I distinctly remember being home from college one summer and reaching out to her – I was an English major who didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life. So, I met up with her at my alma mater and we sat in tiny grey desks in her classroom to discuss the possibility of my applying to a M.A.T program (Master of Arts in Teaching). Two years later, I was enrolled at the University of Michigan in a masters program for teaching. Student teaching, night classes, exhaustion, accomplishment, coffee addiction, and then, graduation. Two years after that, I sat at my desk in a Zoom meeting – I was going through the training required to become and AP Language and Composition teacher. Around this time, I began regularly exchanging emails with my freshman year English teacher, Mr. Stracco, who was now coming to know me as a 25-year-old English teacher in North Carolina rather than a chatty 14-year-old who consumed ham sandwiches while practicing diagramming sentences in his classroom during lunch. He doled out priceless advice, sent over lesson materials for Their Eyes Were Watching God, encouraged me to be never stop making learning fun for my students, and emphasized the importance of never being afraid to be a little bit unconventional. A few times a year, Mr. Stracco and I communicate via email not as teacher and student, but as colleagues and professionals – as mentor and mentee. So, about a month ago when I got the notification that my junior year English teacher – the woman who ignited a love for British literature within me, who guided me towards a career in education and made time for me during her much deserved, much needed summer break – was now paying to subscribe to my silly little blog, I couldn’t help but feel the most immense swell of gratitude. Teachers are more than teachers: teachers are advocates – advocates for people, for dreams, for entire generations. Teachers nurture, they encourage, they push, they create, they support, they love. As a teacher myself, I often feel like I am getting the backstage, behind-the-scenes, backlot tour of what my own high school teachers lives were like. I so distinctly remember the exact feeling of nervousness and fear that existed in my chest when I had to ask a teacher for help before or after school, and now I warmly smile and nod at the nervous students who approach my desk to ask for the same. Now, I am the one being asked to write letters of recommendation, to come to JV football games and drama productions, to look over college essays, to chaperone school dances.

Biased as I may be, I believe teachers are difference makers and world changers. Not because the work that they do is inherently meaningful, though I do believe that it is. Rather, teachers are difference makers because they believe – in people, in ideas, in dreams – in a world where very few people are so optimistic to do so. Sitting here at my very own teacher desk, I feel the continued invisible, yet incredibly powerful, force of support being poured into me from teachers I had almost a decade ago. As I pursue my dreams of being a REAL writer, I also have the opportunity to pour into my very own students, who have very real dreams and aspirations of their own.

To my professors in college – Dr. Carter, Dr. Edwards, Dr. Goldsmith, and Dr. Swenson– thank you for exposing me to new theories, fostering intelligent and enlightening conversations, and dedicating your lives to the field of academia which is so underappreciated and undervalued, yet so incredibly imperative to the health and wellbeing of our world. In each one of your courses, I fell deeper in love with the English language and with both the beauty and tragedy to be found in literature and, consequently, in life.

To be a teacher is to be full of passion and hope. And to be a student who is wholeheartedly believed in, that is a gift – to Mrs. Rogalski and Mr. Stracco: thank you for providing me with the greatest gift that life has to offer.

Velcro is one of the most incredible technologies of our modern-age, in my opinion. No buttons, nothing to unfasten, no zippers to pinch your skin on – just hundreds and thousands of little hooks and loops that seamlessly interact exactly the way you want them to. Its only downside, however, is that over time, after years and years of sticking and unsticking, the velcro loses its hold; it becomes slightly frayed and weak. It continues to weaken until, at one point or another, you have to accept that the two pieces can no longer cling to one another. 

Velcro is a lot like grief, in this way. The once-present counterpart whose presence was seamless in your life un-sticks for the last time, leaving you with only weakened fibers and phantom memories. Songs you once sang together in the car, 2 AM phone calls you shared in the lobby of your freshman dorm, and a photo album on your Macbook are some of the only reminders that they were really there, that they once held your hand, wiped your tears. One night, you’ll wake up from a dream where it feels like they are right there; you’ll swear you can feel the gentle tug of velcro connecting once again, only to remember the only place their voice lives is in the voicemails you’ve saved for almost 8 years. Grief is heavy, but experiencing grief alone is even heavier. The world around you doesn’t stop turning when you are in the coffee shop and they are playing his favorite song. The people around you don’t feel the catch you feel in your chest when you hear his name shouted down the hallway at school. Certainly nobody bats an eye when that day on the calendar comes and goes again. For those who never met him, he lives as a story, a distant form of fiction, in their brains. I have come to the conclusion that grief and loss is as painful as it is because it blurs the line between what is palpable and intangible – it makes us confused because what was once certain and real, is now a forced form of fiction. 

