I have been taking birth control pills since I was 15/16, due to Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS). I started taking it not because I wanted birth control, as I didn’t have any sexual interaction yet. But because, since I was 13, when I first got my period, my period has been very irregular, with many months between them. The birth control pill was their recommendation for regulating it and it worked, so I kept using it and never questioned it.

I’m thirty now and 10 months ago I decided I wanted to stop taking the birth control pill, together with the recommendation of my doctor, after thinking about it for a while, due to my tendency for high blood pressure, but also my desire to reduce synthetic hormone intake and try to have a natural menstrual cycle. I’ve been thinking about having babies, so I thought, why not do the experiment and see if by a miracle, my period is more regulated now. I also tend to overexplain myself, but in the end, the shorter answer is that I just felt like it.

In the beginning I was trying to be patient. It takes a while, they say. Then the small but constant pains started, even without my period coming. I felt bloated but not really on my period. My hair started falling a lot, 8 months later and I can see the difference every time I tie my hair up. Even with all of that, I was determined to see if it was going to regulate itself at some point, as a doctor had recommended. However, nothing prepared me for the toll on my mental health.

Those were months of ups and downs, two months in and depression was already hitting hard. Since winter was starting, I thought, maybe that was it. But this time it was different, I wasn’t only feeling down, but also my mood was all over the place. Getting out of bed was too hard, I didn’t have any motivation, but also, I was feeling the happiest I’ve ever felt and the most miserable person ever within the range of 12 hours in a day. And this started happening constantly. So here I am, and 10 months later I decided to get back to the birth control pill.

All this process made me do quite some research on what PCOS actually is, all the effects it can have on the woman suffering from it. The first time someone mentioned PCOS to me, as a possibility, not a diagnosis, was my gynecologist when she found some cysts in my ovaries after being 9 months without getting my period and wondering if it was possible to be pregnant without being sexually active. When I asked what it meant, she just said “Ah it is just this condition but just take the birth control pills that it will be all fine”. No explanations. “Whenever you need to get pregnant, then you come back so we can check for more things”.

After some trial and error (the first one gave me breast lumps and lots of weight gain), I found one that seemed to work for me and stuck with it. The medication was given to me, but it is incredible to think that any doctor I would see was not interested in explaining to me why, what was happening and why I needed it. I just followed the instructions.

Now I am 30, and only last year someone really sat down with me to explain all the implications PCOS can have on someone, after over 10 years of going to doctors to get checked, asking about it and having very vague answers in response. Turns out I had many symptoms for a long time, without knowing this could be the cause. Nobody talked to me before about the mental health part of it.

First time I had my period I was 13. First time I was diagnosed with depression I was 13. I have some ups and downs, but it always comes back. I never knew this, no doctor ever made that correlation to me till very recently, but PCOS and depression are deeply related. Apparently, women with PCOS are more than 2.5 times more likely to develop depression compared to women without the condition.

How can it be 2026 and we have an estimate of 70% of the cases undiagnosed worldwide? My recent research just confirmed what my experience showed, that many women have to deal with the dismissal of our symptoms, late diagnoses, poor options of symptom management/treatment and limited access to information. For example, one study showed that the average time to get diagnosed with PCOS is four years, requiring visiting at least 4 different healthcare providers before being diagnosed. This is exhausting.

Doctors seem to have a hard time explaining to me all the consequences. When my symptoms came back 8 months ago, I went to a doctor that told me:

If, like me, you didn't know: depression with PCOS isn't just about the stress of dealing with the condition. It can actually be a physical symptom too, caused by your hormones being out of balance. There's also ongoing low-level inflammation in the body, and something going on between the gut and the brain that stops communicating properly, and both of those are tied to depression as well. Even the cramps make sense now, PCOS can give you cramps without even having your period, just from the hormonal imbalances, the cysts, and the inflammation. Add the cravings and the weight gain on top of that, and you've got this whole emotional weight sitting on you that makes everything harder to carry. Turns out there's a real body of research connecting PCOS to higher risk of anxiety, bipolar disorder, eating disorders and OCD too. Unfortunately, as I went through this list, it felt too relatable.

I am not saying that all my depression and anxiety are linked to PCOS. Maybe they are, maybe they aren’t. But I can definitely see correlations of bad depressive episodes when I wasn’t doing anything to regulate my menstrual cycle. And it is tiring.

It is tiring to feel like there is something wrong with you and have the people that were supposed to care for you to dismiss it and not try to understand or explain it better.

