About the Time I Took a ‘Mental Health Day’ and Cried in Four Languages

You ever wake up and instantly know that you will not, under any circumstances, be participating in capitalism today?
That was me last Tuesday. My alarm went off, my brain whispered, “Cancel everything,” and my body said, “Bet.”

Now, when people say they’re taking a “mental health day,” I imagine them padding around their home in cozy socks, sipping matcha, lighting candles that smell like “Rain on a Swedish Fjord,” and maybe doing yoga with a YouTube instructor named Willow.

Me? I took a mental health day and cried for nine straight hours like a woman in a telenovela who just found out her husband is also her long-lost cousin.

But here’s the plot twist: I cried in four languages.

• English: This was my base language for the day. Solid, dependable, the beige cardigan of emotional expression. It carried me through classics like “What is my life even?”, “I am a swamp monster now,” and “If I die today, please delete my search history.”

• Spanish: This hit harder. It’s the language of my childhood, so my tears came with more chest-heaving and dramatic pauses. I was tossing out “¡Esto es una mierda!” like a woman auditioning for a Univision soap opera.

• French: Ah, le despair chic. This one made my crying instantly feel like performance art. I’d whisper “Mais pourquoi?” and picture myself in a Parisian café, eyeliner perfectly smudged, a single tear rolling down as Edith Piaf played in the background.

• Italian: The grand finale. Full volume. Hands everywhere. My sobs were practically arias. I’m pretty sure I invented a new pasta shape with my hand gestures alone. Even my cat looked at me like, “You need to get it together, signora.”

By 4 PM, my eyes looked like I had gone ten rounds with a very determined bee, and my nose could have qualified as a traffic hazard. But strangely… I felt better.

See, we’ve been sold this lie that self-care always has to look pretty — pastel bullet journals, green juice, a bath bomb that costs more than dinner. But sometimes, it’s just letting yourself be an absolute, unhinged mess for a day.
Sometimes, “productivity” is switching from English to Italian mid-breakdown and giving it your full soprano.

And here’s the thing: I did take care of myself. I hydrated (with my own tears, but still). I released emotions I’d been hoarding like a dragon with shiny grievances. And I gave my neighbors a free multilingual performance that I hope they’ll never forget.

So yes, I cried in four languages. And no, I didn’t accomplish anything on paper. But sometimes the most responsible thing you can do for your mental health is absolutely nothing — except feel everything.

And if I can do all that while sobbing in French, baby, I am thriving.

About the Time I Yelled at My Roommates in Madrid

Living in a small 4-bed flat in Madrid with three men was already an extreme sport. Imagine a place with two bathrooms but only one shower, shared among four twenty-somethings with wildly different definitions of “hygiene.” I was the only girl. The other three were the kind of boys who think a plate is “clean” if it’s been rinsed under cold water and a prayer.

They never washed their dishes. They smoked enough pot to keep an Amsterdam café in business. There were always random friends hanging around. And two of them — let’s call them Señor Uptight and Don Passive-Aggressive — never even socialized with us. They just lurked in their rooms like Victorian ghosts who vaped.

Then… it happened.

One day, Señor Uptight’s girlfriend came to stay for a few days. That made five people sharing one shower. And, because the universe loves a challenge, she had the brightest ginger-red hair I have ever seen in my life — the kind of hair you could spot from space. Within hours, it was everywhere. In the sink. On the floor. Floating gracefully in the shower like Ariel had just done a quick rinse before heading back to Atlantica.

And that’s when I broke.

Not just “a little annoyed” broke — I went full Disney villain monologue. I marched into the living room, hair in my fist (not mine, obviously), and let loose:

“DO YOU PEOPLE EVEN KNOW HOW TO LIVE WITH OTHER HUMANS? DO YOU REALIZE THIS IS A SHARED SPACE? UNCLOG. THE. FUCKING. SHOWER. WASH YOUR DISHES OR SO HELP ME GOD I WILL PUT THEM IN YOUR BED. AND YOU—” pointing dramatically at Señor Uptight and Don Passive-Aggressive “—YOU THINK YOU’RE ALL HIGH AND MIGHTY BUT YOU’RE JUST DRUNK-ASS POTHEADS WITH NO IDEA HOW TO BE RESPONSIBLE ADULTS.”

Woops.

They just… stared at me. No one said a word. I think one of them blinked twice, but that was the full extent of their contribution.

We still had to live together for a few more months after that. We never spoke about it. I never apologized (oops), but I did eventually realize — look, sometimes you snap. It’s human. We all have a limit, and that day, mine was clogged with red hair.

The important thing is figuring out why you reached that boiling point. Stress. Overwhelm. Feeling unheard. And then, ideally, dealing with it in a way that doesn’t involve shouting about dish-based revenge. But hey — some lessons you learn slowly.

And if you’ve ever been convinced you’re failing at adulthood because you lose your cool sometimes? You’re not. You’re doing the thing. You’re keeping the place running, the shower draining, and yourself (mostly) sane. You’re gettin’ it done, baby — one unclogged drain at a time.

About the Time I Was Just a Silly Little Corpse with a To-Do List

There are weeks when you feel alive, thriving, glowing—your skin is clear, your inbox is manageable, and your laundry is, miraculously, folded. And then there are weeks when you are nothing more than a silly little corpse dragging yourself from task to task, fueled only by caffeine, panic, and the faint whisper of “it’ll be fine” you keep telling yourself in the mirror.

These past couple of weeks? Oh, I was the corpse. The corpse was me.

I woke up every day feeling like my soul had quietly packed a bag and left for a sabbatical without telling me. Meanwhile, my body was stuck doing human chores—answering emails, buying cat litter, pretending to care about spreadsheets—while my brain was just static noise and elevator music. I did my skincare routine like a ghost trying to lift a fork—slow, confused, and very aware I should probably be haunting someone instead.

