My Life

Does the vague name make it sound more edgy?

Five Things I Do When I’m Home Alone

I have been living alone for about six months now. And while it took some adjusting, I have definitely found the comfort and freedom in it. Sometimes I look around in awe thinking, this is my little place, isn’t it? My corner of the world that I created all by myself. And that’s kind of magical.

There is a quote from Dolly Alderton’s book, Everything I Know About Love, when she moves into a place of her own for the first time. She says, “I was completely alone but I had never felt safer.” And I think that really captures the feeling perfectly.

Living alone has allowed me to create my own routines and do my own thing. It has allowed me to relax in a way I don’t feel I ever have before. It also allows me to get weird. To talk to myself constantly. To do whatever it is that feels right in the moment because it’s just me, baby!

There is no one popping in, confused, to say, “what are you doing?” and so everything I’m doing seems normal(ish). This got me thinking about what someone might find if they *did* pop in unannounced. Or if, at random points of the day, a video camera showed footage of me in my living room. (Let’s not make it weird, this is all in good fun.)

If that were to happen, here are five things you might see:

1) Me going “full burrito mode”

I kicked off the year with a lot of yoga. I did the Center 30 Day Yoga Challenge with Yoga with Adrienne, and there was one day during the challenge where, as we transitioned into savasana, Adrienne encouraged us to wrap ourselves up in our blankets. To snuggle in. Whether that was covering just your feet, maybe your legs and torso, or going full burrito mode, curling yourself up in that blanket so it went from toes to chin. And you better believe on that cold January afternoon I went full burrito.

2) Me doing my “puzzle of the day” jig

One of my favorite functions of my Alexa is playing puzzle of the day. It’s a short word puzzle that usually takes less than five minutes. I like to brush my teeth and then play the puzzle of the day while I wash my face. Alexa, play puzzle of the day, I will say as I slowly and gently massage my facewash into my pores. There will be a few moments pause, and then the puzzle of the day theme song will come through the speakers and it gets me every. time.

3) Me doing puzzle affirmations

Another beginning of the year project I started was a puzzle that a friend gave me for my birthday. I dumped out the 1000 pieces on my dining room table and would check in on it whenever I needed a mind break from everything else. I loved doing my puzzle and listening to Playing Along with Norah Jones, it was relaxation at its finest. During quarantine, I wrote this blog where I pretended doing a puzzle was a sporting event people were watching on TV, and I found myself in the same headspace while doing this puzzle at my dining room table. When I would find a piece, or maybe two or three, I would throw my hands up and say, “how does she do it folks?!” or “she is too good!” It made for a much more enthusiastic puzzle experience.

4) Me greeting my house

Like I said, I love my little house. So when I get home I like to say hello. It is my safe place, my reliable friend that will invite me in after a long day. “Hey house,” I say when I open the door. Or, after a particularly hard day, I’ll drop my purse down, shut the door, and say, “SHEESH” before getting in my comfy clothes and settling in for the night. I also walk around giving positive affirmations to my plants because I heard that helps them grow.

5) Me breaking the silence

Unless I’m on the phone, singing along to Spotify, or occasionally imitating funny or interesting lines off the television, I tend to spend a lot of time being quiet when I’m at home. I have entire conversations inside my head. I exist in my own little world which, when it’s not terrifying, can be quite glorious. But sometimes—and this never fails to make me laugh—I’ll be thinking through a problem and I’ll get an idea, so I’ll say—out loud, to no one except myself—“that’s true!” after hours of not saying anything. I always imagine someone saying, “huh?” and looking around as if they missed something. Which, obviously, they have, because I just solved world peace in my head.

We All Grow in Different Light

A little over a year ago I walked into a local hardware store. I don’t remember what I was there for, all I know is that on my way to find it I fell in love with a fiddle leaf fig tree that was on sale for $20. I picked it up, carried it with me to whichever aisle held my required item, and then I went to the checkout counter.

Once home, I quickly named my plant “Figgy Azalea” and she’s been with me ever since.

When I first moved into my new apartment, I stuck Figgy on the floor below my kitchen window. It seemed like an obvious spot that got great light. I also thought it would be easy to track her growth based on her relation to the light switch.

For the first few months, she sat proudly under that window. She stayed green and healthy but didn’t really grow. Then, at the beginning of December, I moved her to a different spot in the living room to make space for my little Christmas tree. I stuck her next to my couch, in indirect light, and wrapped tensile around the base of her pot for decoration. A few days later, a baby leaf sprouted on her stem. Within a week it blossomed into a full blown, bright green leaf. I was so excited! I took pictures like a mother on her child’s first day of school, fighting back tears as she says, “you’re getting so big” under her breath.

After the holidays, I was prompt to take down my Christmas decorations. I still lingered on a few Christmas movies, but I wanted to ring in the new year with a fresh, clean apartment. So I took down the tree, packed up the decorations, and moved Figgy back to her spot under the window.

Within a week or two, she started to lean, reaching for (or away from?) the sunlight. Again, she stayed green and healthy, but it was almost as if she was pointing to the corner where she once sat. She was a kid tapping at their parents’ side as they chatted to a friend at the bank, “I don’t like it here, can we go home now?”

Then one of her leaves fell off.

I moved her back to the spot next to the couch, and again, within a week, a baby leaf sprouted.

Figgy knows what kind of light she likes to grow in, and she isn’t afraid to ask.

