Some Worries

Dark little essays about identity, transformation, and the things we don’t say out loud. Read the full archive → Some Worries on Substack

[thoughtkick]

“The things I want to remember I can’t, and the things I try so hard to forget just keep coming.”

— Paula Hawkins, Into the Water

[some-worries]

In Defense of Concert Videos

“Live in the moment!” they say. “You’re not present if you waste time taking pictures and videos of vacations or concerts.” they say. “You’re never going to watch those concert videos.” they say.

Listen, I don’t know you. Maybe you really do have a problem. Maybe you’re one of the people who reported post-concert amnesia after recording every part of Taylor Swift’s Eras show. I can only speak from my personal experience. I do rewatch those videos. Even many years later. And these time capsules still mean a lot to me.

When I watch the video I took of the closing song at a Jenny Lewis show in 2014, I am doing more than listening to a beautiful acoustic version of Acid Tongue. I am stepping through a portal. I’m transported back to the time in my life when I was on the precipice of immense change. I can feel that moment again. I had just started a new job. I was at the show with a stranger because our mutual friend had canceled. And even though I was not a go-with-the-flow person, I went with the flow that night. I didn’t let my friend’s absence stop me from enjoying things. Because I was stepping into a new phase. I’m sure there would have been some memory even if the video didn’t exist. But for me, it acts like the Pensieve in Harry Potter and allows me to dip my head back into the memories and that world.

You’re never going to regret having a tangible record of a memory. In a time before cell phones, we all just accepted that when people died, we would never hear their voices again. That our brain would do the job of filling in the memory. I can still hear the distant voice of my Yaya clapping and saying, “Bravo!!” as I danced around. But I can’t really hear her voice anymore. It’s a faint echo of a memory I stored somewhere before I realized I would never see her again. And as time grows further apart, the echo recedes. I wish that weren’t true.

Every day I drive down streets in the city I have lived in since I was born and watch the landmarks of my life disappear. Erasing my history as they go. Like little parts of me I will never get back. They only exist in my memory now. How I wish I could go back to my old art school with a disposable camera and take pictures of everything. The halls, the courtyard, all of my classmates drawing with headphones on. You never realize how even the simplest things, like the arrangement of desks in a classroom, are a memory you long to return to. Spaces you will never feel again.

So take the fucking concert video. 

If you want to preserve a memory with a photo or video…then it must be important. And save the voicemails of people you love, and take pictures of places you go for peaceful walks even if you go there every day. One day will be the last time you go, and you won’t know it until it’s gone. And please, write it all down. You won’t regret it.

Send this PSA today to someone who needs to hear it.

[some-worries]

Dear Void

Dear Void,

For a long time I didn’t share my thoughts with anyone. Then you came along. You were a place I could send the words to without fear of ever being judged. You made me feel safe. You encouraged me to share my thoughts with others. And as I did I received validation that the things I was sharing were worthwhile. That maybe I was even good at it in a way I hadn’t considered.

Like anything in our current capitalistic hellscape, I began to look at it as something I needed to monetize. Because everything needs to become a side hustle, right? And if it wouldn’t lead to money, what was I even doing it for? To drive traffic to something else? Great! I better write on timely topics and send them out quickly to stay relevant. I also need to be unique and bring something that no one else is to the world. And I better hurry up and get there first before someone else does it better and I have to find another niche. 

And what if I succeed? Now more eyes are on this thing I never wanted anyone to see. This thing I only felt comfortable sharing with you, dear Void. So, thanks for believing in me, but I can’t let this become anything other than a sounding board for my thoughts, however random and intermittent they are. I love writing to you, but the moment this becomes about something other than a passion I need to express, I lose a part of myself forever. I already turned one creative passion into a full-time job and never got her back. I hope you understand.

I hope you’re doing well. Send my love to Marge and the kids.

- Me

[some-worries]

When We Die

The last time someone in my life died I was 34. I didn’t feel as close to death. And my grandma had been in an assisted living facility with dementia for close to 10 years. It was a slow death, one that awakened the fear of death inside me. And the end was freedom from all the suffering for everyone involved. And I still felt young. I was scared of other people dying, but not myself. Not yet.

The next time was a few weeks ago. I’m 46. My (almost) father-in-law passed away in his sleep unexpectedly. No one was ready for it. Death is much closer now. 