My to-do list was out of control. I’d cross off “buy toothpaste” only for “call the bank about suspicious charges” to appear in its place. And for reasons I can’t explain, I still kept adding more—like setting myself a Duolingo goal again. Because nothing says “this woman has her life together” like getting harassed by a cartoon owl while lying face-down on the floor.

And then, in the middle of all this, I flew to Playa del Carmen. Not for a vacation—no, I wasn’t sipping margaritas on the beach like a functioning adult influencer. I went to finish paperwork. Paperwork that took forever. Paperwork so cursed I half-expected a Mayan deity to appear and tell me I’d angered the gods. I spent my days in hot, airless offices, signing the same page four times because “the signature must match the signature on file,” which—newsflash—was from 2013 when I apparently still had hope in my handwriting.

By the end of it, I was sunburnt, frustrated, and suspicious that I’d aged three years in a week. And yet—somehow—I kept moving. I got the paperwork done. I came back. The cats were alive (angry, but alive). The bills got paid. The deadlines were met. My credit card debt was still horrific, sure, but the corpse kept functioning.

And here’s the thing: we never give ourselves enough credit for these weeks. The corpse weeks. The weeks where you feel like you’re failing, dragging yourself from errand to errand, convinced you’re barely surviving. But in reality? We’re getting it done. We’re showing up. We’re making moves. We’re ticking boxes that felt impossible.

Sometimes, the wins aren’t shiny or Instagrammable. They’re not beautiful Greek sunsets or Paris cafés. Sometimes, they’re getting your paperwork finished in Playa del Carmen, making it through the week without completely combusting, and proving to yourself that even when you feel like a silly little corpse, you’ve still got stamina, grit, and an unshakable ability to just. keep. going.

Because the truth is: we’re not just barely getting by. We’re low-key killing it—just with dark circles and questionable posture.

About the Time I Went on a Bumble Date and Considered Faking My Own Death

Buckle up. This is a horror ride. And a long one at that.

I’ve been on a lot of first dates.
Like, a lot.
Like, “my Bumble algorithm thinks I’m collecting men for sport” levels of a lot.
Like, if you stacked all my first dates on top of each other, they could probably reach the moon.
Or at least a mid-tier Ryanair airport.

People say dating is an adventure.
And I agree—if that adventure is a scavenger hunt for the bare minimum.

Let me walk you through the highlight reel of trauma. And please, do not trauma dump back on my blog. This is about me and the unhinged men I’ve come across. And no, it’s not all of them. I’ve had some LOVELY first dates (looking at you M from Germany - call me). No, this is the highlight reel of dating horror stories that make me want to kill myself.

Playa del Carmen, Mexico:
Met a hot Portuguese guy who had great beach abs and big red flag energy. We’re two beers in, vibing under string lights like a Corona commercial, when I order a third beer. He looks me dead in the eye and says:
“Are you sure? A third beer? On a week day?”
I AM SORRY, SIR, DO I HAVE SCHOOL TOMORROW OR SOMETHING? I drank it aggressively, ordered a fourth, and told him to go home. Then I ghosted him so hard I’m now officially haunting Lisbon.

Madrid, Spain:
Met a tall Dutch guy. Great smile. Terrible instincts. Halfway through dinner, this man—this grown-ass man—removes his shoes under the table and proceeds to rub his feet against my bare legs like we were starring in Quentin Tarantino’s European Vacation.
I froze, internally panicking: Is this foreplay in the Netherlands?
Then he leaned in, smiled, and said, “You should come back to mine.”
Sir, I don’t go home with men who exfoliate me with their toe knuckles during dinner. And THEN ask me to split the bill.

Santorini, Greece:
Ah, the beautiful Greek man. The one who almost restored my faith in dating.
He picked me up on a scooter, gave me a tour of the island like we were in a Lizzie Maguire induced dream, kissed me at sunset, and said he had to see me again tomorrow.
Plot twist: tomorrow came and went and I never saw him again.
I should’ve thrown myself into the caldera. Instead, I drowned my feelings in feta and shouted “OPA” every time a man walked by to feel something.

Back in Mexico:
Went on a date with a local guy who said, “Let’s grab tea.” Cute, right?
We meet at a Starbucks (okay, fine), he orders for both of us (weird, but okay), and then WHIPS OUT A TINY BOTTLE OF RUM FROM HIS BACKPACK LIKE WE’RE ON A 10TH GRADE FIELD TRIP.
He pours it into our cups and goes, “Now it’s a party.”
Sir. This is a mall. There is a Forever 21 behind me. I am not your co-conspirator in suburban tea crimes.

And then… there was Taco Bell Guy.
In Madrid.
A Spanish man. Who, upon learning I was Mexican, said:
“I have the perfect first date idea. We go to Taco Bell. You’ll feel right at home.”
I want you to sit with that for a moment.
I am MEXICAN.
This man thought my cultural equivalent of romance was Taco Bell in Spain.
The coloniser audacity.

Mauritius Island, Indian man edition:
We hook up. Afterwards, this man looks me dead in the eye and says:
“Do you have… something? Like… something I could get from you?”
I, very confused, ask if he means a toothbrush or snack.
No.
He read online that Mexican women are sluts and assumed I had an STD to gift him.
I did not slap him. I simply left stared and left. And later hexed him using an old Frida Kahlo candle and bad juju.

The Argentinian Philosopher:
Oh, my favorite. We go on our first date.
I finally ask: “So… what are you looking for here?”
He smiles, looks me in the eye with all the wisdom of a man who owns zero bath towels and says:
“I’m the man you date before you meet the one.”
Okay, Buddha.
Thank you for your service. Now vanish like your job prospects.

And the Irish Poem in Liechtenstein:
We go on a sweet date. It’s cute. Unexpected. Met him at the Prince’s vineyard. I mean - our wedding there would’ve been epic. Officiated by the Prince of Liechtenstein himself.
The next day, he shows up uninvited at my Airbnb, kisses me, and says:
“If the mountain doesn’t go to Mohammed, Mohammed comes to the mountain.”
Then BLOCKS me on WhatsApp.
Sir, that was not a mountain. That was my damn rental. And you’re emotionally unstable.