Is tiring to go through all these emotions and feel like I’m losing my mind, without having proper support from professionals to help me.

It is tiring to self-doubt and self-hate all the time.

It is tiring the feeling of being too much.

It is tiring to feel like I will be sad like this forever and nothing will ever work.

It is so tiring to feel like nobody loves me even when they try so hard to show me, they do.

It is tiring to feel like the luckiest person in the world and right after that to feel like everything is wrong. It often feels like it is a self-feeding cycle that is impossible to leave.

Sometimes it is so tiring being a woman.

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But not everything is bad. As I write this, it may not sound like it, but I do feel hopeful now. After fighting to find the right doctors I finally found someone willing to listen and prepare a symptoms management plan based on my experience, how it is supposed to be. Not everyone will feel the same, simply giving us birth control pills won’t solve everything. It is careless not to mention the mental health effect it has on us. The mental health treatment is as important as the physical one, they go hand in hand, and one without the other won’t be as successful.

It is not acceptable that in 2026 women still feel broken, depressed and anxious due to a condition without even understanding where it is coming from. This is a vent, but also a call for everyone who might have gone or are going through the same. We need to support each other and find better ways to deal with this, which is one of the many women’s diseases that go undiagnosed and mistreated.

This isn’t supposed to be a scientific article or anything like that. It may have become a bit too scientific, but in my attempt to understand the effects this may have on my mental health I read some articles. And if this helps anyone who might be going through the same, then I guess that is already something. I do have hope that things will get better and that we are reaching a time in which women will suffer less from dismissal, from being undiagnosed, and will feel more taken care of.

In the meantime, if it helps you, here are some articles that helped me understand:

• The Invisible Struggle: The Psychosocial Aspects of Polycystic Ovary Syndrome

• The overlooked mental health burden of polycystic ovary syndrome: neurobiological insights into PCOS-related depression

• Polycystic Ovary Syndrome Is Associated With Adverse Mental Health and Neurodevelopmental Outcomes

• Depression and anxiety among women with polycystic ovarian syndrome in low- and middle-income countries: a systematic review and meta-analysis

• The invisible toll of life with polycystic ovary syndrome | Well actually | The Guardian

Do your therapy, have your hobby, be safe and take care ✨

— Debs 🧶🎨🎞️

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Saudade is one of those words that don’t really exist in other languages. It is Portuguese, and it feels like home, so it only makes sense that it is the feeling most constant in my life. As Fernando Pessoa said, saudade is the presence of absence. It is the longing, the bittersweetness of missing something, someone, or somewhere.

My parents always told me I could go anywhere I wanted in the world, that they would always be there: a safe place whenever I needed home. So I went. And now I have this constant feeling of missing home, no matter where I am or what I do.

I knew I wanted to live this. Experience different cultures, be open to whatever the world could bring me. I was ready for that. What I was not ready for is this feeling of never fully belonging anywhere.

People here are different, and it is hard getting used to it. I miss the sun, I miss the warmth of my people, the music, the energy, the city. It is harder to connect with people here, and it makes me feel like something is wrong with me. Is it supposed to be this hard making new friends? Is that the reality when you are 30, the reality when you are an expat, or both?

Then I meet someone from South America, and it’s like for a few minutes I can breathe again. I don’t need to try as hard, the energy matches instantly, and I feel calm knowing that I can still connect with people on a deeper level and that it doesn’t always need to be hard. Maybe the cultural difference is just too much for me.

This missing comes out in different ways. Sometimes when I’m working on an art project and my hometown keeps showing up as the inspiration, which happens most of the time. Or when I watch a movie about family and cry in any sign of family affection. Or when I start crying listening to the dirtiest songs just because they remind me of home.

I can look at it as something sad, or also as something beautiful. I was always proud to be from Brasil (Yes, Brasil com “s”, the real one), from Rio, but ever since living abroad, it’s like this feeling grew inside of me. This is such a big part of who I am, of my personality. There is so much in me that is cultural. I love my home so much that I am basically a walking advertisement for it. I talk about it to everyone I meet.

Going back is always bittersweet. On one hand, it’s wonderful, I love being with my family, I love my city, more than many might think for an expat. But it’s strange to be in that place which for most of my life was the only place I knew as home. It feels like visiting your own home.

The emptiness is inevitable. My parents growing old without me nearby. My grandparents in the final chapter of their lives, far from me. My sister building her new family, far from me. It’s hard not to question whether it’s worth it.