In both instances, there were funerals and moments when family members remembered stories and were together after long periods of time apart. 

For as long as I can remember, my mom has been telling me that she doesn’t want a funeral because it’s a waste of money. She wants to be cremated, and for the people, she loves to go out to lunch and celebrate her life. And I’ve said that I don’t care what people do with me as long as it is cheap. They can cremate me in an outdoor pizza oven, bury me in a trash bag…I do not care. I’m not in that body anymore. While I stand by the idea that my death should be as cheap as possible for anyone left, I hope people remember me. I hope they tell stories, and I hope they have nice things to say. They will surely tell crazy stories because those are the most fun. 

But what if no one is left? What happens then? If no one remembers me, did I even exist? Did I make an impact on anyone? Was I worth the time and space I took up? If no one will remember me, then why am I here?

So here are some things I remember about my life. Some death icebreakers if you will.

She didn’t know how to blow her nose until she was 11.

She (probably) never learned to swim.

She failed her driving test the first time because of parallel parking.

She wanted to be a fashion designer.

She fell in love for the first time at the age of 20.

While working at TJMaxx she once dramatically jumped up on the counter to grab something that fell behind the registers. And as she pulled on the millions of cords, she shouted, “This whole fucking store is going to burn down!” (She thought there were too many cords, but it probably sounded like a threat.)

She once left a message on an answering machine that said “Hi Sofia, this is Sofia. Wait, no. You’re not Sofia. I’m Sofia.” and she left this message in front of a witness.

She was engaged once, and she thinks it’s kind of bullshit that the count is so low.

Her only child was a cat.

She was known to tell many people, “I’m not going to be your baby machine!”

She liked to take night drives.

Her favorite food was tacos.

She used to fear flying, but then conquered it and preferred to fly alone. 

She also went to concerts, vacations, and movies alone when no one else could go cause “Fuck it, I can’t wait forever” 

She loved to ask questions.

She didn’t always love the answers.

Her best friend once told her she was brave, and it made her feel brave.

Her parents took her to Disneyland several times around her birthday. One of her fondest memories was picking out ceramic character figurines. She looked forward to those trips.

Despite imposter syndrome and anxiety, she put herself in uncomfortable positions, forcing herself to talk to people she admired and sometimes public speaking. It didn’t always go well.

If she liked you, it was forever. Time was irrelevant, and you could pick up where you left off.

Music was one of the most impactful parts of her life.

Nothing was more important to her than love.

[some-worries]

What Was Lost

“What did it feel like when you had a blood clot?” I said in the lobby outside of a keynote session at a design conference. I was on my cell with my partner. It was completely still. The buzz of all the people was finally gone.

“Do you have a blood clot?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t feel good.”

My skin had been vibrating ever since I arrived in Vegas. It was like a constant tremor rolling over my body, like an electrical current. I was constantly buzz, buzz, buzzing—my vision, body, and mind…shaking.

Six months later I saw a specialist at the Andrew Weil Center for Integrative Wellness. I was in last-resort mode. My health had been deteriorating in ways I didn’t expect for someone still in their 30s. The doctor spent 2 1/2 hours listening to my medical background and reviewing my case with me. He said that I was in better shape than most people with multiple active autoimmune issues. I was able to work a full-time job. He told me he would review and research my case and get back to me with recommendations.

I was able to work a full-time job. But…for how long? I had been struggling for some time to do anything but work. I was so tired. It was overwhelming, and I wondered if I was headed for disability. How would I survive on so little money? Would I ever be able to travel again? Taking vacations is one of my favorite things to do, and it had become difficult to deal with traveling on a plane. I tried to hold on tight to any remaining health I had, but little by little, I saw everything slipping away from me - my professional career, which was currently on a high, along with the vestiges of my 30’s and my social life. Everything.

Losing your health is like one of those magic eye pictures. Once your eyes learn the trick of the optical illusion and you see the hidden image, you can never return to a time when you can’t see it.

I’m no stranger to illness. When I was little, I thought I was going to die young. I was sick all the time. When I was 5, I was in the hospital for two weeks with breathing issues that were later diagnosed as asthma. Once diagnosed, the cycle of sickness continued like clockwork. Every winter I spent at least two weeks home sick. There were emergency room visits to use a nebulizer until I got my own. I watched TV between my timed schedule of breathing treatments and prednisone. It felt like this would be part of my life forever.