Direct sunlight—the spotlight—is not for all of us. Some of us like to be a bit more in the background.

There is a quote from the book Quiet by Susan Cain that says, “The secret to life is to put yourself in the right lighting. For some, it’s a Broadway spotlight; for others, a lamplit desk.”

It’s not always easy to ask for the lighting we want. It’s not always easy to pursue the lighting we feel most comfortable in—especially if those around us don’t agree. But we each know where we feel we have the best opportunity to grow. And it’s in our best interest to find it. Or to ask for it.

Take it from Figgy, find your light and let yourself grow.

A Lesson In Love from Mr. & Mrs. Day (Repost)

I recently came across this story, and thought it was the perfect time to repost. I wrote it in October of 2015, but I still think about it often. It’s a real life love story, one we could all learn something from.

Sending you all lots of love this week!

—

My Grammie lived with my family for a few years before she was transferred to a nursing home. The adjustment was hard for her, especially due to the new presence of a roommate, but she understood the necessity, as her health had begun to rapidly decline.

Her room was set up with two beds arranged parallel to one another, divided by a curtain. Her roommate was by the door, and my Grammie was by the window, which she liked, because the sun shone in and warmed her cold skin during the day. One afternoon, as my mom walked down the hall, she saw a man in the doorway, sitting in a chair beside the roommate’s bed.

“Hello,” she said warmly as she approached him.

The man immediately jumped up from his seat to greet her, extending his hand kindly.

“Hello ma’am,” he said, “my name is Mr. Day and this is my wife.” He gestured to my Grammie’s roommate. “I just want you to know that I will be looking out for your mom, Miss. Patricia, here. I will make sure she is taken care of and is as comfortable as possible.”

A few days later, when I made my first visit to the nursing home, I took a seat next to my Grammie’s television and watched the sunbeams shine in through the window and across her freckled arms. She said she felt pretty good that day, that her breathing was better and she had an appetite again. My mom asked about her physical therapy, and my sister talked about the talent show our brother was in over the weekend. As they talked, I glanced down at the dresser next to the television, noticing a few cards and a teddy bear holding a puffy, red, “get well soon” heart in its arms. Being nosy, I flipped open the tag attached to its ear and read the kind handwritten note addressed to a name I didn’t recognize. I then inched each of the cards ajar and noticed they too shared the same recipient, though according to the dates inside, some were given four or five years ago.

On my next visit, as my mom and I were en-route to the window side bed, she saw the familiar figure sitting in the chair by the doorway. When we reached him, Mr. Day again jumped up with haste to greet us. It was my first time meeting him, and as he shook my hand he said, “You know you look exactly like your mother.”

That day, as my mom and I visited, I watched Mr. Day out of the corner of my eye. He sat, very content, next to his wife’s bed, watching football and holding her hand. My mom had told me his story on the drive over.

Nine years. Nine years he’d been doing this. Almost an entire decade. Mrs. Day had a stroke in her mid-50s, and was later diagnosed with both Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s disease. For nine years he had come to visit her, knowing she would lay there asleep, being fed through a tube. There were so many things he could be doing, so many places he could be seeing, yet there he was beside her, as he’d always been.

What a love they must have had, I thought; though it was clear that to him it did not live in the past. This woman, even while held in the clutches of tubes and wires, was still the woman he married, the woman who held his heart.

I thought of what my Grammie had told my mom the day before.

“Her feet kick,” she’d said.

“What do you mean?” my mom asked.

“When he talks to her. She kicks her feet when she hears his voice.”

Oh what a love they still have, I thought.

He, who has every reason to feel trapped or angry or resentful, looks at her like his own perfect Sleeping Beauty, and she, who has every reason to let go, holds on to hear that voice she knows so well. For even in the worse, they still find a way to keep the vow from the better.

One Mile & 22 Years Later

In the first few months of fifth grade, as I tried to adjust to being the new kid at a new school for the first time in my life, I became a joiner.

I joined the choir. Something that still amazes me to this day. I stood in line quietly, sandwiched between girls I was too terrified to even make eye contact with, but when I got to the front, I sang a solo and matched pitch with the choir teacher. She pointed at two girls behind me, who kept bursting into fits of laughter, and told them they should be more like me. I was mortified.

I also joined the drill team, though mostly to impress my grandpa. Growing up I’d watched VHS tapes of his time as a drill team coach. I loved seeing the people walk in perfect unison, moving in and out of formation like flocks of birds. I loved the rhythm and the noise of the feet stomping on the pavement.

When practices started, I was slightly disappointed by what felt like juvenile routines. We weren’t stomping so much as we were walking, and our formations were limited to squares, circles, and lines. We felt more like a marching band with no instruments. I was underwhelmed.

To be fair, we were ten, and our limited coordination and body awareness could only have taken us so far. But it was still a bit of a letdown. One of the first times I can remember having reality fail to meet my expectations. Nonetheless, I stuck it out. My sister joined the team shortly after I did, and after telling our grandpa, our commitment was sealed. We practiced multiple days a week after school, ensuring we’d be ready for our first and only public performance: the neighborhood holiday parade.

When December arrived, our drill team, along with many other bands, dance troops and sports teams from other local elementary, junior high, and high schools, as well as local clubs, studios, and businesses, met at a local park to find our place in line. We were wearing white t-shirts, black shorts, and top hats, and were each carrying a large, five-point star that had been hand painted with glitter by one of the coaches.