At this point, I’m convinced I’ve dated someone from every country in the world and all I’ve gotten in return is a spicy mix of PTSD and hilarious WhatsApp screenshots.

I’ve considered many things to escape this hellscape of male mediocrity.
Changing my name.
Moving to a convent.
Faking my own death and starting over in Greece (but the Greek guy would probably ghost me again).

But I won’t give up.
Because maybe—just maybe—there’s a man out there who won’t judge me for a third beer, keep his damn shoes on, doesn’t bring pocket alcohol to corporate coffee chains, and understands that Mexican food in Spain is a hate crime.

Until then, I’ll be here. Swiping. Screaming. Writing.
And possibly setting up a Bumble date at IKEA, because at least I know there’ll be meatballs and emotional support lighting.

About the Time I Had a Crisis Because Someone Asked “Where Do You See Yourself in 5 Years?”

How DARE you ask me that while I’m emotionally fragile and mid-season 4 Star Wars Rebels rewatch?

You know those questions that seem harmless? Like “how are you?” or “what’s new?” or “do you want to split dessert?”
This was NOT one of those questions.
This was violence.
This was a war crime served up with a smile and a glass of ojo rojo with a shot of tequila.

“Where do you see yourself in five years?”
Where do I see myself?? Babe, I can’t even see myself making it to Friday without fully unraveling like a ball of yarn in a kitten daycare (although - kitten daycare does sound fun!).

Let's break it down. In five years, I’ll be just two months shy of 41.
FORTY-ONE.
That’s, like, a number. A real adult number. The kind of age where your back makes noises when you sit down and you start saying things like "we should leave early to avoid traffic” instead of “we should stay later to avoid traffic”.
Will I still be working in influencer marketing in gaming? Will I still be hunting down cozy creators who cry over Stardew Valley cows or creators who understand game lore? Will I finally understand what the metaverse is? (Probably not.)

Will I have a partner? Like, a real one, not just someone I trauma bond with for three weeks and then ghost because he says “crypto” too many times. Will I fall in love at a mezcal bar in Oaxaca? Will it be toxic? (Let’s be honest. Yes.)

And let’s address the darkest truth of all:
My dog.
My best friend. My soulmate. My constant.
HE MIGHT NOT BE HERE.
Are you trying to emotionally assassinate me with this question? Because it’s working.

Will I get another dog? Will it feel like betrayal? Will it be smaller? Will it have a passport?
WILL I START TRAVELING WITH MY DOG LIKE ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE WHO BOOK “PET-FRIENDLY AIRBNBS” AND PACK THEIR DOG A LITTLE CARRY-ON?

Speaking of travel—will I finally move to Spain or Greece?
Will I have convinced my niece, age five, and I guess, her parents, to become my accomplice in Mediterranean escapism and go island-hopping in search of her future funcle (that’s fun-uncle, and yes he has a boat)?
Will she be bilingual and judge me for always speaking English and rarely speaking Spanish? Will I cry about it over a glass of overpriced wine in a beautiful Greek island while she makes fun of me for still listening to My Chemical Romance?

And what about my free time?
Will I still be playing Disney Dreamlight Valley for 7 straight hours on Saturdays in a depressive-dissociative loop? (Statistically, yes and I probably won’t have even finished the game by then.)
Will I still cry-watch Rogue One and then A New Hope immediately after like an emotionally unstable adult with a Jedi complex?
Will I finally stop buying plants I cannot keep alive?
Will I still confuse financial stability with buying flight deals at 3am because “life is short”?

And then there’s the big one. The scary one.
What if I’m... dead?
No but like, what if this whole five-year plan thing is a cosmic joke and I get hit by a rogue electric scooter in Rome while chasing a plate of pasta? Because out of all the potential scenarios I just listed, this might just be the most realistic one.

WHO.
KNOWS.

What I do know is this: I’ll probably still be questioning everything, spiraling dramatically at a café, and writing about it with too many em dashes.
Maybe I’ll have grown. Maybe I won’t.
But five years from now, I hope I still laugh at my own jokes, love my life (even the chaos), and have at least one pet, one friend, and one reason to get out of bed—even if that reason is a new expansion pack.

About the Time I Bought a $14 Smoothie but Cried Over Rent

Let me set the scene: It’s the end of the month. My bank account is gasping. I’ve got 47 pesos to my name, my fridge contains half a lime and a suspicious Tupperware of moldy something, and my rent is looming over me like the ghost of fiscal responsibility past.

And yet.

And yet.
There I am, walking out of a very chic café holding a $14 smoothie made of goji berries, coconut water harvested from the tears of unicorns, and a sprinkle of capitalism. The smoothie is called something like "Rebirth" or "Glow Goddess Fuel." I call it "Denial with a paper straw." (Financially irresponsible, but I’m not trying to hurt the sea turtles).

This is not a one-time event. This is a pattern.
Because somehow, in my brain, $14 for a smoothie is “self-care.” $3,000 pesos for groceries? “Excessive.”
Dog food? “Do they really need premium kibble?”
Therapy? “That’s a luxury.”
Extending my vacation by 12 days to eat olives in Greece like a sunburnt goddess? “Absolutely essential for my mental health.”
Spoiler alert: I came back from that trip with 3 hours of sleep, a suitcase full of regrets, and a fresh layer of credit card debt so thick you could butter it.

I have lived through crippling debt. The kind where you check your account balance and it says, “Haha girl.”
I’ve been in the trenches. Borrowed $500 pesos to survive the week. Skipped groceries. Got real creative with sad tortillas and half an onion.
But did I stop traveling? No.

Did I stop buying the $14 smoothie? Also no.
Because somehow, my brain doesn’t register "vacation spending" as real money. Like, it’s not debt if it happened in euros. #TRAVELMATH.