And the truth is all of these chronic health issues are a part of my life forever. I got hit with a lot of illnesses younger than most. Chronic pain, autoimmune issues, and a genetic mutation that might have been contributing to all of this.

In 2022, I was so mad. So furious with the world.

“Everyone is so willing to turn their back on vulnerable people and just hope it will never be them. They might listen to their friend talk about their illness and sympathize, and then they think, ‘thank god that’s not me.’ And they move on with their life and never give it another thought. And that person slips through the cracks, and their life falls apart, and everyone just looks away. It’s just not OK.” I said to my friend

“That’s the way it’s always been though.”

“BUT IT’S NOT OK! People should care about other people. They shouldn’t have to get sick to care. Why don’t they care? Is it so hard to wear a mask? Don’t people understand vaccines help protect everyone?”

Just last year, in 2023, at a doctor’s office, my doctor asked me if my mask “made me feel better.” My blood boiled. But here I was, at the gynecologist’s office, getting the care I needed. Finding a new gyno after mine retired unexpectedly in 2018 had been hard. And also, he didn’t say it mockingly. I wanted to give him a chance. “Well, I take my mask off for fun things,” I said.

He smiled. “You aren’t having fun here?”

I laughed. “Not even a little. But I did go to Red Rocks in Colorado this year; that was fun. I didn’t wear a mask there. But generally, I wear a mask when not hanging out with friends or family. If I am running errands, at the doctors, on a plane, stuff like that. Plus, I have a lot of high-risk people in my family. My grandma is 90, and I don’t want to get her sick.”

He immediately understood that I was not paranoid. He softened. We laughed through the rest of the appointment. But how sad is it that I needed to explain any of that?

Sometimes, the answer isn’t easy, and I think people just want easy. When I try to make sense of intelligent, thoughtful people doing absolutely nothing during Covid surges, I always go back to this - people don’t want to be hassled. And they don’t want to be outcast from the group. It’s a lonely feeling. If masks hadn’t been politicized would people behave the same way they do, even the ‘good’ ones?

In 2017, my partner had cancer and was receiving chemotherapy. I watched a video at the doctor’s office about how to take care of him. It went over cleaning to ensure he didn’t come into contact with germs and mentioned having masks available. I remember he didn’t even want me to watch the video, he thought it was a waste of time. But I had no idea how to care for someone with cancer. This was my first time. I bought a box of ten masks I never thought we’d have to use. And then, one day, we did. He wore the mask into the emergency room. No one thought it was weird, or paranoid, or a security blanket, or any other fucking stupid thing people believe now. They looked at him with reverence and genuine concern. Because 2020 hadn’t happened yet. And masks are things that have always protected us from illness. Before 2020, we understood that when someone was wearing a mask they really needed it. And after he was admitted to the hospital and they understood what was happening to him, I was told to go home. His mask came off and everyone else’s went on. His room was marked with a sign for neutropenic precautions. He almost died. Masks are important.

And so I leave you with this - please don’t forget about us. The chronically ill, the vulnerable people. We’re still out here, many of us still trying to protect ourselves and others from Covid, Long Covid, the flu, RSV, fucking everything. We’re out here, and we’re alone. It’s lonely to carry this burden all alone.

[some-worries]

The Time I Fucked Up a (Maybe) Good Thing

Let me tell you a story about a time I really fucked up.

I had just ended two relationships. One long-term relationship that went on for about five years too many, and one intense summer love that burnt out quickly. I was in a bad place in all the ways (spiritual, emotional & physical). So, of course, I put myself on a dating site as one does to distract from the pain. (Note: this story takes place pre-app/swipe dating)

A lot of men outside the age range I requested reached out. Men are often not great respecters of boundaries. But on this paid site I only went on one date. As suspected the quality of people involved went way up with the commitment of a monthly subscription. Those people were serious about finding love. This was the lesser version of eHarmony, a site that had a commercial of people dancing at their wedding. I wasn't in the eHarmony market because that felt very extreme. I had just ended a big chapter. I wanted to casually move on slowly and not entirely fall in love but still be open to someone being obsessed with me.