There were people everywhere, those my age and much older. It was loud and chaotic. It was red, green, and sparkly. Our coach herded us into a circle on a patch of grass behind the library and told us not to go anywhere without an adult. A banner with our school’s name sat beside us and two girls were chosen to carry it to let everyone know where we were from as we marched.

We stretched our arms and legs and stomped in place. Our teacher gave us continual updates—30 more minutes, 20 more minutes—as we started to grow restless. I could hear all kinds of music playing in the distance, and the occasional bout of applause and laughter. I was anxious to start so we could be finished.

—

In December of last year, I walked out the front door of my apartment building and set up a chair on the small strip of grass between the street and the sidewalk. It was drizzling, and a cold breeze sent the occasional shiver down my spine. I bundled up under an umbrella beside my mom.

Families lined the streets in ponchos and raincoats. Kids clapped their hands and parents held their phones out in front of them, snapping picture after picture.

Marching bands walked in precise step, with the drum major leading the way, calling out commands. Dance teams walked almost silently in jazz shoes, waiting for the boombox carried by one of the coaches to cue the start of their routine. Cars decorated with holiday garb drove by slowly, with members of local committees and businesses waving with friendly smiles.

I kept leaning forward in my chair so I could glance down the street for what was coming next.

In the distance, I could see the park where each team was emerging, and I could remember the small pitter patter of my own feet as my team lined up in the grass, and then inched our way forward to the sidewalk, and then the street.

Watching a group of young dancers, I could see myself, remembering the tentative steps I took as my head darted back and forth, looking for familiar faces on either side of the street. I could hear the startled shrieks and giggles of me and my sister when we saw our dad and his best friend running toward us with silly string. I could feel the sensation of the silly string sliding down the sides of my hat, dripping off the bill like candle wax.

“I was part of this!” my mom said as the group passed.

I smiled as I looked from her to the dancers, but had a hard time imagining my mom so little, so far away from me.

I pictured us walking side by side, our feet determinedly marching up the two mile stretch of street. Maybe we looked at the apartment building we both sat in front of now, waving and smiling and saying, “Merry Christmas!” not knowing we’d be sitting here decades later, waving back.

Some kids looked tired, nervous, or embarrassed. Their eyes glued to the asphalt; their shoulders slumped with fatigue.

Only one more mile to go, I wanted to say. You can do it.

Just keep marching.

My Least Favorite Question

There is one question that haunts my dreams. One question that I have tried to master my entire life, but still find myself quaking in its presence. This question rattles me to my core, it can make me reconsider absolutely everything in my life, and can even make me want to stand up from a conversation and run all the way home.

This question is: What’s new?

Meant as a breezy conversation starter and a ticket to deeper connection, to me this question often feels more like a challenge. It asks, “what have you been doing with your time since I last saw you—I hope it’s impressive!”

I once had someone say, “So, what’s new? And DON’T say nothing.”

In one sense, I understand what they meant. If I say, “nothing”, or its neighbor, “not much, how about you?” the conversation takes on a staleness that is hard to break out of. It’s polite and awkward and feels more like playing a robotic game of catch rather than a leisurely round of catch up. I get that, and if I was the one starting the game of “what’s new”, a reply of “nothing” would discourage me too.

But then, this seemingly simple question also makes me feel very nervous. It asks too much of me without really asking anything at all. When asked, even by a close friend or family member I’ve known my whole life, I feel like I’m suddenly on stage in front of thousands of people, with a hot spotlight shining bright on my face. I feel like the question asks me to prove that I’m living a meaningful life, that I’m being productive, that I’m successful, that I am worth the time this person is spending with me.

What’s new?

The question bounces around in my brain, searching, begging my memory banks to pull something from the last few weeks or months—anything I can tell them that might make them say, “wow!” or “that’s exciting!”

I look for a story or a big life event or a punchline that can kick off the conversation and make them glad they decided to talk to me.

But most of the time, unless I have something specific at the ready, my honest answer will be “nothing.” Not because I have been standing stationary, eating nothing but beans since the last time I saw them—though this would probably make for an interesting story—but because I get so nervous that my answer will be unimpressive or boring, that I can’t think of a single thing.

The truth is, I usually have a lot to say. And I want to open up and share those things, but it just takes me a minute. My mind has to survey the situation, seeing if it feels safe enough for me to let the walls down and let you in on everything—to really tell you what’s new. But chances are, a lot of “what’s new” is completely internal. Maybe I’ve learned something about myself, or untied a knot that held me hostage for a long time. Maybe I did a workout the other day that gave me the slightest bit more confidence in my body, or just started working on a creative project that I’m really excited about. Maybe I’ve been harping on something I don’t know how to express yet, or I had a dream that has puzzled me since the morning I woke up with it fresh in my mind. Maybe I’ve just been going about my routine, content as ever, but am worried that is not exciting enough to tell you.

I have never been good at conversational shortcuts. People who can sit down and immediately tell you what’s on their mind have always amazed me. Because I need time. I need to take the long way. I need you to do the heavy lifting while my brain boots up and prepares all of the funny or inspiring moments I might have experienced since the last time I saw you. I want time to remember all of the interesting anecdotes I’ve recently learned from podcasts, articles, movies, tv shows and books. I want time to recall the questions I have for you, that will perhaps invite us into the deeper conversation we’re both hoping for.