You know that feeling when you come back from a 3-week trip and think, “Ah yes, time to reset, be responsible, and budget again”?
Yeah. Me neither. I come back, open my banking app, scream, and immediately buy an overpriced bottle of wine because I need “something happy” to distract me from the fact that I now owe my bank and possibly the spirit realm money.

And let’s not forget the anxiety. Not the fun kind that makes you clean your apartment at 2am. The kind that makes your eyelid twitch when your phone buzzes because you’re terrified it’s your bank saying “We need to talk.”

I know what you’re thinking. “Why don’t you just budget better?”
First of all: RUDE.
Second: I do have a budget. It’s just entirely made of vibes and delusion.
I always intend to be responsible. But then my internal gremlin whispers, “You only live once. Flights are on sale. And who needs savings when you have ✨wanderlust✨? What do you need money for? If you die, you’'ll die happy.” She’s a witch.

It’s all very glamorous until you’re sitting in a hoodie that cost more than your electric bill, crying over your rent invoice, while sipping something called “Zenberry Power.”

Anyway. I’m working on it. I swear.
But I also just found $150 flights to Barcelona and honestly… should I?

About the Time I Traveled for 3 Months and My Cat Filed for Abandonment

There comes a time in every emotionally fragile woman’s life when she books a one-way ticket to “literally anywhere that isn't here.” For me, that time is every year. I pack up, kiss my pets goodbye like I’m off to war, and disappear for three months to “find myself” in a country where I don’t speak the language but do know how to order wine and say “sorry” with my eyes.

This most recent time, I returned home sun-kissed, culture-enriched, and spiritually renewed — only to be met with the icy death glare of a furry dictator named Pato. My cat. Who, I’m 90% sure, called a lawyer while I was gone and is currently seeking damages for emotional distress, unauthorized snuggling substitutions, and abandonment of motherly duties. The case is currently titled: Pato v. That Bitch Who Left.

Let me clarify: I do not leave my pets to fend for themselves like a chaotic Disney villain. I hire trusted pet sitters. I leave detailed instructions. I buy enough wet food to qualify for bulk discounts and a loyalty card. I set up cameras. I send check-in texts like a nervous mom whose toddler is at their first sleepover. I video call my pets, okay? I have sobbed into my phone while my cat looked directly into the camera and clicked “Leave Meeting.”

And yet… every time I say goodbye, I feel like I'm slipping a note under their paw that says, “It’s not you, it’s Greece.”

Because yes, more often than not, it is Greece. Or Spain. The two countries that make my pets physically ill — not because they dislike them, but because they know those are the countries I fantasize about moving to. Like, full-on, pack-my-bags, burn-my-passport, “I’m Mediterranean now, bitch” type of delusion. I walk into a market in Málaga and suddenly I’m like, “I could buy olive oil here for the rest of my life.” I breathe the air in Naxos and think, “This is it. This is where I become whole.”

Meanwhile, back home, my pets are hosting a silent protest. No cuddles. No purring. Just disdain. My cat once puked on my suitcase. It wasn't even open. That was a targeted attack.

Still. The guilt is real. I feel like Cruella de Vil every time I close the front door with a suitcase. But so is this: I love my life. I’ve built a life where I can just go. I can cry in a café in Lisbon and no one knows me. I can fall in love with a Greek stranger and ruin it in under 48 hours. I can eat bread in five different countries and justify it as “cultural immersion.” That’s not selfish. That’s growth.

But every time I come back — from Milan, from Madrid, from Skyathos, from somewhere with tile floors and dreamy light and existential clarity — I do penance. I cancel plans. I don’t leave the house. I enter what I call the Fur-Based Forgiveness Program™. Two weeks of guilt cuddles. Apology treats. Quiet confessions whispered into twitchy little ears. “I’m so sorry. I’m never leaving again,” I lie, through my guilty, sun-drenched smile.

Because I will leave again. And again. And again. But I will always come back.

And one day, if I ever do move to Spain or Greece, my pets are coming with me — fur, sass, passive-aggressive puke piles and all. I’ll get them little pet passports. I’ll learn to say “he’s just grumpy” in five languages. I’ll find the perfect ray of Mediterranean sunshine for them to nap under.

But until then, I’ll keep doing what I do: chasing freedom, collecting stamps, and coming home to the only judgment that truly matters — the cold, dead stare of a cat who knows exactly how long you’ve been gone.

About the Time I Thought I Wanted Kids (Narrator: She Did Not)

There was a brief—and I mean so brief you’d miss it if you blinked while scrolling TikTok—period in my life where I thought:

“You know what? Maybe I want a child.”

ME. The woman who has loudly, proudly, and repeatedly declared since childhood that she’d rather get a colonoscopy during a live taping of The Jimmy Kimmel Show than ever reproduce.

I don’t know what got into me. Maybe I was ovulating. Maybe I was feeling alone. Maybe it was a well-timed Instagram reel of a toddler giggling with a golden retriever in a sun-drenched field of daisies.

Whatever it was, it broke me.

Suddenly, I was Googling:

• “Single mom adoption Mexico”

• “Sperm donors - and how the fuck does that work?”

• “Can I drink wine during pregnancy and while breastfeeding?”

• “Do kids like spicy food?”

I imagined us—me and my tiny spawn—doing crafts, traveling together, me being the cool mom in linen pants and emotional availability. I envisioned emotionally intelligent breakfast chats over avocado toast. Delusion Level: Astronomical.

Let me be clear:
I don’t HATE children. I just NEVER wanted children. Since Day 1. Not even fake ones. Not even Sims babies. I was that kid who played "house" and made the doll be a career woman with 3 cats, a wine fridge, and commitment issues.

Throughout my 20s, I heard it all:

• “You’ll change your mind.”

• “Wait till your biological clock kicks in.”

• “You just haven’t met the right person.”

First of all: rude.
Second of all: NOPE.
Third of all: My biological clock is powered by Coke Zero and seltzers.