My grief is something that follows me daily. Each day, I feel a tiny tug as I watch high schoolers experience Friday night football games, Homecoming dances, and bashful glances at their crushes across the room. I wonder if they, too, ever walk out to their cars after a shift at work to find flowers and sticky notes in the wheel well from their first love. A little piece of me feels resentment, that their memories of this love won’t be tainted the same way mine are; that they are living in the carefree, innocent days that I never imagined would bring me so much internal turmoil all these years later. It is difficult to mourn a loss that you don’t feel allowed to mourn. I ask for signs, I read all the books, and I pray that each “back to school” season will feel easier, that with each new school year those pricks of painful reminders will draw less blood and pass as quickly as a routine flu shot. Grief looks different for every person, but what I feel certain of is that the tug of that velcro, the reminders of that person, get more beautiful and less painful as each year passes. The sharp pains that come from seeing their handwriting on a Valentine’s day card turn into gentle taps on the shoulder – small reminders that they were here, that they occupy more than just a story in your life. They took up, and continue to take up, real space. 

I do believe that fiction holds power, that stories have the ability to alter our philosophies, actions, and feelings. For those people in your life who now take residence in your storybook, may you always allow yourself to feel that tug of velcro when it comes. 

For some reason, any instance where I have to sink time or money into my car feels like a chore. After all, I already BOUGHT the car… now you’re telling me I have to pay to gas it up, wash it, replace its parts, and change its oil? Talk about a scam.

“Carli? We are ready for you.” Finally, my time in the frigid waiting room came to a close as I was ushered to the counter. This meant, however, that I was about to receive the doomed “vehicle report,” otherwise known as that painful five minutes in which the man at the counter will relay to me all of the things in my car that need to be updated, replaced, revitalized, etc., as I nod along and insist I will call back about an appointment later (once I have the chance to ask my dad which of these procedures are really necessary). The man at the counter rattles off a list of four or five things that I “really should consider doing sooner than later, considering the car is now approaching 90,000 miles.” I thank him, grab my keys, and head out to the parking lot.

90,000 miles. I have been driving my trusty Ford Escape since 2016 when I officially passed my driving test and was adorned with my very own driver’s license. Since then, I have graduated from high school, college, and graduate school. Somewhere between mile one and mile 90,000, I experienced every emotion under the sun, all while sitting in that driver’s seat.

I experienced pure joy: cranking up the volume dial as my friends and I drove to Friday night football games in our red and white, dishing out life updates as I traveled between Raleigh and Surf City, sipping iced coffees and singing along to Kacey Musgraves with my best friend, hands shaking as I pulled up to my first apartment in Ann Arbor. I am often awestruck at the fact that this car has carried my high school best friends, my sorority sisters, my future bridesmaids. It has blasted music down Broad Ripple Ave as I picked up tipsy friends from bars and made numerous stops through Chick-fil-a drive thrus. My speakers have heard Bluetooth calls about both 17-year-old crushes, and 23-year-old fiancées with wedding plans. Through that windshield, I have witnessed some of the most breathtaking sunsets — the kind that look like someone sliced open a grapefruit and let it drip down the canvas of the sky.

I experienced love: this car has seen every single one of my relationships. The same car that sped down Naper-Plainfield Road at 11:50 to make it home before curfew also drove me to weekend getaways in Chicago and Holland and Asheville and everywhere in between. It has witnessed hands held on the center console, feet on the dashboard, breakups, and make-ups. Flowers tossed in the passenger seat, “our song” playing over the speakers as we drove to birthday dinners, date nights, and everything in between. Letters tucked beneath my windshield wipers, waiting for me to get out of work. Countless exchanges of “love ya” and “get home safe!” as the doors slammed shut at the arrival of various destinations.

I experienced heartbreak and loss: the same car that I associated with so much love and happiness similarly has carried me through some of my hardest times. My place of solace, the tiny bubble of space that has seen me cry single tears silently, has also seen me weep uncontrollably. In that driver’s seat, I have spent hours and hours mulling over important decisions, mourning lost friendships and relationships, feeling lost and unsure about where I was heading, metaphorically. The car that saw my first “I love you” carried me to one of my hardest goodbyes.