I know I can’t stop people from asking “what’s new?” And honestly, I’m not trying to. I understand it’s purpose in the conversation universe, and I understand that much of my distaste for it stems from my own insecurities. At the end of the day, we all have a lot of “new” because we’ve all woken up each morning and experienced day after day, with countless thoughts, ideas, hopes, desires, heartbreaks, frustrations and delights. Sometimes it’s just hard to recall them in a few seconds, after a two-word question, when it feels like the fate of a conversation is in your hands. You know?

So this week, as we walk into the holday season, maybe we all just give each other a little time. Ask the question but maybe follow it up with something more specific, like “what was the best part of your week?” or “have you read/watched/eaten anything good lately?” or “what’s something you’re excited about?” Something that might spark a memory in the other person rather than leave them floundering in their mind, wondering if they’re doing anything with their life.

Give conversations room to take the long way around. It’s not always easy, but it’s always worth it.

Look for the Heart Shaped Pizzas

When I was in high school, I was part of my church youth group. On Wednesday nights, we would get together to worship, hear a sermon, and then hang out and talk. The boys liked to skateboard and play tag and do stunts that would make me say, “that doesn’t look safe.” And the girls would talk and shoot basketballs and try to figure out what in the world it meant to be a teenager.

I wouldn’t be unique in saying that, for me, being a teenager was hard. It was confusing and awkward and terrifying. Nothing felt normal or safe or easy. And on top of the things I was going through in my own body and mind, the world threw a few curveballs at me that really rattled my foundation.

Death, betrayal, and new levels of fear burst through the bubble I’d been living in, introducing me to dark parts of the world I wasn’t ready for. Every direction I turned had a new mountain to climb, or hole to dig out of, or an empty room to sit in that used to be full.

Each shot came at me and I took it, though I didn’t really absorb the pain, at least not in a way I was able to process. I was sad and angry and confused, but I was also 15 and 16 and 17, just trying to get that cute boy to notice me or to pass my Economics final. There were a lot of emotions competing for the surface, and the fun ones were more enticing.

One Wednesday, when I went to youth group, we met in the Fellowship Hall, which is like a banquet room. There were round tables set up and we were assigned seats. Heart shaped pizzas sat in the middle of each table. I sat down in my spot, nervous, but hungry, and listened for further instructions.

The theme of the night was love. It was sharing the hard parts of our lives so that we might be able to help one another work through, overcome, or at the very least talk about them. I peeled pepperoni off my slice of pizza and then took a big bite. A few people at my table shared before me. They talked about fighting parents, divorced parents, difficult relationships with siblings or friends. I chewed on my slice of pizza and then had another.

When it came to my turn, I took a deep breath and then started talking. I assumed it would be like giving an oral report—simply stating the facts. But once I started, I realized how heavy it had all been to hold.

“It’s just been really hard,” I said. And then I burst into tears.

This shocked everyone at my table, as no one before me had cried, or even welled up. No one at any of the surrounding tables was emotional either. But I was suddenly sobbing. My youth group leader walked over and scooped me into a hug. She rubbed my back and I cried in shuddering breaths and sniffles. I kept trying to stop, embarrassed at the scene I was making, but it just kept coming.

As I leaned into her chest, the boy beside me was asked to share. To continue the process so people would stop staring at me. I listened as he shared a story of an abusive stepparent and then I instantly stopped crying. The grief that had literally spilled out of me was instantly swallowed by shame.

I felt guilty for being so overwhelmed by what I was going through, because clearly it wasn’t as hard as what he was going through. I was embarrassed for crying. I went home exhausted.

For years afterward, I didn’t cry in front of people. I’m still not good at it. There is still a shame buried deep inside me, something that tells me that if I breakdown I will look stupid, ignorant of the realer, harder problems happening around me. It takes me right back to that moment in the Fellowship Hall, feeling like maybe I was just weak.

I say this now, with dots connected, though it took me a long time to figure it out. To pinpoint the when and the why. I used to say, with a sense of pride, “I just don’t really cry.” I used to brag that sad movies never got me. I felt tough, cool, unique. Kim doesn’t cry. She’s so strong.

But I wasn’t.

I was just burying it all. The same way I’d done in high school. And even though it’s what I wanted LEAST, I was walking around with all of that weight, all of that pain, looking for another table with a heart shaped pizza to lay it all down on.

I think for a long time I resented that day. Absolutely HATED that I cried and that I got embarrassed. I fizzled out on youth group after that, just slowly stopped going. Not only because of that night, but I think part of me was terrified it might happen again.

I spent the next decade of my life scared to cry. Scared to be vulnerable. Scared to be weak.

But more and more over the last few years I’ve realized how valid it all was. How justified. How okay. That night I needed to let it go. To let it out. To admit that what I was carrying was heavy.

And no matter what is going on in the lives around me, when something feels heavy to me, it’s heavy.

When something feels heavy to you, it’s heavy.

Being a teenager isn’t easy, but neither is being an adult. Let’s face it, as time goes on, life gets harder and things tend to just get heavier. But I’m learning now that I don’t have to run from the heart shaped pizzas asking me to sit down and lighten my load. I don’t have to pretend to be strong. Sometimes you just have to peel off a pepperoni, take a deep breath, and let it go.