Still very much in love with the summer fling, I set up my coffee date with this guy. But my summer fling wasn't a fling. He had been a friend for years, and I had been in love with him for a long time. We had shared hopes, dreams, and plenty of inside jokes. Over the years he had become the best part of my day. He was thoughtful and funny, and oh, the chemistry we had together. After my long-term relationship ended, I told my friend how I felt about him, and once I did, it was full throttle. We began planning a life together that was never going to exist. The ending was a crushing blow that consumed me.

I don't remember the name of the one and only guy I dated from this site, so let's call him Drew. Drew and I had good banter right away, and banter was something I was very skilled at. He was right in step with me from the moment we met. He was 9 years older than me, which initially sounded very appealing. Maybe slightly older than I was considering, but I was sick of dating young idiots.

We talked for 2 hours while getting coffee and decided to turn it into dinner at the next-door pizza place. It was so much fun, something I hadn't had in months. Drew sounded like he really had his shit together. He was 40. Now that I am in my 40s, I don't know if I would fully classify him as "really had his shit together" anymore. But maybe…

We set up a plan for our next date. I was so excited because I genuinely liked Drew, and he seemed equally interested in me. If I'm being honest, I was too interested. Like shit, I was not ready for this. My first attempt on the serious dating app, and I was handed a legit, real grown man, something I had only heard of but never dated. He owned his own company, was in a STEM-related field, was very smart and funny, and owned TWO cars and a house. He appeared to be very emotionally (and financially) stable. My ex had a meltdown every time I talked about splitting a meal at a restaurant, instead of me paying.

We texted all week leading up to the date. Drew wanted to pick me up in his sporty car. By all accounts, it sounded like it would be a very real date. Probably like one I had never been on before and maybe like one I had been longing for. The pressure started building up. I had moved back in with my parents after my split with my ex. I was uncomfortable with him picking me up at their house and worried he would ask to meet my family. I tried to dissuade him from picking me up and asked to meet instead. It seemed like he didn't really understand why I was asking to do that. Then I panicked and told him I didn't want to go on a date, but we could be friends instead. I made up a legitimate excuse about it being too soon since I had ended my relationships and was not ready. I think he was kind of crushed but also seemed ok with the idea of becoming friends. 

For the next eight months I hung out with him, going for walks around the park, coffee meetups, and talking to him about women he was dating. I liked him a lot. And then he met a woman, who I assume he married, and I never heard from him again. 

Sometimes, I wonder what would have happened if I had just gone on that second date like I desperately wanted to. Since I can't remember his name or much of what we talked about at this point, it's probably fair to say there was no great love lost. But this blurry image of a man I was attracted to with many of the same interests and everything I needed at that moment remains. Some part of me felt confident that if I went out with him, that would be it. He would propose. He felt like someone looking for a wife, and all I wanted to do was look for the emergency exit.

But I wonder if the truth was that I couldn't handle someone so ready to be everything I wanted.

[some-worries]

[some-worries]

Our Cultural Obsession With the "One"

People often get hung up on the concept of "one true love."

In the How I Met Your Mother fandom, there's a recurring debate: Was the Mother (Tracy) the love of Ted’s life, or was it Robin? The polarizing series finale has fans constantly arguing in comment sections over this topic. If you didn’t watch the show, let me catch you up.

How I Met Your Mother was a television series that ran for nine seasons from 2005-2014. The premise revolves around Ted Mosby telling his kids the epic story of how he met their mother. Yet, from the very first episode, we learn that the love story we focus on, on and off, for most of the series is with his friend, Robin. The episode quickly informs you that Robin is known to his kids as Aunt Robin. We don’t meet the Mother until the final season (nine years in!), and in the end, we find out she’s dead. In the final scene, Ted is at Aunt Robin’s, waiting to ask her out. There’s much more to the story, told through real-time events, flashbacks, and flash-forwards. But you get the gist.

The ending left the audience with a question: Was Robin Ted’s one true love, or was it the Mother? This hotly contested topic remains unanswered because Ted is a fictional character. If he were real, only he would know the answer. Hearing the thoughts of fans is like a Rorschach test—we see what we want to believe, what we fear, what we know to be true, or some variation thereof. We see ourselves.

Many uncontrollable factors go into falling in love. The most important takeaway here is that you, dear reader, can find love again, even if you already have. Even if you have an epic love story, there is always hope. For me, that is what the finale was about.