More than all of these things, I experienced life in this driver’s seat. My car has watched my blossom from a 16-year-old girl -- unsure of her future, most concerned with which college she would attend and how she would be asked to prom – to a 25 year old woman. While I may be less consumed with promposals these days, that giddy 16-year-old still lives in the fabric of the driver’s seat. It is almost unimaginable the number of different songs that have played through these car speakers, the hours spent spilling secrets and memories and feelings with friends. How does one measure nine years of life but on their car odometer? In 90,000 miles I have experienced life. I have experienced teary airport drop-offs, spilled smoothies as I rush out the door for student teaching, celebratory drives down Maple Avenue after a Friday night win, adrenaline rushes after a perfect date, nerves and anxiety as I drove to my teaching licensure exam, bliss as I pulled into the driveway at the little cabin in Lanark, IL (and that same bliss as I now pull into the driveway in Surf City, NC). Countless iced coffees have nestled themselves in my worn, black cupholders. Scratches and dents adorn the back of my car, permanent bruises from my 17 year old self (and maybe my 22 year old self who had to drive through the world’s tiniest alleyway to park in Ann Arbor).

$400 for brake pads seems a little less significant when you measure your miles in memories this way. Begrudgingly, I will schedule that appointment. I might even run through a car wash and pick up a new air freshener. Maybe, just maybe, I will quit feeling so inconvenienced at the thought of bringing my car for an oil change, when I remind myself that this car isn’t just the machine that gets me from point A to point B, but rather the vehicle that has witnessed the most raw, real portions of my life in 9 years and 90,000 miles. Thanks, Ford Motor Company.

The world is full of people seeing other people in themselves. 

We are all just doing this for the first time – being alive and being in love. Making mistakes and feeling too proud to admit them. Feeling down on our luck and sometimes feeling like the stars are aligning. 

For the first time, I wonder how many nights my mom or her mom, or her sister, spent feeling this same realization I feel now. 

And then I look at this picture and I feel something else – I feel pain alongside pride as I look at myself who, in that moment, did not know how much life would hurt. Who didn’t know she would experience loss that hurt far worse than she could have ever imagined on the playground. 

Who didn’t spend each morning examining her face in the mirror for signs of life. 

Who would never believe that in a world where she could have cinnamon rolls for breakfast every morning, she has a coffee with just one tablespoon of milk — Who would’ve thought a sleeve of Saltines for dinner was a silly thing to have; everyone knows that’s a snack. 

Who would feel like the most beautiful girl in the world in the gaze of someone who was no longer in it. 

The pain subsides when I think about that, despite those wounds, she’s still alive inside me. She couldn’t have known the warm summer winds that would envelope her arms or the butterflies she’d feel in her stomach walking away from a perfect first date. She didn’t know the distinct sound of each of her senior year roommate’s footsteps or the way her best friend liked to order her coffee. She would have never guessed how many books she’d read or how many times she’d recite John Mayer lyrics in the car. There was no 2013 Ford Escape with hot chocolate spill stains, paint chips from hitting the garage door in 2016, no glittery purple CD case in the glovebox. All of the craters of pain she’d feel would simultaneously be filled with love and joy and awe and comfortable familiarity. 

Familiarity – it’s disguised as the villain in our stories; the reason we will never live in that place, or start over in that new career field, or allow ourselves to crash and burn just for the sake of doing it. But what if familiarity is what life is all about; what if familiarity is what true love feels like? What if we are all just mirrors of one another and that is what makes the world so vibrant yet interlocked?

I see this picture of myself and imagine my mom behind the camera, and her mom behind that one, and all of the smiles that had to exist to create mine. I wonder, did they all like the taste of mocha toffee and get new freckles on their collarbone in the summer? By the time I look up, the sunset that was bleeding through my window screen has disappeared and been swallowed up by nighttime. It’s crazy – recognizing the beauty of being wholly alive all within the span of one sunset. 

Naturally, this birthday felt big to me, regardless of how it felt for the people around me who may comment that “twenty-five is still so young, you’re such a baby!” As I spent time thinking about what was so daunting about twenty-five, I simultaneously reflected on what made twenty-four so important. Without further ado, here are the twenty four things I am taking with me into my twenty-fifth year. 

1. If you don’t NEED to have almond or oat milk in a latte, get the whole milk. I am going to stop pretending that lattes taste just as good with substitute milks… they just don’t. 