It doesn’t make you weak, it just makes you honest. And when you’re honest, when you’re vulnerable, when you’re brave enough to let it go, you find strength, you find peace, and then you can grab another slice.

A Golden Gate Birthday (Part 2)

Saturday October 1, 2022

On Saturday we woke up with a renewed determination to see the bridge.

We’d been given advice: 11:00am – 2:00pm.

That was the window. The no Karl window.

So we took our time getting ready, popped into a café for a quick coffee and a pastry, then walked with new resolve through our already familiar neighborhood to the water.

I took this picture at 10:56 a.m.

It wasn’t the whole bridge. It wasn’t the bridge from the travel photo with the perfect lighting and a sky that had never even HEARD of Karl. But it was, like, 80% of the bridge. The most I’d ever seen.

I thought of eigth grade me. Her eyes squinting in the overcast lighting, her hair gelled back in a ponytail, her shoelaces tied too tight. Here we were again, 18 years later.

From the bridge, we walked back by the Palace of Fine Arts—because why wouldn’t you?—en route to the Lyon Street Steps.

Lyon Street on its own is a bit of a hill. It’s gradual but constant. So when the stairs came into view and my friends glanced at me as if to say, “is THAT where we’re going?” and I smiled my best smile as if to say, “SORRY BUT YES,” I felt that small fear of did I plan the worst trip ever shiver through my spine.

But it wasn’t as strong as before.

I was having the best time, and I was surrounded by my best friends. There was an ease that had overtaken the fear. I still wanted everyone to have a good time, but I felt less afraid that they weren’t. It was a good day, and even stairs couldn’t ruin it.

We walked up the first flight, and were already excited at the view to come. We played “The Distance” by CAKE on one of our phones to motivate us to keep going. A few people jogged right by us, and a woman walked up and down the stairs in metallic leggings, managing to talk on the phone while climbing. We remained unperturbed. Once we reached the top, we high fived, took a few photos and then went on our way.

“This way,” I said, pointing to an open gate in between two cement pillars, one of which had a plaque with The Presidio printed on it.

This is where extensive (obsessive?) online research can come in handy before a trip.

While looking up things to do in San Francisco, one fun and unique attraction that came up was Andy Goldsworthy’s Wood Line. It’s found inside the Presidio (which is basically a gigantic park full of all kinds of fun things), and is VERY close to the top of the Lyon Street Steps.

0.1 miles to be exact.

We walked in the gate, and then descended into the park. Within a few minutes (or, if you’re interested, just to the left of where Pacific Ave and Presidio Blvd meet) we found the Wood Line.

It was the perfect deep breath after all the stairs. Plus, it was nice and cool inside the canopy of the trees. We walked until the path met back up with the main road, then followed the road through the park.

While walking, I said, “hey, I heard there’s a Yoda statue in this park,” which everyone agreed to go see. We took pictures and then I pointed at a nearby building.

“There’s an R2-D2 in there!” I exclaimed.

We tried to get in but were surprised to find the door was locked. Upon further investigation, we found out this was Lucasfilm a.k.a. the studio that MAKES the Star Wars movies. So not only was the Yoda statue not as strange as we thought, but we had also tried to wander into a major movie studio, and then peered through their windows for a while.

Afterward, we had lunch at Sessions at the Presidio. If you ever go, order the beignets.

From lunch, we got on the bus and headed downtown to visit City Lights Booksellers & Publishers. It is a cool bookshop with multiple levels. All of us being book nerds, we spent a good chunk of time looking around before we each made a purchase and went on our merry way.

Once we got back to our hotel, we just *sat.*

Downtime is an underrated part of travelling. Especially when you are travelling with friends you love dearly, whom you can talk to about anything. We sat in chairs and on beds and talked for a few hours, recovering from the literal miles we had walked over the last two days. It felt like having my friends over for dinner or gossiping in a dorm room. I sat there wondering how I’d gotten so lucky to have these people as my people. To know that I could tell them anything and that they would be there for me. To know that I could text them out of the blue and ask them to go to San Francisco with me for my birthday. and they would all show up to make me feel loved and celebrated. I thought about saying something, but then I worried I might cry.

For dinner, we went to Ace Wasabi Rock-N-Roll Sushi, where we drank Sapporo, repeatedly said, “oh my gosh you have to try this” and then eventually said “I think I need to unzip my pants” before walking back to our hotel and knocking out.

—

Sunday October 2, 2022

On our last day in San Francisco, we went to breakfast at Home Plate, which again was just a short walk from our hotel. It was our last meal together, the big brunch to end the trip. We had all booked early afternoon flights, both because they were cheap, and because it gave us the last half of our Sunday at home before we headed back to work.

To me, sitting at breakfast immediately felt like one of those “remember when” moments. The whole trip did, really. Though I’d given my friends a few months notice, it had still felt like a relatively spontaneous vacation. It seemed crazy that we were all able to squeeze in a weekend like this amongst our crazy schedules, and it seemed unlikely that we’d be able to do it again any time soon. So while I tried to be present, the whole trip took on a nostalgic feeling for me right from the beginning.

The next time we take a trip like this, our lives might look very different. And while a part of that is scary—because things are always changing and change is hard and chaotic and a lot to keep up with—it is also exciting. I’m excited to see where we go and how we grow. I’m excited for the future because I know I have a lot of good people in it, and I’m thankful for this trip because it reminded me of that.