I have my life with my partner here, and I see my future here with him, building a family. And I’m scared I won’t be able to stay. And I’m scared I won’t be able to go back. It feels like either way I’m giving up something I want and I’m the one who put myself in this situation.

It’s like doing a clay project or a painting. You try to fix one little thing here and there, and that starts creating something else, and the project changes, and when you look up, what you have is so different from what you planned. Sometimes you love it, sometimes you hate it. But you can’t go back to the initial plan anymore. It’s too late.

And I always ask myself: how can I manage to live like this? How do you accept, whatever the decision, what you leave behind? How do you find peace with yourself without constantly thinking about what you’re not living?

I still don’t have an answer. But I’ll let you know if I find it.

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There isn’t a single person who has passed through my life who hasn’t heard stories about my grandmother. The stories are mostly about how my grandmother was a little different because she was always far from being the traditional grandmother, specially when compared to my friends’ grandmothers. She was famous among my friends, mainly for the things she would come out with. In some moments she would cross a line, in others her comments were just funny. Most of them became funnier as I grew up.

Energetic, she always wanted to do everything, she couldn’t stay still for a second, she was either cooking, or cleaning, or tending to the garden. Hours and hours on the phone with family and friends. Taking the grandkids to every appointment, always rushing from here to there. It was a familiar routine for me, rushing to my grandmother’s house, helping her find her bag, rushing to the car to go to the doctor, English class, volleyball practice, whatever activity I was doing at the time. Always calling us nonstop, everything needed to be done at that exact time, and she needed to be in control of everything. That was always my grandmother, she never knew how to relax, always driven by anxiety. When I was younger, I found that annoying, but as I grew up, I saw she was just anxious.

She told me once that the first time she found out you are supposed to use toilet paper in the bathroom was at school, when she saw someone using it and asked what it was for. At home they didn’t have it, because it was too expensive at the time. I wish I had asked her more about that childhood

When I was 3 years old I went to Disneyland with my parents and my grandparents and they say that, for some reason, I was mad at my grandma the whole trip and didn’t give her the time of day. I don’t know why, nobody did, I was just a toddler, there was probably no reason. I used to find that to be a funny anecdote. It is silly, but now, thinking about that breaks my heart. What a stupid kid I was, and what wouldn’t I give to go to Disneyland with her now.

The first time I got depressed, at 11, she came to talk with me to show me I was really loved and that all of them were there for me, and she tried to teach me how to look on the bright side of things. She used the half-full cup metaphor, which I know now is a classic, but as a young girl going through it, that really stuck with me, and it played a big part in me getting better.

As I started growing up, our friendly fights became more frequent as I started having strong opinions on topics that she had never given much thought to before. She used to say I loved to defend people. Slowly, she started to have what she once thought were “strong opinions” as well. I always told her she lived too much around my grandpa, every weekend waiting for him to get home to heat up the food, even when he wouldn’t let her know when he would be home. So I used to tell her she should eat if she was hungry and that he could heat up his own food. One day she listened to me and did that. When my grandpa arrived and we were eating, he questioned why she hadn’t waited for him. She said she was hungry and he was a grown man, he could heat up his own food. She looked at me and winked, and that warmed my heart.

I remember the first time I told her I thought she was too anxious and tried to help her take deep breaths, telling her that she could relax a little and everything would still be alright. After that, she started coming to me when she needed to, and we would take those deep breaths together. One of these times she was feeling very anxious and saying she wanted to talk to her sister, so I called her and just sat there next to her, holding her hand while they talked. I heard her tell her sister she would be fine because I was there helping her. That memory comforts me because I feel like I did something, but it still feels like it wasn’t enough.

But then, I wouldn’t be talking about my grandma if I didn’t share the moments that made her, her. She taught me a lot of things 14-year-old me was not ready to know about life, love and sex (don’t tell my mom).

She also told me one time that I should try having two boyfriends at the same time, that according to her experience it was really fun, and went on to tell me all the logistics that go behind it, only to tell me it was a secret because one of them was my grandpa.

I wish I had known the young version of her as well. Rumor has it she was every kid’s crush at the school where she was a teacher, and that makes so much sense.