But then came that weird moment of peace. I was financially stable-ish (I mean…I had groceries and no overdraft fees), single, not clinically depressed for once, and doing okay at work. And like an actual lunatic, I thought:

“Is now the time… to create a human?”

Ma’am. Please. Be so for real.

You know what I want?

• Sleep.

• Autonomy.

• Silence.

• 17 pets.

• The ability to book a flight and disappear without alerting the school board.

Eventually, the fog lifted. I fed my dog. Cleaned a hairball. Watched a toddler have a public meltdown for some dumb reason.
I remembered who TF I was.

I don't want a child. I want to continue being the weird pet lady who occasionally drinks wine in the shower and watches true crime in bed while filing her taxes late.

And that, my friends, is called clarity.

Side note: everybody do their own fucking thing. If you want kids, have them. If you don’t, then don’t. If you didn’t and got accidentally pregnant, figure it out. I have a niece. I LOVE HER TO DEATH, but if she cries I’m giving her back.

About the Time I Was Catcalled

I mean, let’s be honest. It hasn’t only been THE one time. Because men who catcall unsuspecting women on the street are pigs. And there are many.

The first time I was catcalled, I was 13.
Thirteen.
Still proudly wearing mismatched socks and carrying a Hello Kitty notebook.

And some grown-ass, disgusting man — probably someone’s uncle named Larry — decided it was the perfect time to let me know I had “nice legs.”
Sir, I just got my period last month. Please return to the dumpster fire from whence you came.

Since then, I’ve been serenaded on sidewalks, hissed at from moving vehicles, and once — once — barked at like a literal dog.
BARKED AT.
What response did he expect? For me to trot over and sniff his leg?

Sometimes it’s the drive-by:
“Mamacitaaa, que ricaaaa”
Sir, your 2003 Jetta is missing a hubcap. Worry about that.

Sometimes it’s the deeply creative poetry:
“With an ass like that, I’d never leave the house.”
Thanks, Shakespeare. Now rot.

And sometimes it’s just a look — that slow, scanning, leering gaze that feels like it should be illegal. (And, spoiler: it sort of is. But good luck reporting “eyes that made me want to bleach my soul.”)

It’s gross.
It’s dehumanizing.
It’s exhausting.
And unfortunately, it’s only Wednesday.

The thing is, I’ve been catcalled in every mood possible:

• Happy? Boom. Destroyed.

• Sad? Now sad and objectified.

• Neutral? Not anymore.

• Just trying to walk to the store and buy tampons in peace? FORGET ABOUT IT.

I’ve practiced every reaction over the years:

• The stone-cold ignore.

• The dramatic eye-roll.

• The middle finger.

• The sharp, aggressive “DO YOU WANT ME TO CALL YOUR MOTHER?”

• The “talk to me once more and fucking find out” death stare.

And once, just once, I barked back.
No notes. Would do again.

Sometimes I imagine having a small airhorn in my bag just for these moments.
“AY MAMI—”
BWWWWAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH
Instant silence. Immediate regret. Deep satisfaction.

But mostly? I wish I didn’t have to think about it at all.
I wish I could walk around like a man. You know — shirtless, unshaved, completely undisturbed.

But I can’t. Because I live in a world where “just existing” in a female body apparently sends out some kind of sexual Bat-Signal to every mediocre man in a 2-mile radius.

And it’s not just annoying. It’s scary.
Because catcalling, at its core, is about power.
It’s about reminding you that you’re being watched. That your body isn’t yours. That you’re there for someone else's enjoyment.

It’s about making you small.
But you know what?

I’m not small.
I am loud, fat, hot, brave, tired, and I am fucking furious — and unfortunately for you, sir, my dog already barked at me this morning.
So try me.

If you’ve ever barked at a woman on the street, I hope you step on a LEGO barefoot for the rest of your life.

And if you’re a woman reading this:
I see you.
I rage with you.
I hope you carry pepper spray and the delusion that you deserve better — because you fucking do.

About the Time I Achieved Part of My Dream

A few years ago, in a fever dream of delusional optimism, I made a list titled:
“Things I Will Absolutely Achieve by 35 Because I Am That Bitch.”

Let me give you a taste:

• Write a book.

• Fall in love but not lose myself.

• Own property.

• Travel around the world.

• Do the splits.

• Become the kind of person who enjoys drinking water.

• Be rich, hot, mysterious, and vaguely French.

Now, I’m about to turn 36 in two months and here’s the reality:

• Book? Half-written and deeply chaotic. But at least there’s this blog.

• Love? Accidentally fell for a man who Yoda a green rabbit. Still have nightmares about it.

• Property? DONE! Story for another day, though.

• Travel? Well, I hit 42 countries, so could be worse.

• Splits? All I’m splitting is the bill in this economy

• Water? Still hydrating exclusively via wine and red bull.

• Vaguely French? Oui, but only in attitude.

But… one thing on that list? I actually did it.
A big one.
A career milestone.
One I had dreamed about since I was 20, confused, and using a laptop that sounded like it was preparing for takeoff.

And I reached it. At 30.
I climbed the mountain.
I got the title.
I signed the contract.
I got the email with the subject line that said, “Offer Letter” and I screamed so loud my neighbor messaged me, “Are you okay?”

I was more than okay.
I was her. THAT BITCH.

And then… I started the job.
And… surprise!
It was just a job.

Like, wow, amazing. I achieved the thing. But also, I had to go to meetings? And answer emails? And perform emotional CPR on coworkers during Slack meltdowns? And make a PowerPoint that no one would actually read? Painful.

Don’t get me wrong. It was good job. A cool job. A job that past-me would’ve sold a kidney to get (and honestly, with today’s housing market, that might still happen).

But here’s what no one tells you about finally reaching a big goal:
Sometimes, it just feels… normal.
Not sparkly. Not cinematic.
Just you, eating string cheese at 10pm, scheduling a dentist appointment, and occasionally going:
“Damn, I really did that, huh?”

And that’s the kicker, isn’t it?