Ted never stopped loving Robin. His feelings for her continued to hold him back until she finally got married. It wasn’t always obvious—more like a sneaky saboteur. She fell in love with someone else after their breakup and wasn’t emotionally available to him for a long time. Then he fell in love with the mother of his children and wasn’t emotionally available to Robin after her divorce. But their love for each other always remained.

“When you love someone, you just... you don't stop. Ever. Even when people roll their eyes or call you crazy. Even then. Especially then. You just don't give up because if I could give up... If I could just, you know, take the whole world's advice and move on and find someone else, that wouldn't be love. That would be some other disposable thing that is not worth fighting for. But that is not what this is.”  - Ted

Timing is everything

“If you have chemistry, you only need one other thing... timing. But timing's a bitch.” - Robin

Ted and Robin were doomed from the start. His best friends got engaged the night he met Robin, and Ted’s biological clock started ticking. He told her on their first date that he was in love with her. Naturally, she was freaked out by that. From that moment until he moved on, she always had the upper hand.

Good timing is luck.

Ted and Tracy’s (the Mother) relationship personifies the right place, right time. Throughout the show, there are almost run-ins that don’t pan out. He even dated her roommate at one point. As viewers, we come to understand that Ted isn’t ready to meet the Mother yet. He does at Robin’s wedding when he’s finally let go of all hope for Robin. The window is open. IYKYK

The show begins and ends with hope

The real message of the end of HIMYM is hope. There is hope in starting over, in second chances, and in new beginnings. No matter how broken we are, we never know when we’re about to meet someone new who will change our life or get that new job, etc. You get the point. At any given moment, we are just another moment away from something big. When Ted was at his lowest, watching Robin get married to one of his best friends, he met the Mother. And when Ted was ready to move on after Tracy had been gone for some time, he and Robin found their way back to each other again. Things don’t always work out, people fall out of love, people die, and thank God there is no limit to the possibility of another great love.

[ruhaniya]

[some-worries]

Sometimes I Just Know Things

You know that feeling you get when something terrible is about to happen? Now, imagine having that feeling about something wonderful. But every time you tried to confirm it, you were told you were wrong. What would that do to your trust in yourself?

When I fell in love for the first time, I fell hard. I tried not to say those words until a reasonable time had passed, but I knew it immediately. After two months, I said, “I love you.” He didn’t say it back. It hurt, but I tried to brush it off. It was reasonable—things take time. But it became an issue. How could he not love me when I felt it so clearly? Yet, he told me, “Not yet.”

I knew we were doomed, not just because of those three words. I couldn’t turn off my feelings, but I started to lose trust in myself. How could I be so wrong? It was embarrassing.

We broke up because he said he was “not in love with me and never could be.” A dagger through my heart.

But the feelings persisted for years. I was so sure he had loved me. Maybe I was delusional. I tucked it away as proof that I had no clue what I was doing.

A few years later, I met someone new. The instant I met him, I felt something akin to love at first sight. But I wasn’t immediately in love. I thought, “Wow, who is that person? I’ll probably never see him again.” I met him at a job interview, and as fate would have it, I got the job.

You don’t know me, so I have to explain: this wasn’t fueled by something shallow like great abs. It never is for me. This person was attractive, but that wasn’t the point.

As we worked together, a little voice kept saying, “You’re in love with him.” I had barely worked with him, and I had a boyfriend. How could I be driving to work thinking, “I need to tell him how I feel”? Surely, it was just a crush. And it certainly was, at the very least, that.

“Quiet,” I told myself. “You’ve been wrong before. This isn’t real.”

When I examined the proof, I saw two different people I was crazy about. One ended our relationship because of a lack of love, and the other existed only as a fantasy in my head. So, I assumed the only real thing I had was my current relationship.

And then that ended.

I pursued my crush too late, only to find out that I had been right all along. There was something there. But I second-guessed myself until my chances slipped away. Right place, wrong time.

Many years later (over 20), my first love came back. Not to win me back, but to let me know he was in therapy. He wanted me to know he had always been in love with me “so very much.” He used to watch me sleep and tell me he loved me. He wanted me to know.

There it was—vindication. Not just for one little thing I didn’t trust, but for the other one I was so sure of. I had stopped caring long ago, but its reemergence made things shift. I feel things, and those feelings are usually right.