Plus, like any good trip, this one was filled with its own one liners. Moments that made us laugh, that don’t make a lot of sense out of context, and that might lose meaning in the years to come. But in the Notes app on my phone, I jotted down a few.

“What is it with the eggs in this city?”

“She rose from the ashes of Georgie.”

“I will never get over seeing ravioli at a liquor store.”

“This is the picture of the century.”

These are their own kind of picture, their own kind of memory. I can still hear and feel the moment they existed in. They will always bring me back here, to San Francisco, where Karl reigned supreme, but we had fun anyway.

A Golden Gate Birthday (Part 1)

When I was in 8^th grade, I went on a class trip to San Francisco.

I remember eating Ghirardelli chocolate, I remember getting a migraine on the bus, I remember listening to Hoobastank in the hotel room that I shared with four other girls, and I remember the fog.

En route to Seattle a few years later, my family stopped in San Francisco. I remember walking around Fisherman’s Wharf, I remember it raining, and I remember the fog.

This past spring, on a slow day at work, I was scrolling through a travel article that counted down beautiful places to visit, and San Francisco was on the list. I stared at a picture of the Golden Gate bridge, in perfect focus, enveloped in golden light.

On both visits to San Francisco, I hadn’t seen the bridge like this. I’d seen its feet, hints of the deep red color, and glimpses of the swooping curves. On one day of my class trip, we’d even walked across the bridge, making it visible close up. But for the most part the fog sat right on top, hiding it, keeping its full glory a secret.

As I sat in my desk chair, staring at that perfect picture of the bridge, reading through the gushing comments from people who loved the city, or who dreamed of it but lived too far to visit, I decided I needed to go back.

When is the best time to visit San Francisco? I Googled.

September to November, it answered.

I bookmarked the page.

In light of my 32^nd birthday at the beginning of September, I decided to make the trip a birthday celebration. I invited my three closest friends, and I planned the whole thing.

The day before we left, I completely panicked, wondering if everything I planned—everything I knew I would love—was a terrible idea. Maybe my ideal trip was only ideal for me. Maybe everyone would have an awful time and wish they never came and wonder why we were even friends.

You know, just a cute, fun anxiety spiral that concluded this was the trip I lose all my friends. Thanks, brain!

Nevertheless, I boarded the plane with my sister on Friday morning, happy to be playing hooky from work, and texted Allison and Nicole, who were flying out separately, that we’d see them in the city.

—

Friday September 30^th, 2022

“Where are we headed?” our Lyft driver asked as we got in the car.

“Marina Motel,” I answered.

“Oooh!” he said as he zoomed in on his map. “That’s a cool area.”

The smallest weight fell off my shoulders.

My first fear: did I book us two nights at a murder hotel? had immediately been quashed.

After he dropped us off, we left our bags at the hotel and then headed out for lunch.

The hotel concierge told us: “right, right” as our directions to find everything we might need.

And she was right.

We walked down Chestnut St. and found tons of bars, restaurants and cafes. As we narrowed down what sounded good for lunch, we also pointed out possible spots for dinner, and for breakfast the next morning.

It was 70 degrees. A perfect, sunny day. The slightest breeze made us shiver, but it made the sun feel all the more welcoming.

We settled on Bonita Taqueria Rotisse, and I ordered a quesadilla that was almost the size of my forearm. We talked, settling into the weekend. My toes wiggled in my shoes, nervous and excited.

“Which way to the bridge?” Nicole asked.

I held up a pointed finger as I looked down at the map on my phone.

“That way.”

The homes in the Marina District are gorgeous. Big and colorful, they look nothing like the buildings we are acquainted with in Southern California. There are no backyards, the small garages act as the bottom floors of the building, and cars are required to drive over the sidewalk to get inside. We pulled up Zillow, curious and nosey, and we all gasped. Then we pointed, picking which houses we liked most, all while trying to pretend we lived there when another pedestrian walked by.

“Hello!” we would say with our best neighborly wave. “Just out for our daily walk.”

En route to the bridge, we walked by and through the Palace of Fine Arts.

It is so grand and unexpected. The kind of building you don’t expect to see in an American city. The kind that makes you stand underneath it and just look UP. Everyone walked by with a camera, taking in the architecture and showcasing its grandiosity in comparison to the average human.

A girl took pictures in her quinceañera dress, a family smiled for a potential Christmas card, a bride and groom took pictures with a small bridal party which included a cat in a tuxedo.

We kept walking, closing in on the water up ahead. As we walked, we pulled our sleeves up and fanned our faces. I bounced in excitement, thinking I’d outsmarted the fog—which is known in the city as “Karl”—elated to have arrived on such a sunny, hot day. But when we came around the corner and crooned our heads to find the bridge, Karl laughed in our face.

Not an INCH of the bridge was visible. We squinted our eyes at an island in the distance, assuming it might be Alcatraz but unable to tell for sure from the faint, blurry blob we could see.

We laughed, because it was the only thing we could do, and then we started walking again.

We went east, towards the Fisherman’s Wharf, with no real destination in mind. We blended into the pack of runners, bikers, and skateboarders that cruised down Marina Boulevard with their own plans. I began to relax, knowing this is exactly what I wanted to do. I just wanted to walk. To be a part of the city, allowing myself to fantasize that I lived there, the same way I had when I was in eighth grade.

It’s my favorite way to see a city. Slow and deliberate.