We think our dreams will feel like a Green Day concert finale — pyrotechnics, a wind machine, fire, a very good looking Billie Joe Armstrong.
But most of the time it’s:
You, in sweatpants, Googling “what is a Roth IRA” for the 47th time, while simultaneously being a certified badass for making shit happen.

Because I did make it happen.
I worked my ass off.
I doubted myself so often I almost started charging rent.
I cried. I applied. I got rejected. I kept going.

And I made it.
Not all the way. Not to the final boss level. But enough to know that I’m capable of doing even more. That I can keep going. That 35 is not a deadline — it’s just an arbitrary number society decided meant “you should have it all figured out by now,” and I politely decline that narrative, thank you very much.

So, here’s to:

• The dreams that don’t feel magical when you reach them.

• The lists we don’t finish (but hey, we started!).

• The milestones that turn out to be stepping stones.

• And the knowledge that if I’ve already done this much… I can do anything.

Including the splits.
Eventually.
Maybe.
Okay, I’ll stretch tomorrow.
Probably.

About the Day(s) I Cried Myself to Sleep

There was no big event. No heartbreak. No tragedy. Just… life being a relentless little shit.

It started like any other Tuesday-slash-Thursday-slash-eternal-Monday. I woke up tired despite having slept 8 hours and a full nap. My back hurt for no reason other than I dared to exist as a person in her 30s. I looked in the mirror and gave myself a dead-eyed nod, like two coworkers passing each other in a corporate bathroom stall.

I showered. Brushed my teeth. Fed the pets. It all felt so routine. I opened Instagram. First mistake. Saw friends sipping matcha in a Balinese treehouse with abs, others posting weekend engagement photos in wine country at the tender age of 26, “Huh. I’m 35 and I had crackers for breakfast. Again.”

I tried to power through the day. Work stuff. Life stuff. You know, the normal, soul-draining minutiae like:

• answering emails that feel like personal attacks

• pretending to understand Excel formulas

• wondering if I should go outside or just accept that I'm now a creature of the shadows

I felt off. All day. Like a balloon slowly deflating in a corner. No big pop. Just a little fffffffhhhht of air leaking out of my soul.

And then, of course, bedtime. The sacred moment where everything you've ignored all day kicks your door down like, “HEY, BESTIE, WANNA TALK ABOUT YOUR DEEP FEELINGS NOW?” Ugh. What a bitch.

So I’m brushing my teeth (crying), putting on pajamas (still crying), trying to take a deep breath (ugly crying), and then—the breakdown hits.

Big, loud sobs. Dramatic ones. Like I just found out my soulmate married someone else and also my house was repossessed by the government and also my favorite snack was discontinued (no, this would be tragic).

I cried like I was being filmed in a gritty A24 movie.
I cried like a Victorian widow who just found out her lover died in a foggy duel.
I cried like every therapist I’ve ever ghosted was standing outside my window, holding a boombox.

And did my pets come comfort me?

No. Assholes.

My cat (my sweet 8-year-old baby boy, the one I carried in my arms as a kitten like Rafiki holding Simba) gave me a side-eye so brutal I almost stopped crying out of shame. He looked at me like, “Bitch, you’re being loud.” Then he left the room. The nerve.

The other one? The one whose life I SAVED from the streets? Whose dumb little butt I relentlessly pet every time she asks for it? Sleeping peacefully on the chair I bought for myself like she pays rent here.

My dog, usually the emotionally needy one, straight up ignored me. Zero loyalty. Not one paw touched me. Not even a pity lick. Just full abandonment. So now I’m crying and rejected. Love that for me.

Eventually, I gave up. Let the tears do their thing. Curled up in bed like a wet sock. Fell asleep with the TV and the lights on.

And in the morning? I woke up looking like a pufferfish who just got bad news. But I woke up.
Tired? Yes.
Emotionally stable? Not entirely.
But I made some tea. Pet my emotionally unavailable animals. Opened my laptop. Kept going.

Here’s the point, though. Sometimes you don’t need a reason. Sometimes the world just gets heavy. And your brain is tired. And you feel like a failure even though you’re trying really fucking hard.

So you cry. You fall apart. You do it in bed with your pets judging you and your dignity slowly exiting stage left.

And that’s okay.

Because crying isn’t weakness — it’s maintenance.
It’s like cleaning out the mental fridge before it starts to smell.
It’s like resetting your soul’s Wi-Fi.
It’s like screaming into a pillow, except quieter and wetter.

So cry if you need to. Let it all out. Then wash your face. Drink water. Eat a vegetable if you’re feeling wild. And start again.

Because one day, out of nowhere, everything will feel okay again. Not perfect. But okay. And that’s more than enough.

About the Time I Was So Ill and So Alone

There’s a very specific kind of humiliation that hits when you’re 33 years old, independent, strong, allegedly mature —
and then you get dengue. And realize you are, in fact, not okay. And maybe, just maybe, you need your mum.

This is my story.
A horror tale. A cautionary tale. A fever dream, literally.

It started like any regular tropical nightmare.
A mosquito bit me.
Probably while I was outside being smug, barefoot, or otherwise carefree.
I didn’t even feel it. Which, honestly, rude.

Five days later, my body turned into a crime scene.
I was sweating, shaking, freezing, and hallucinating about soup.
I thought I had the flu. Maybe COVID. Potentially influenza.
But no.
It was dengue.

And I?
I was dying.

Like not hospital-level dying (yet), but "every cell in my body is screaming and I want someone to hold me while I cry into a wet washcloth" level of dying.

So there I was.
Alone in my house.
Unable to stand for more than 12 seconds.
No food, but also no appetite. No clean clothes, but also no strength to change. No energy. No dignity (but that one has been gone for a while).

And here’s where it gets really dark:
Not. A single. Friend. Showed. Up.

No “do you need groceries?”
No “can I drop you off some soup?”
No “hey bestie how’s your blood platelets?”

Nothing.