In the more recent years, she came to me one day a bit desperate, saying she couldn’t remember the name of a tool she was so familiar with. It was the first time I saw her lose a bit of control and that really hit me. I remember giving her a hug and telling her it was fine, that I also forgot things sometimes. Even though I am deeply grateful and know how lucky I am to have my grandma around, I wish I had been mature enough to be there for her a bit sooner than I was. Sometimes it feels like when we were truly connecting on a deeper level, it was already a bit too late.

As I go through these memories, I can’t help but think about her memories that I don’t know. I constantly think about a line from a song that says “your grandmother wasn’t annoying, she was unhappy.” How many people can recognize their grandmother in that line? That grandmother who was always bothering everyone, most likely because she had to do everything, wasn’t happy, and often felt lonely, even with people always around her. I’m not saying that was the case with my grandma but I find myself wondering sometimes. If I could, I would go back in time and be kind to her every time I wasn’t. Every time I thought she was being “annoying” for “bothering me too much”, I would tell my younger self to listen to her, that it’s okay, and to always have more empathy.

I want to do her justice, and I think she was always a more complex person than she tried to let on. Like most women, especially women of her era who end up fitting into a predefined lifestyle they had very little choice in, whether because they didn’t know another possibility existed, or because they simply couldn’t, there was always a whole world inside her, a thousand different versions, that looking back now I wish I had explored better. I know she lived a full and happy life, and that makes me feel better, but still, I have so many questions I wish I could ask her now.

These days I think about how my grandmother sees me and always saw me. And that is how I want to see myself. I think about the image she always had of me, and I would like to make her proud and truly be that person, but I feel more and more that that person is no longer here with me. She always saw me as a very strong woman, someone nobody could walk over, someone with a strong personality and strong opinions. Someone who, if she wasn’t happy somewhere, would leave without thinking twice. Someone who would never make herself smaller to fit into places smaller than her. Someone who showed her she could put herself first, like that random Sunday lunch. It hurts to think about how many times I have done and keep doing exactly that, as much as I want to make her proud.

Part of me growing up is also asking myself how I am supposed to deal with seeing my grandmother, the one who never stopped, who was always doing something, bothering us 24 hours a day, spend an entire day without opening her eyes or speaking to us. How do you make sense of why that is fair? Her of all people, who always helped us with everything, now needing everyone’s help. I wish I could say I don’t know how we got here, but I do. I saw it, I was there. I watched it happen little by little, I saw how we got to where we are.

But she is still there, and it breaks my heart that I’m not with her every day, so I try to compensate every time I’m there. I talk and talk with her, and I can see she is still fully there when she tells me she loves me, but mainly when she tells me I should really take care of my skin because she sees a pimple. Can’t be more her than that. Even though nowadays I can’t think or talk about her without crying, I’m trying to end this on a happy note, as she brought and brings me so much happiness. She is a force of nature; she is and always will be my queen, and it is about her that I think every time I feel lost, in order to come back to my true self. And to everyone out there that can, hug your grandma for me.

— Debs 🧶🎨🎞️

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“Love isn’t just one happy moment, right? It’s a million. And it’s bickering in the car, and supporting someone when they need it, and it’s growing together, and looking after each other.” - Eternity (2025)

Part of what I want to use this space for is to talk a little about the feelings I have watching movies and the reflections they bring me. Movies are a big part of my life, perhaps my oldest and most constant hobby. Entering a cinema for me is leaving my life and worries outside for a while, a pause in space and time. It is borrowing someone else’s stories to process and feel my feelings, and I love everything about it. So logically, it has to be part of my reflections.

Recently I watched the movie “Eternity”. Disguised as a simple romcom, it touches on life, death and love in a deeper way than I expected. I don’t want to give spoilers as I recommend the watch to everyone, and this is not a review, only the reflections the movie brought me. But to summarize, the movie plays with the concept of death and afterlife as a decision you have to make. You can choose one eternity to go to, and who to go with, and the main character has to choose between her first uncomplicated love, who died too soon, or her second husband, the person she spent her life with. The decision itself is already a topic for a lot of reflection, after all, how can you compare a big love that didn’t have time to grow into a lifetime together, having only the ups of a relationship, with one that was with you through the ups and downs? And most importantly, how can you compare who you were before a big loss and after?

To help answer that, the movie adds a different layer to “eternity”, as the physical version of you that lives there is supposed to be the version of you at the moment you were your happiest. Which for me, just brought more questions. What defines my happiest? And the question that stayed with me for a few days: which version of me would I be?