The only caveat is that I can’t force myself or someone else to say what they feel. There is just as much information in what people want to hide as in what they reveal. Maybe something still wasn’t adding up. Right person, wrong time, or wrong person, right time.

Maybe I was given these experiences to help me trust myself. And the only way to make these lessons stick was to make them hurt.

Sometimes I just know things, and I’m often right.

[some-worries]

Letters to My Therapist: The Quieter I Get the Louder I Want to Be

Dear Therapist,

A few weeks ago I decided to take an Instagram break. The amount of content on Instagram is never-ending. If I want to laugh, feel nostalgic, or dive deep into a niche topic, I can. But why was it making me feel so terrible?

It started last year when I decided I needed to embrace the side of AI that relates most closely to my work. I started posting some of my experiments. Unfortunately for me, very little I do is fluffy and throwaway. I pulled from my list of song lyrics that have meaning to me and set out to illustrate them using Midjourney and Adobe Firefly. The project was fun and helped me connect to AI in a way that took at least some of my fear away. But the more I shared them online, the worse I felt about myself. No one cared. I had to beg my friends to even look at the posts. Sometimes, I would ask a friend if they had seen a post I worked on for days, and they would say, “Oh yeah.” Like it was nothing. No one liked them unless I basically asked them to. They seemed confused by this whole concept that I would want people I cared about to acknowledge I did something.

The more I had to explain how social media engagement works to people who didn’t know and some who did, the angrier I got. If I can’t even get people who LIKE me to like the things I do, then who actually cares about me? Every like became pity.

Emotionally, the process was doing things to me. I’ve already begun to feel like I’m slowly becoming more invisible in ways that have shocked me in the last few years. As I age and become seemingly less attractive to people, I also feel less important to them. I feel their interest in my thoughts greatly diminished, which means they were never interested in them at all.

The truth is that feeling unimportant to others isn’t new to me; it’s just that the “like” system provided the hard data I needed to validate what I always suspected: a connection with me wasn’t that important to most people. In real life, I’ve had my feelings hurt repeatedly by friends who couldn’t be bothered to make solid plans to get together throughout the years because of “reasons.” But they still wanted to call me a friend and tap into my friendship when it worked for them. And now that I’ve gone through the pandemic and spent years apart from people I can’t say that I care about this nearly as much as I used to. I spent a long time physically away from people, and I felt better because they weren’t letting me down anymore.

But that can’t be the answer. Shutting myself off from every corner of society as not to be disappointed by people?

I’m already a person who is very hard to get to IRL. I don’t want to pull away from society more. That won’t make me feel closer to people. Most of my friends don’t live in the same city as me and haven’t for a while. I need to connect as much online as I do in person. I need more friends and more people who care about me, not less.

So, no, this isn’t a letter about how terrible social media is. It’s a letter about how hard it is to feel seen and truly cared about. And then, in spite of feeling invisible, still pushing forward with things even if no one gives a shit.

I don’t have the right answer yet. Maybe there isn’t one. I wish I didn’t care, but I do.

Love,

Sofia

[some-worries]

What's Wrong With Being a Teenage Girl?

When I share my thoughts here, I am exposed. I am a raw nerve. I am a teenage girl. I am all the things you want to avoid because they make you uncomfortable. But what’s wrong with being a teenage girl? Why do we trivialize her feelings?

This year I went to the Taylor Swift Eras Tour and the Barbie movie, just like many basic women. But none of us are basic. That’s the problem. Society is constantly pitting us against each other. “I’m not that kind of girl; I’m a guy’s girl.” “I’m not the kind of girl who listens to Taylor Swift.” “I’m not like the other girlfriends. I’m a cool girlfriend.” “I’m not the kind of girl who drinks pumpkin spice lattes. That’s so basic!” The implication is that you are always better. Therefore, you can’t possibly get along with these terrible peasants with their average ways.

Let’s talk about Taylor Swift for a minute. The backlash she continues receiving for writing about past relationships is disturbing since most great love songs are directly connected to someone’s heartbreak. How dare she share her feelings so openly. But something magical happens with her music. At first, it’s catchy; you may like a couple songs. Then you listen to more and start seeing yourself everywhere in the songs. Things you didn’t know were okay to express out loud have entire stadiums singing along to every word by heart. (Maybe too loudly, but I digress) Standing with a group of people at one of her shows, mostly women, and being united in the feelings we share is powerful. Her lyrics are universal, and she shows us how beautiful it is to show your feelings to people, regardless of those who dismiss them.