I could’ve fully died and my cats would’ve eaten my face before anyone noticed.

At one point, delirious and starving, I thought about boiling pasta.
I say thought because I genuinely didn’t have the strength to get up.
Just laid there, sweaty and trembling, fantasizing about noodles and death.
Stared at the ceiling like a Victorian orphan and whispered,

“This is how it ends. In these pijamas I’ve work for 3 days straight. Laying on the floor. Taken out by a bug.”

No dramatic final words. No candlelit goodbye.
Just me, dengue, and the silent judgment of my pets.

And then… I caved.
I called her.
My mum.

The woman I swore I didn’t need.
The woman I’d told, confidently, that I was “fine” and “grown” and “totally capable of living alone.”

I called her while ugly-crying into a heating pad and whispering,

“I think I’m dying. Please come.”

She lives in another city.
She was on a plane within hours.

And just like that, I was 33 going on 3.
She fed me.
She cleaned.
She rubbed my back.
She gave me the kind of love that no amount of therapy or multivitamins or delivery apps can replace.

And for the first time in a long time, I let someone take care of me.

And at some point, through the countless paracetamol pills and the liters of water I don’t remember drinking, I thought to myself: GROW THE FUCK UP.

Being independent doesn’t mean pretending you’re invincible.
Living alone doesn’t mean dying alone.
Asking for help doesn’t mean failure — it means you're human.

And honestly?
Your friends might let you down.
People might forget.
The world doesn’t always pause for your pain.

So you need to be the one who raises your damn hand and says:

“I’m not okay. Come help me.”

Or call your mom.
Even if you swore you wouldn’t.
Even if you thought you didn’t need anyone.
Because sometimes?
You do.

About the Time I Decided to Start Working Out Again

Look.
I’ve always struggled with weight.
Not in the “omg I’m so bloated after sushi” way.
In the “my thighs could crush a bear cub and I sweat just from existing” way.

And for most of my adult life, I’ve had an on-again-off-again relationship with exercise.
Like a toxic situationship.
We break up. I ghost her. Then one day I walk past a mirror sideways and suddenly it’s “hey bestie, you up?”

I’ve always worked out.
But I’ve also always eaten like a malnourished cat seeing wet food for the first time.
Eyes wide. Frenzied. Feral. No logic. Just vibes.
Like yes, I will eat a salad. In fact, salads are my favourite food. But then I will also eat three slices of cheese directly from the fridge standing up in the dark like a divorced raccoon.

I’m not proud of this, ok?

Because at some point, the math just stopped mathing.
I was eating like I’d just emerged from a famine — but the famine was emotional stability — and I wasn’t moving enough to justify the calories or the chaos. Damn, my therapist would be SO proud.

So, I started working out again.

Not for aesthetics. Not for revenge. Not even for beach season (I live at the beach half the time and still walk around like a sweaty croqueta).
No, I did it because I got tired of wheezing when I walk uphill.
Because my dog deserves a mom who can keep up.
Because I want to be a weird old lady one day who can squat and still yell at people.

So I made the decision:

Get. Your. Ass. Up.

And you know what?
I hate it.

I hate the sweating.
I hate putting on a sports bra, which is basically medieval chest armor.
I hate burpees. Oh. Oh, I hate these SO much.
I hate lunges.
I hate that “eight more” somehow feel like a thousand.

But I’m doing it.

And yes, I make excuses.
Yes, I sometimes “accidentally” skip it because I “forgot” I had “plans” (with my couch).
Yes, I fake stretch just to look like I’m doing something when I’m mostly trying not to pass out.

But for my dear fucking life — I’m sticking to it.

Because this is the only body I’ve got.
And while she may be soft, wobbly, and deeply suspicious of cardio — she’s mine.

I’m not doing this because I hate myself.
I’m doing it because I love myself — or at the very least, I’m learning to.

I want to be healthy.
I want to be strong.
I want to live long enough to see my cats judge me from the comfort of their senior beds, and my dog grow gray around the muzzle.
I want to climb stairs without gasping like I just ran from a serial killer.
I want to feel good. Not just emotionally. Physically.

And I’m not waiting until I’m “ready” or “motivated” — because that bitch never shows up anyway.
I’m doing it tired.
I’m doing it annoyed.
I’m doing it out of breath and a little resentful.
But I’m doing it.

About the Time I Had Nothing to Eat at Home

There are certain rock bottoms in life.

Crying in the shower.
Calling your ex while drunk and surrounded by red wine and candles like you’re in a low-budget Lana Del Rey video.
Wearing a swimsuit as underwear because laundry didn’t happen.

But there’s one that doesn’t get talked about enough:

Opening your fridge and realizing you have absolutely nothing to eat.
Not “nothing” like ugh, only this boring salad.
I mean nothing.
Like: there is a bottle of soy sauce, one limp lime, one ancient carrot that’s seen war, three olives in brine, a shriveled tortilla, and existential dread. That’s it. That’s the menu.

I stood there like I was expecting new food to materialize through sheer disappointment. I blinked. I closed the fridge. I opened it again.
Still no food.
Just shame and condensation.

At this point, the hunger turns feral.
You stare at the cat food for a beat too long.
You eat one dry cracker and call it dinner.
You consider texting your ex just so he’ll bring over a burger.
You Google “can depression cause scurvy” and “emergency pasta delivery near me.”

So I did what any tired, slightly unhinged woman would do.
I air-fried half a tortilla, dipped it in mustard, and called it “deconstructed quesadilla.”
Michelin star, but for the emotionally unstable.

I would love to say this was a one-time thing.
But it wasn’t.
This happens constantly because I’m an adult in theory but an unsupervised raccoon in practice.

This isn’t just about the food. It’s about self-respect.

Yes, I work (a lot!).
Yes, I’m busy (with what? Who knows!).
Yes, I had every intention of grocery shopping, but then a nap happened (I didn’t sleep well).
And then Netflix (just one more episode).
And then I convinced myself I’d just “order something healthy,” which is always a lie (McDonald’s is cheaper and faster).
You don’t order health. You order fries.