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The truth is that thinking about that made me a little sad, as I came to the conclusion that probably the version of me that would show up was the version of me at 18. I was young, falling in love for the first time, entering a new and exciting chapter in my life. The world was my oyster and I was ready and open to live it fully and unapologetically. That was me before my first heartbreak, before the responsibilities, before the everyday mundane tasks, before disappointments, before having a better understanding of the world and all the sad and unjust things around it, and before moving away and missing my family every day.

Like in the movie, I found it hard to compare my 18 year old self with my current one when it comes to love. I believe it is not possible to love people in the same way, even if it is the same person at different moments in time, because that is not about who you love, but about who you are and what you have to give. The last love I had and the aftermath of it changed me. How can I love someone the same way when at 18 nobody had broken my heart? I was carefree, naive, and gave my all and a bit more to that relationship, without second guessing.

However, also because of that relationship, never again have I entered a relationship with such a pure heart full of hope and confidence. When that illusion of the fairytale came crumbling down, part of me changed and I started dipping my toe into the water before diving. I don’t think I am special when I say I still have some bruises and traumas from that first love that every now and then show up.

Seeing that change makes me feel sad sometimes, as I wish it hadn’t changed me as much as it did. Part of me still wants to be the hopeless romantic girl I once was. But before I drown myself in pity over this idealized memory of myself, I would like to remind myself that with that change, lots of good things also came. I stopped idealizing my relationships, I started to see them for what they are and not what I wanted them to be, trying to listen to my instincts more and not let them die in the name of romance. I can still love fully, and in many ways even more intensely, after all, I couldn’t change that in me even if I tried.

Maybe the moment there was more happiness and less sadness within me was indeed when I was 18, in love and feeling on top of the world. But as the movie invites us to reflect, can we really quantify happiness as a snapshot in time? I don’t think so. Happiness and love are in the everyday life, that will have its ups and downs, and our emotions and feelings evolve and become more complex as we grow. The beauty is in loving despite and with all the complexities added to our lives, and doing it together. I have new worries nowadays that I didn’t have at 18, but I also have more emotional maturity to deal with my feelings. I have a safe and full love that makes me hopeful and excited for the future, but also, every now and then, this past relationship comes to haunt my current one, as I seem to mistake the person I am talking to for someone else.

I would like to borrow another line from the movie that stuck with me: “how can I compete with a memory?” We can’t, really, whether it is with someone else’s memories, or with our own memories of ourselves. I am still not quite there, but I would like to coexist between all my different versions. To embrace my new, beautifully complex emotions, and to learn from 18 year old me. Maybe I can borrow some happiness from her to find my happiest version yet, whatever that means.

— Debs 🧶🎨🎞️

I find it funny how our memories work. Sometimes I can’t remember basic things but have these random memories that come every now and then and seem so specific. It makes me wonder: is this memory more important than others? Has this memory marked me more because it has a bigger effect on how I take things and who I am today? How much of this memory really happened and how much of it have I filled in with my imagination? Also, how much can I trust a memory from the point of view of a child, now as a grown woman… how different is it from reality? I can imagine every little thing felt like the entire world when I was young, and the memory that stays is the intensity of that feeling.

As you can already tell, my mind never stops, overthinking is basically a full-time hobby at this point. In my process of trying to find who I am today, I’ve been looking back at my memories to understand where some of my recurring feelings started and how I became who I am. How did I become so sensitive? Where along the way did I start to care so much about people’s feelings (about me or not) to the point that it overwhelms and paralyzes me? Why have I, since I was young, been so afraid of rejection? Why do I try so hard to please people and why do I get so scared of being alone?

I’ve been in search of a memory that could answer these questions. When I feel like there is something wrong with me, I look for that memory I can blame, point a finger at and say “Here, here is where it all started”, in the hopes that once I find it, I would be magically healed, and all my troubles would go away. I’ve tried for years to map out where all those parts of me that I don’t particularly love (trying to be nice to myself here for a change) were formed. But every time I try, I can always recall a situation before that one that shows those problems already existed.

As an answer to that, my therapist told me that one plus one is three. That we are a mix of our genes and the characteristics we are born with, combined with our reality, our surroundings and how we are raised. And this mix forms an individual that is neither one nor the other, but a unique person and, in a simple way, your personality. A three. That stuck with me, so I thought it was worth sharing.

From the moment I was born, I was always a very caring and affectionate child. For as long as I can remember I’ve been a sensitive person, someone who feels deeply, who cries over small things, and who feels every emotion squared. That has always been me, and part of the process is accepting that that is me, and that it’s okay to be this way.