So here I am with my stupid feelings that are not stupid at all. And when I write things here, I am showing you my heart. And I hope you understand that this is painful, vulnerable, and very real. If you ever read any of my thoughts and think it’s kind of embarrassing to share these feelings, you are wrong. It’s brave.

[some-worries]

"It's Good You Know You're Selfish"

Even when you don’t want kids, your whole identity as a woman is wrapped up in the mother archetype, even when you think it’s not. Even if you declare loudly to anyone who will listen that you’re not interested in becoming anyone’s “baby machine.”

They tell you that you’ll change your mind. They say this over and over and over again, which really backs you into a corner because if you ever change your mind, then you have to hear an endless barrage of “See! I told you I was right!” It also trivializes the way you feel. Like you’re just so silly. You have no idea how the real world works, but you will one day when you realize you want a kid.

You are talked to in condescending tones by women who now understand the meaning of life. You hate them—not because you want to hate them or you think having kids is terrible, but because they sometimes have the nerve to call you selfish as if knowing who you are and what you want is the rudest thing you could do. But you carefully thought about it and decided it wasn’t for you.

But still, they come to annually neg you into having a kid by making you feel like a terrible person. Frankly, it’s exhausting. It gives you no room to breathe, no room to change your mind even if you want to. Because it’s black and white—yes and no.

It seems to be all you exist for in some people’s eyes. Because being in a relationship is contingent on you exchanging goods and services for love apparently. At least that’s what it feels like. The message you receive is that loving you is not enough. In fact, it is virtually meaningless if it doesn’t end in a traditional family. They leave and say about the next one, “She’ll make a great mom.” It stings again. What will make you great to someone you love?

Some women know they want to be parents immediately, and that’s fine, but not you. You need space from everyone else’s expectations. You could be free if people didn’t make it their business to care about this so much. And maybe if everyone was neutral to the idea, you wouldn’t feel like you were running from a burden that people were trying to place on you. Maybe, just maybe, it’s too much to carry.

The divide between you and the women with kids grows deeper for a long time until one day, it lifts because your time has run out. You might field a question here or there from a stray coworker asking whether you have kids…but mostly, the war is over.

And you grieve. Because you were running for your life. All you wanted was to know you were safe and loved, just as you were, in whatever choice you made. All you wanted was freedom, but you would never be free if they wanted you to be someone else. And you realize you never felt safe enough to even consider giving up your autonomy. What choices would you make if you felt safe?

[thoughtkick]

“I think part of the reason why we hold on to something so tightly is because we fear something as great won’t happen twice.”

— Unknown

[some-worries]

Disenfranchised Grief

Revisiting something I wrote in 2019 on the 10th anniversary of back-to-back breakups that left me devastated for years.

It’s the 10-year anniversary of the day after my breakup with my ex-fiancé, otherwise known as my best friend’s birthday. Instead of canceling my plans with her, I ruined her birthday by staring off silently into space at dinner, falling asleep during a movie in the theater, and crying as I drove her home. It’s something we have come to laugh about in the years that have passed. I find it downright hilarious at this point. It would make a great B or C story on a sitcom.

It’s also been 10 years since 2009. A year so wrought with happiness and despair that it’s never really left my side. It’s a giant time marker in my head, and every landmark is before and after. I’m probably not giving enough credit to other years for being important…but the ripple effect began in 2009.

I’ve been reflecting on this ever since 2019 began. Sometimes it is hard to believe this much time has passed. At times those memories and feelings don’t seem that far away…and yet they totally are. Thank god. They are muted now. I can pick them up and examine them and allow myself to process and absorb them in productive and meaningful ways to me with almost no pain at all. That’s become a significant thing for me to do.

It seemed like I was wallowing in sadness forever (and I was kind of), but there wasn’t a lot of acceptance in what I was feeling. The name for it is disenfranchised grief. I learned that term recently, and it allowed me to work through all of these feelings again with more acceptance. I was grieving the loss of one of the most significant relationships of my life.