We ended up at Great Meadow Park at Fort Mason, and stopped at the top of the hill to take a few pictures.

An older man whizzed by us on an electric scooter, singing the Speed Racer theme song to himself and we all giggled. We sat down on a half wall, looking at the people picnicking, reading and sleeping on the grass. San Francisco seemed to know how to relax on a Friday afternoon.

With a quick stop for coffee, we walked back to the Palace of Fine Arts to watch the sunset. Clouds began to roll in, making it a lot colder. We shivered and ate Madeline cookies. We pleaded with the sun, begging for it to slice through, to give us that multicolor sunset behind the Palace, but it never did. We stayed for as long as our light jackets could stand it, and then we headed back to the hotel.

For dinner, we went to Na’Pizza, which not only had heat lamps, but BLANKETS on every chair.

You do not know cozy until you know a dinner blanket.

We ordered the Gnocchi alla Sorrentina, the arugula salad and the Margherita pizza to split between the four of us, along with a bottle of wine.

“Thank you for coming,” I said to the table of ladies, raising my wine glass. “You guys are my best.”

The phrase felt the slightest bit unnatural on my tongue. I’d only just heard it used a day or two before. But I liked the way it left the compliment open. Because they weren’t just my best friends, they were the best of many things I’d found so far in this life. The best listeners, the best advice givers, the best people to talk to on the phone, or to eat takeout with on the couch, or to ask for help when you’re falling into a thought spiral. They had each gone beyond the bounds of friendship for me, and were more than I could explain. They were just the best, and I was glad I had them with me.

This is What it’s Like to Listen to a Taylor Swift Album for the First Time

In August of 2017, my sister and I leaned into one another, a headphone in each of our ears.

We were sitting in a high section of the Honda Center in Anaheim, CA, waiting for Dierks Bentley to go on stage. The room was echoing with people going to and from their seats.

The clock hit 9:00pm. It was a Thursday. Spotify unveiled their new releases of the week. But we only cared about one.

It had been almost three years since Taylor Swift released 1989, and we were desperate for new music. And now, the first single off of the upcoming reputation had finally been released.

“Look What You Made Me Do” came in firing. We bounced our feet around, listening to every word. We gasped, we shrieked, we opened our eyes wide and let out an “OH MY GOSH.”

A few months later, at 9:00pm (midnight for the east coast) on another Thursday, we sat in our favorite chairs in the living room and streamed the entire album.

Unable to fully understand each lyric the first time it hit us, we listened to the attitude, we bobbed to the beat, we sighed, we laughed, we clapped, we screamed.

In a matter of weeks, we knew the whole album by heart.

—

For some reason, this is the first Taylor Swift album I remember listening to for the first time. Taylor Swift, Fearless, Speak Now, Red and 1989 all had their first listens, and I now know every word to every song, but for some reason it’s the reputation release that sticks out. Maybe it’s because it’s the first album she released after my sister and I moved out of our parents’ house and into a place of our own. It was the first album we could play at full volume and stay up late talking about without having to worry about keeping anyone else up.

After reputation, it became our tradition to listen to the albums together. To experience them for the first time, together.

In August of 2019, we heard Lover for the first time.

In July of 2020, as “stay at home” orders remained in effect, folklore became our biggest and brightest calendar event. And in December of 2020, evermore sent similar shockwaves throughout our very abnormal world.

In April and November of 2021, we sat in a new living room in a new apartment, listening to the new recording of the Fearless and Red albums, singing along to songs we already knew and learning the ones we didn’t.

On this past Thursday, my cousin Taryn and I stood in the audience of a concert in West Hollywood. My sister, now married and living with her husband, was unfortunately home with the flu. The concert started an hour late. By the end, even though the show had been great and the artist even more talented than we thought, we were tapping our toes, anxious to get out of the venue, into the car, and into the world of Midnights.

It was 10:30pm. We were an hour and a half behind the rest of the world who had stayed up to listen. We still had no idea what to expect. For half of our drive downtown we had theorized. Had tried to pick our favorite songs based solely on their names. We tried to know the album before it introduced itself, because we were desperate for the familiarity it would bring once it did.

Once I got on the freeway, we hit play. It was pitch black outside, with only spurts of traffic to brighten the road. “Lavender Haze” started playing through the speakers.

We swayed and then we flung our hands around. I smacked the steering wheel over and over, my excitement needing to escape somewhere. We drove home, listening to the album in sequential order, one after the other, making only occasional comments, often just sounds. When we got back to my apartment, we hustled in and took our spots on the couch and recliner, and then played the rest of the album.

All 20 songs.

I listened the way I always do, in the same shape. I melted into the couch, my legs tucked under me, and I sat still. I listened, still. I let the album pour over the top of my head like water, absorbing each song in its entirety.

At the end, I couldn’t pick a favorite, couldn’t say much of anything. I was just shocked, quiet, and contemplative.

It felt like the day after Christmas. The end of a book or a movie.

The tension and anticipation, that thing that pulled you through each waiting day, the moment you had been waiting for, had passed. But it was not over. Because now it was time to look.

The first listen of the album lays down the pieces of the puzzle, and in every listen after you search for yourself. For the words that make things make sense. Because that’s why you’re here, that’s why you showed up. To see if she wrote a song that gives you language you didn’t have before. To see if she found a way to speak a feeling you’d only been able to hold.