2. I have wasted too many years of my life haphazardly watching movies while trying to multitask. When you have the intention of watching a film, really sit down and watch it. No distractions. A couple of movies I watched this past year that are worth the commitment?:

   1. Grand Budapest Hotel

   2. Fantastic Planet

   3. Pulp Fiction 

   4. The French Dispatch 

   5. 2001: A Space Odyssey 

   6. La La Land

   7. The Menu

3. Don’t fool yourself into thinking that buying a new, fresh notebook is going to suddenly motivate you to become a chronic journalist. Take out the ugly notebook from 2020 that no longer matches your aesthetic and fill that first… then, take a trip to Paper Source to reward yourself with a new one. It’s just paper. 

4. You are never going to fit into a perfect, boxed-in description. You don’t have to put a label or brand on your personal style, the aesthetic of your home, or the kind of media you consume. You are a human, not a walking advertisement… you shouldn’t ever have to brand yourself. 

5. Sometimes you will find the most perfect, over-sized, cream colored wool sweater at Goodwill for $7. Sometimes you won’t read the care instructions and you will end up with a size 4T, cream colored wool sweater. You will win some and you will lose some. 

6. No matter how many times you make a mental note that you turned off the curling iron before leaving for work, you will undoubtedly run back inside at least a handful of times in a given year. Even if you are already running late. 

7. Lunch is overrated. 12 o’clock is a time for luxurious snacking. Celery sticks, hummus, brie cheese, prosciutto, rosemary and olive oil Triscuit crackers, and dark chocolate almonds? Now that is lunch. 

8. It feels really good to make curated playlists for every specific event or time in your life. If you have a soundtrack for every emotion, place, or person, it helps you to keep your feelings organized. 

9. Getting a fresh acrylic set feels incredible, but do you know what feels better? Spending $9 at CVS on a pack of press-on nails. 

10. Invest in a nice pair of headphones. Sometimes, even when just cleaning your own apartment, it feels therapeutic to slip on a pair of noise-canceling headphones. 

11. Espresso martinis are NOT overrated and you aren’t basic for ordering them. They are just good. Everyone likes drinks that are good. 

12. Never overestimate the power of a good FaceTime check-in with a long distance friend. Even if carving time out of your busy evening feels hard, do it. Your heart will thank you!

13. Similarly, utilize the ability to send voice memos. I cannot emphasize how essential these are to my long distance friendships. You don’t realize how deprived you are of the voices, quirks, and mannerisms of your pals until you start communicating via voice memos. 

14. Cut your hair, it grows back.

15. Getting a handwritten note in the mail always feels good, no matter the occasion. Start sending them and you will likely receive, as well. 

16. You should stop buying all of your home decor from Target. I fall victim to the home decor section just as often as the next person, but doesn’t it feel wrong to decorate your home, your sacred, personal bubble, with mass-produced items that will sit on the shelves of thousands of other homes? Get crafty on your own, look in secondhand shops, or at the very least, buy cheap frames and fill them with pictures, notes, etc. Your home should feel like you. 

17. Always keep the following things in your cabinet: two cans of soup, brown rice, one microwavable pouch of Tikka Vegetables from Trader Joe’s, a bag of pretzel slims, chocolate chip granola bars. 

18. Let others teach you new things. Gone are the days of shutting down in a conversation because you feel like you don’t know enough – instead, say to your conversational partner, “I actually don’t know much about that topic. Can you tell me about it?” We can be the greatest resources to the people around us and vice versa. 

19. Friendship knows no bounds. As an adult, you will have friends three years younger than you, five years older than you, and friends who could be your mother. My heart has grown double in size by accepting the wisdom, kindness, spontaneity, and courage that my adult friendships have given me. 

20. Tapas, as a concept, is one of the most wholesome ways to enjoy a meal. There is no better way to experience food than by sharing it on a bunch of little plates and getting a little taste of everything. Plus, there is usually wine. 

21. Wash your face every morning and every night. Never, ever sleep with makeup on.

22. It is so important to have a hobby of some sort. Whether that is running, reading, knitting, finishing puzzles, critiquing films, or learning a language, you should always have one activity you are passionate about to pursue when life is getting you down. 

23. You don’t need to buy overpriced sweatsuits. Usually, Hanes will get you by. 

24. Prioritize yourself and your aspirations above all else. If you have spent your life making yourself small to fit into someone else's dream, you are doing it wrong. Take up space and be loud about your dreams. 

And if you’re afraid to call yourself a writer, nobody else will call you one either. Call yourself what you’d like to be known as. 

Cheers, 

Your twenty-five year old friend

As most people know, I am a high school English teacher.