In 2009 I fell in love with a man, and he fell in love with me. And for a tiny moment, we were both in love with each other at the exact same time with a matched intensity of feeling. If you’ve experienced that in every relationship you’ve ever been in, I ask…HOW? It’s the only time it’s ever happened to me. It. Was. Everything. In the middle of falling deeply in love, it was ripped away from me. We didn’t stop feeling those things…we just couldn’t continue. The grief was deep. I didn’t even know it was grief. I thought that word was reserved for deaths, but this was a death, I just didn’t understand that fully.

I woke up one morning sobbing and gasping for air as if I had just been submerged in the fucking ocean, the pain was so intense and so deep. I wanted it to stop…not in a kill myself way or anything, I just wanted to be happy. If there were a switch I could have flipped to make all of that excruciating pain go away, I would have. I wanted just to be a single lady enjoying my life. I didn’t want to feel like the best love of my life was behind me, and I would know it with every sub-par connection I made in the future. But I felt all of those things deeply.

I didn’t want to feel like the best love of my life was behind me,  and I would know it with every sub-par connection I made in the future.  But I felt all of those things deeply.

I missed him.

Life went on…not for me at first. Sometimes it felt like I fell asleep in 2009 and woke up in 2012 and realized shit was happening all around me even if I didn’t want it to. Time was moving on, and I needed to accept that and do the same or continue to live some weird half-life. Very, very slowly, I started to let go.

Though I’m not sure I ever really let go all the way. And the more I think about it, maybe we never do. Because when you love something and it’s gone it really hurts. And the only way to keep a part of it is to remember. And I remember everything. I’d be sick if I forgot it. Forgot him. That love changed me.

I will let you in on a little secret…the pain never really goes away. It has to stay with you as a reminder, or you forget how and why you are you.

[resqectable]

“Someone who is worthy of your love will never put you in a situation where you feel you must sacrifice your dignity, your integrity, or your self worth to be with them.”

— Unknown

[some-worries]

Where Did You Go?

Dear Ex-Love,

Do you remember how we met? I mean yes, of course it was in school, but how we actually met was because you were hitting on my friend with the big boobs. She wasn’t interested, she was dating a very cold man. You were not on her radar. I couldn’t bare another minute of you making her a mixtape, or whatever the fuck you were doing to woo her. As we walked back from the photocopier I said “Hey, Krista is not into you. I know this for a fact because she’s dating someone else.”

You were caught off guard but you immediately understood that I was helping you. I was being honest where others would just let things play out because they didn’t want to get involved. It didn’t seem fair to me at all for her to flirt with you and give you the wrong impression.

I had no ulterior motives or interest in you, but after that I was on your radar. You had hit on every other girl in class and my immediate response was “Oh thank you, I’m honored that you have worked your way through everyone else and finally made it to me. No thanks.” The less I wanted you the more you wanted me because of course.

But at some point I started to like you. You were different from me in so many ways. I was in college and I thought, fuck it, this won’t be forever. Go ahead and date this crazy eccentric pothead. You were a brilliant artist that seemed a little mad like all the great ones.

You were thoughtful and sensitive in the beginning. You knew my back was messed up from a car accident and you found a book that had exercises to try and help. Once we went to see the movie 50 First Dates and after we left you started crying and said you couldn’t imagine how horrible it would be to wake up every day and have me not remember you.

We built a life together for eight years. You were the first person I lived with after moving out of my parent’s house. We made our own traditions, we watched Battlestar Galactica religiously, and we even got engaged! We grew up together through our twenties—but not in the same direction.

But where did you go? Because something was happening inside you that I didn’t understand. Was it there when we were together? Because your kind heart disappeared into a cruelty I didn’t deserve. And now even though you’re still in this world you are not the same person and the truth is, I miss you friend. I wish I could still talk to you but we both know I can’t. Or at least I think you know. Could I have done something to help you? Could anyone?

If I could go back in time, I’d find you at our kitchen table, hunched over an intricate piece of artwork that would take you months to finish. We’d order wings, watch Lost, and run through our theories on how it would all end. We’d argue about how long it should take me to finish a single bar of chocolate and whether or not you had dibs on it after a certain amount of time had passed. I’d go to bed at midnight; you’d stay up until 4 a.m., flailing in your sleep until I was nearly knocked out of bed. And in the morning, you’d insist we needed a Sleep Number bed—for my back, of course.

And we would be safe, back in our twenties. Maybe I could go back and solve the problem before it got to you. Or maybe it’s enough just to get to spend time with you again just as we were.