It might not be a feeling unique to a Taylor Swift album. I think it’s more a feeling consistent with art. But over the years, for those who listen, Taylor Swift’s music has become a reliable source of discovery. Of validation. Of the truth. And not just the capital “tea” truth that allegedly spills the secrets of this celebrity or that, but the truth about the feelings we all carry around with us. The truths about life we don’t always have the ability to talk about.

When I listen to a Taylor Swift album, I find, more often than anywhere else, the urge to point and say, “that. I feel like that.” And she makes talking about those feelings feel good, feel normal, feel uniting where it was previously isolating.

After I listen to a new Taylor Swift album, I often lie awake wondering if I could do that. Create. Be honest. Write something that makes people say, “that!” And knowing I’m not the only one that feels that way, listening to a new Taylor Swift album gives me hope that there are people all around the world starting the projects that will make it better.

So you’ll always find me on that couch, on a Thursday, at 9:00pm or quickly after. I will always show up to listen to a new album, because I always have more to say. And Taylor helps me say it.

Permission to Stay Home

If you’re looking for it, or you know in the back of your mind that you need it, or if you’re just too afraid to ask for it, this is your permission to stay home.

Consider this your field trip slip, signed and ready to be turned in.

You can stay home. You can do nothing. You can just sit or lay down. You can zone out to the TV, or clean until your heart’s content, or read in bed, or marathon movies, or do a craft or a puzzle, or dance around to music that makes you feel good, or cry on the couch, or do anything and everything that you have not given yourself time to do because your schedule is too full, or you’re trying to do too many things at once, or you feel like if you sit at home you’re not “seizing the day” or whatever.

Sometimes you just need to stay home.

Sometimes you just need time to breathe.

Sometimes you just need to shut and lock your door and then stay PUT.

This past weekend, that is what I needed.

For weeks my brain had been jumbled. Jumbled with all of the things that I wanted to do, all the things I had to do, and all the things in between.

I made a to-do list, but every time I looked at it it seemed to be the same length. Nothing was getting crossed off. I was just reviewing everything I hadn’t done, only to then spiral into the same chaotic pattern in which I still didn’t do anything.

A big chunk had to do with my new apartment.

Having just recently moved, I had things strewn about my counters and furniture. Pictures waiting to be hung, boxes waiting to be unpacked, trinkets waiting to be displayed, organized, and, in some cases, glued back together.

I did not have that base yet. That foundation. The one where when you get home from work, you put your purse in one place and kick your shoes off in another; the one where you can sit down on the couch for a few minutes as you decide whether you want to exercise or if you’ll get started on dinner early; the one where, on your way to bed, you hang that one rogue jacket back up in the closet and toss the sock that missed the hamper on top of the rest of dirty clothes, knowing that those two things are the only ones out of place; the one where you go to bed tired, but not stressed, aware of your to-do list for the next day and even excited to add a few more things.

That is my happy place.

But as much as I wanted to get there, I didn’t know how to start moving.

When I got home from work, all I wanted to do was sit down. To take a breath, to try and figure out which thing to do first. But I had this appointment or that commitment, I had too many very fun but very back-to-back plans on the calendar.

Every day when I got home I had somewhere else to get to or something else to get done. And I didn’t have any energy or stamina to get anything done before that. I would just sit, dreading the ticking forward of the clock, and then I would sit up, get where I needed to go and then come home and collapse into bed.

As each day went by, the piles stayed piles, the boxes stayed boxes and the chaos stayed chaos.

For me, this is my nightmare.

And I felt the anxiety of disorganization stack on top of the anxiety of the new changes taking place, and I kept looking left and right, wondering if there was a way I could push pause on everything so I could try and catch up.

Well, that pause came this weekend. It came when I realized I didn’t have anything on the calendar, and when I remembered that I have the power to say, “I AM TURNING INTO A CAVE TROLL THIS WEEKEND.”

Or, in other words, I put my outside life on *do not disturb* and I locked myself in my apartment and got to work.

I sat on the couch when I was tired, I hung things up when I was inspired, I danced around my living room when a good song came on. I moved trinkets from shelf to bookcase to shelf to table to shelf to counter to end table, waiting for it to look “just right.” I ate gummy bears. I watched sports. I made myself dinner. I put my hair in a top knot and didn’t even look at my makeup bag. I wore slippers all day. I cuddled up under a blanket and caught up on the book I’m reading. And then I took a long, hot shower, and went to bed mercifully relaxed.

On Sunday, I did it all again.

And as I sit here, writing this, I feel like an entirely new person.

My calendar is still full, my apartment isn’t finished yet, but MY GOODNESS I’ve come so far in two days.

So, if you’re someone who just needs a *minute*, who is feeling like there are simply too many things being thrown your way or asked of you; if your to-do list is in a stagnant state of long or if it has become something that only gets longer, then you might need to become a cave troll.

Maybe for a night. Maybe for a day. Maybe for a weekend. Maybe for a while.

I don’t know your schedule. I don’t know your responsibilities. But I know that we all need a break sometimes. We all need some time to digest what on earth is going on in our lives.

So, this is your permission to take that time.

To say no to that thing. To clear your calendar of what is superfluous. To take advantage of that empty space. Sit. Lay. Read. Breathe. Do absolutely nothing.

Put the outside world on pause. It will be there for you when you’re ready—and maybe you’ll be a little more ready for it.