While I adore my job most of the time, one thing that is hard about it is that I often feel so burnt out after grading essays, reading class material, and writing lesson plans that I push my own academic endeavors to the back burner. This being said, I have recently been trying to make more of an effort to really read things that reignite my love of literature. So, here are a few books I have read (and loved) recently to rekindle my infatuation with intellect. 

The Woman Destroyed by Simone de Beauvoir

I recommend this book with caution because it made me question almost EVERYTHING I believed about what it means to be in love, and all-consuming love at that. There are three segments within this book and, while my favorite was the last one, I really enjoyed all of them. This is definitely not a light read, so only tackle this one if you are already in a mentally stable place :) 

Humankind: A Hopeful History by Rutger Bregman 

So, I am not typically a non-fiction gal… however, I am teaching AP Language this year, which means I have to be constantly reading non-fiction pieces. I read this book over the summer in preparation for my course, and I was thoroughly surprised at how much I enjoyed this book. I took a handful of sociology courses in college and was an Anthropology minor, so I was exposed to studies such as the Stanford Prison Experiment and Milgram’s Shock Experiment, etc. Bregman references many of the sociological and psychological phenomena that you may learn about in school and argues that humans, by nature, are inherently good and want to help others of their kind to succeed and survive. This book was particularly uplifting, especially in a time when humanity can sometimes seem so irredeemable. 

The School for Good Mothers by Jessamine Chan

This book was a bit of a random pick – sometimes you go into Barnes and Noble and you aren’t looking for a book, they just find you… right? With a bit of dystopian flair, Chan explores the challenges, heartbreak, and extreme gratitude and joy that come from the experience of motherhood. I couldn’t put this book down and finished it in just two days. One aspect of this book that I found to be particularly poignant was the exploration into the double standards placed upon single mothers vs. single fathers. In my opinion, Chan does a perfect job with pointing out the unfair, difficult reality of being a single mother in our modern society and urges the reader to question what “good parenting” really looks like. 10/10 read.

Happy reading, friends.

My whole life, but mostly since I high school, I have really clung to the idea that I might be an empath. My friends know me as the “crier” and any boy who has ever dated me will likely tell you that I don’t shy away from sharing my thoughts and feelings or letting my emotions drive my decisions… even the important ones. Most times, it is when I am at the peak of experiencing emotion and feel exhausted from the weight of it, that people will praise me and tell me how wonderful it is that I care so deeply about things, people, and situations around me. Just last week, I received this text from someone who used to know me really well: 

“You just try hard sometimes. Which is cute. You wear your heart on your sleeve, and you care a lot. It’s an amazing thing to be. But guys will just use that”

What I am sure in his head sounded like a compliment ended up sending me into a spiral of self-hate. Is it really my large capacity to love so much that makes me so unlovable? I have never shied away from pouring myself into the people around me: my friends, my boyfriends, my family, even my students and the people I work with. Often, I neglect my own needs to meet those of the people around me… this isn’t meant to be a cry for attention, just a recognition of a trait I hold within myself. While I am working on taking care of myself (mind, body, soul, etc. etc.), I can’t help but wonder if this cycle of neglecting my own health just so that I can care for others is a cycle I won’t ever escape from. How can I shift priorities when it seems like my default is one that doesn’t value my own health and sanity? 

Being a teacher, I feel the weight of this personality trait most often at work. There is always more to be done: lesson planning, grading, creating resources for students, writing letters of recommendation, attending student performances or games, chaperoning dances, moderating after-school clubs, the list goes on. I love my students and I love that I have the time to show them that they are important and that they are noticed. 

It is this currency, time, that I most value in my 20s; it is also the currency I feel that I am most rich with at this point in my life because, let’s be honest, I keep a countdown to payday on my phone. I am so quick to parcel out my time to various obligations that it has been a long time since I let myself stash it the same way I squirrel away and savor each dollar of my bi-weekly paychecks. And I know I am not the only twenty-something who feels the heaviness of this predicament. When you can’t offer to pick up the check for dinner, or treat your friends to coffee without first checking your banking app, you compensate with time. 

Time and energy are what I have always offered so freely to others. I have never shied away from sharing my heart and soul (in their entirety) with those in my life. This isn’t to say I am going to become a selfish, hardened shell of a person, but I am making a promise to myself that I will value my time and the sharing of my soul the same way that I value those precious paydays every other Friday; that I will only cash in my most valuable resource on those who truly appreciate it. There is no need to romanticize being the one who always cares more or too much, but gets nothing in return. It isn’t noble to neglect your own longing to be loved, to be valued, and to be respected; it is okay to demand more than neutrality and complacency in love.