I see this as my empty canvas, or, to connect with the art form I chose this week, my empty embroidery hoop: stretched and ready, waiting to become something. As life happens, the needle starts sewing, leaving marks and making changes that shape what it becomes. And even if we try to undo a stitch, the fabric remembers: the mark stays, just differently, depending on the thread and the hand that held the needle. In my case, those marks became insecurities and parts of my personality that, if I wasn't naturally sensitive, wouldn't have formed the way they did. But also, even being naturally sensitive, if those girls in middle school hadn't been cruel to me, if that boyfriend had treated me better, or if my parents had given my feelings the attention they deserved when I needed them to, maybe those marks wouldn't have taken root the way they did. Maybe they would have been there when I was younger, but would have faded as I grew up and never become part of my adult personality. On the other hand, the same stitch can be made on a different fabric and leave a completely different mark. So maybe my therapist is right: 1 plus 1 can indeed be 3.

It's strange to think that even having, on paper, the luckiest life, there were still moments in my childhood that, even with everyone doing their best, shaped me and gave me parts of myself that I'm not the proudest of today. And yet, how can someone who had so much ever feel depressed? Reminding myself to be grateful is a daily exercise, but so is giving myself permission to feel the way I feel without guilt, because those two things can coexist, even if it doesn't always feel that way. But that's a whole other conversation, maybe one for a future post.

All of this, the guilt, the gratitude, the insecurities, it all comes back to the same thing: who I am today is a combination of every moment of my life, and that is what made me, and that is what makes each one of us unique and so similar at the same time. It is important to understand yourself and your feelings, but the journey of understanding who you are and how you became who you are cannot come from a place of trying to fix yourself or find some magical recipe that will solve your problems. It has to come from a place of understanding and open arms to every version of yourself. It has to be done so you can deal better with your feelings and, in the process, learn to accept them, or at least, this is what I found out for myself (but work in progress).

No matter how hard you and everyone around you tries, your personality will evolve in ways you don’t expect. I’m trying to embrace those sides of me and let go of the idea that once I understand everything, I will be truly happy. Because after all, what is everything? Can we even trust the memories that brought us here? Do I need to understand how everything in my life has shaped me in order to evolve, or are there things we can just let go of and focus on the present? I don’t have an answer for those things. This is just me, writing my thoughts down in my best attempt to process them, and in the meantime, I still have all my insecurities, I still try to fit in and please people, and having someone dislike me, or something I did, still ruins my day. Maybe I am a bit lost after all, and that’s okay.

— Debs 🧶🎨🎞️

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I’ve been thinking a lot lately (when haven’t I?). About life, about my childhood, about my family and the people that come and go from my life, about my experiences, the good ones and the bad ones. About the cycles our lives have, and this eternal pursuit of happiness, and trying to understand why sometimes I feel like I make it so hard. Way harder than it should be and way harder than actually is.

I always thought that by my 30s I would have everything figured out. And here I am, feeling a little lost. Somewhere along the way, who I really am got a little lost too: my personality, my sense of self. And this page is part of me trying to reclaim it. To rediscover myself and feel good about it.

So, with the risk of being all over the place: that’s a little summary of what I intend to do here.

Part of this is writing. Putting my feelings somewhere, working through them out loud, in the hopes that someone out there is feeling the same way and we can find some comfort in that. But part of it is also just showing the other ways I deal with it all: painting, crocheting, air dry clay, watching a movie, reading a book, or whatever new hobby finds me along the way. I’m open to all of it. Any way I can find to take care of my mind and my soul.

I feel deeply. I always have. And I needed somewhere for all of it to go.

This is where it goes.

What you can expect here:

• Writing — thoughts, feelings, little essays about life and everything in between

• Things I make with my hands — painting, crochet, air dry clay

• Movie and book talk — the kind that goes a little deeper than a review

• Honesty — I’m not an expert in any of this, and that’s not really the point

I don’t know how often I’ll post yet: I’m figuring that out as I go, which feels very on brand for this page. What I can promise is that everything here will be real.

If you’re somewhere in your 30s feeling a little lost too, or if you just feel things deeply and needed somewhere to put it: hi. Can’t wait to share thoughts and new ideas on how to deal with all of them.

And even if no one is listening - I’m still glad I’m doing this. That counts for something.

— Debs 🧶🎨🎞️