Now, you are probably thinking I am being existential, dramatic, and potentially narcissistic, but what I am getting at is that I have started to feel this dread that if I don’t send cards to my best friends, if I don’t journal my deepest thoughts and feelings, it is almost as if those thoughts and feelings didn’t exist in the first place. Hence why I started this Substack… oops. 

I don’t really have any sort of point here. I really just needed a space to reflect and put this thought out into the world. If you are reading this and find yourself experiencing the random urge to scribble on some stationary, lick an envelope, and send it to a pal across the country, I’d like to think I have done my duty. If all you have the energy to do is jot a few words down in that empty journal next to your bed that you bought months ago, that will suffice as well. While technology has brought us so many gifts and has provided us with the ability to instantaneously reconnect with our loved ones near and far, it has robbed us of the little joys that come along with hand cramps, overpriced books of stamps, and neatly addressed envelopes. 

Your thoughts and words matter; don’t leave the world hanging by never breathing them (or, rather, scribbling them) into existence. Leave your mark, litter your journals and the mailboxes of your friends, life is too short to leave things unspoken.

It was in June of 2021 — I had just packed up my tiny little college bedroom in Indianapolis, Indiana and at the “slam” of a UHaul door, I was headed to Ann Arbor. I spent the whole car ride to Michigan trying to hold back a tears of fear, excitement, anticipation, and anxiety. I experienced that feeling of my throat tightening as I listened to the lyrics of a song I had been recently fixating on (“Michigan and Again”… I know it’s basic, just let me live). When my parents and I finally arrived to my little red brick, 1920s, lead-paint filled apartment building, it started sinking in that I was about to settle in somewhere that I had never been before. I was just moments away from claiming “home” in a city I had spent less than 48 hours in previously. The day was spent slicing open brown boxes filled with picture frames, microwave-safe dishes, bedding, and sweaters upon sweaters. Around 6 pm, we all decided it was time for a dinner break, and we happily (and hungrily) ordered ourselves some Jimmy John’s sandwiches. After sitting around my half-organized kitchen and eating our sandwiches over a roll of paper towels, my parents decided to head to their hotel to get some sleep to recharge for the next day of move-in festivities. After some serious attempts at convincing me to head to the hotel with them (my bed was not fully set up and littered with tools, Command Strip wrappers, and empty picture frames), they finally admitted defeat and gave me a goodnight hug as I prepared to spend the rest of the night setting my place up alone.

I hadn’t yet put curtains up, so I watched the sky darken and my room (which had incredible, large windows) fill with fluorescent light from the flickering sign at the Indian restaurant next door to me. I queued up Faye Webster’s “Atlanta Millionaires Club,” which is now one of the most nostalgic albums to me but, at the time, had no meaning. I hammered nail after nail into my plastered walls, hanging remnants of my old life in my new home. After a while, I looked around and felt my eyes well up with tears as I glanced at the clock screaming that it was 11:15 pm and I had yet to unpack at least 5 more boxes. In this moment, I felt homesick. This homesickness wasn’t for a place, though, but rather for a feeling: the feeling of being settled, of belonging, of feeling sure.

I will never forget the feeling of that night — the one of finally reaching a point in my life where I recognized that the comforts of predictability were now being substituted with the overwhelming sense of unpredictability: the recognition that life could lead me virtually anywhere at this point. Anyone who is in their twenties has undoubtedly felt this same emotion before: like getting the wind knocked out of you after falling off of the monkey bars, waiting for a response to that risky text you sent where you put all of your feelings on the line, crossing your fingers as you refresh your inbox waiting to see if that email says you were accepted, or rejected, for that job. That breathless feeling is what it feels like to be a person in your 20s.

Since that moment in my creaky, old Ann Arbor apartment I have grown a lot. I have fallen in love, I have fallen out of it. I have earned a graduate degree. I have moved halfway across the country. I’ve met new friends, claimed loyalty at different coffee shops, read profound books, gone to therapy, learned who I am (at least a little bit), and felt more alone than ever before. Yet, in all of this change, I have experienced one constant: my desire to figure out who I am at my core and what fulfills me. Through waves of feeling settled and unsettled, I have been able to decipher what is important to me, what I value, how I feel about the big questions without influence from anyone else but myself.

I have a lot of work left to do, but one thing I am certain of: the 22 year old girl crying to Faye Webster in her un-air-conditioned apartment was onto some big things and she didn’t even know it

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