Turns out, eating is self-care. (And self preservation). Because every time I skip groceries, or push off meal prep, or decide “I’ll just eat crackers and pray”, what I’m really saying is: my needs don’t matter right now.

You can't meditate your way out of low blood sugar.
You can’t manifest magnesium.
You need food. Real food. With nutrients. Not just caffeine, sarcasm, and hope.

Feeding yourself is saying:

"Hey, I see you’re tired. Let’s make sure you don’t crash and burn on caffeine and crumbs."

And this is your reminder (mine too) that taking care of yourself isn’t always deep and glamorous and healing crystals.
Sometimes it’s making sure you have rice.
Sometimes it’s buying the damn groceries before you spiral into “three olives and a dream” mode.
Sometimes it’s setting your future self up to NOT be a gremlin at 9:42 PM eating peanut butter off a spoon and calling it tapas.

About the Time I Broke Up with My Boyfriend

Once upon a time, at the deeply unhinged age of 21, I met a man.

He was charming. Smart. Funny in a “dad joke” kind of way. He had a disturbingly unkept beard.
Six years older. Settled. Steady.
We fell hard.

So hard, in fact, that I moved cities to be with him.
Which sounds romantic until you realize I’d already lived abroad, had dreams of traveling again, and was suddenly giving up all of that to live a very cozy, extremely local, “maybe I’ll get a blender for my birthday” kind of life. BARF.

Two years in — he proposed.

And I said no.

Not in a dramatic, runaway-bride way. Just in a soft, sad, very-real kind of way.
Because deep down, I knew that’s not what I wanted. And I was 23, he was 28…we were at different stages of our lives where my idea of fun was tequila shots and his? Well, I don’t even know.

He wanted kids. I wanted plane tickets.
He wanted roots. I wanted movement.
He wanted a wife. I wanted… options.

But I stayed.
For five years.
Because it was comfortable. Because he was a good person. Because I loved him and, unlike the men that would come hereafter, he loved me. Because saying “no” to the life someone is offering you is terrifying — even when you know it’s not your life.

And then, Italy happened.

A quick trip. Just a little getaway.
Some wine. Some pasta. Some friends. Some very good looking guys. And some dramatically timed emotional clarity.

I came home tanned, in love (with life), and done (waiting).

I told him:

“I’m moving to Spain.”
“You’re invited.”
“But I’m going either way.”

And he didn’t come.
He didn’t even try to.
Because his dream life was here — and mine wasn’t.

So I left.

And then Spain. Oh, Spain. My home. My country. My heart.

I danced in clubs where no one knew my name.
I got lost, then found, then lost again.
I made bad decisions and beautiful memories.
I flirted. I healed. I grew.
I lived. I lived a life I was craving.

And all the while, I grieved a little — not just the relationship, but the younger version of me who thought she could maybe make it work.

Meanwhile, back home, he met someone. Not just someone. His wife and mother of his children. His person.

They are — and I say this with no sarcasm — perfect together.

We’re friends now. It’s weird and beautiful and wholesome and a little too mature for my taste, but here we are.

Sometimes life isn’t about villains and victims.
Sometimes it’s just two good people, walking in different directions.

I loved him.
But I loved me more.
And I had to choose myself — even when it hurt.

Because the version of me that stayed would’ve slowly disappeared.

I was 26. And tired of waiting.
Waiting for someone to change. To move. To want more.
So instead, I became the one who wanted more — and I gave it to myself.

TL:DR? I said no to the ring, no to the kids, and yes to a one-way ticket to Spain.

10/10, no notes. ICONIC. And my passport? Has not seen a day of peace since the day I boarded that flight in 2015.

About the Time I Decided to Adopt a Cat (Or Rather, a Cat Adopted Me)

I hated cats.
Like, actively hated them.
Thought they were mean, stinky, rude, mysterious, possessed little assholes who would scratch your eyes out just for breathing near them. (That last part I still believe).

They were the kind of animal you politely avoided at someone else’s house and then gossiped about later.
“They just stare at you.”
“They don’t even wag their tails.”
“Did you know they poop in sand and walk away like they did something noble?”
No. Thank you.

Fast forward to my 27th birthday.
I’m living at the beach, the sun is blazing, my skin is golden, and I’m celebrating in true chaotic fashion: tanning all day, drinking since noon, and surrounded by a gang of sunburnt friends who were equally feral.

And then someone says the words that would change my life forever:

“Hey, there’s a tiny cat outside.”

We all stumble to the door, drunk and giggling, expecting to see some mangy, unhinged beach goblin.
But no.
It’s a baby.
A teeny, tiny, stupidly adorable baby cat with comically small ears and one lone white whisker among a sea of gray.
He looked fake. Like someone shrunk a normal cat down to travel size and dropped it outside my front door for dramatic effect.

Obviously, we did what any responsible adults would do.
We took him inside.
We gave him a tortilla chip.
We poured more tequila.
We partied with the cat.

It was the best night of his life. And mine.
He didn’t leave. And neither did we.
We stayed up yelling, dancing, holding this baby cat like he was Simba, letting him walk across the table like some kind of honored guest.

The next morning, I woke up in a hangover fog so thick I didn’t remember my own birthday — But there he was.
Sleeping on a pile of towels in my laundry basket like he lived there.

And I thought:
“Oh no. No. Nope. No.”

Fast-forward 8 years later. He is my son. (No, for real, like I birthed him, ok?). My angry, grumpy, dramatic, needy son.

His name is Pato, and he is the love of my life. (So glad my other pets can’t read).
He yells at me daily. He demands attention and food like a tiny entitled king. He is, without question, the most annoying and perfect creature I’ve ever known.

And I am now a full-blown, shameless, obsessive cat person.

Like… cat memes saved on my phone level.
Like “look at my baby” while showing someone a blurry photo of a loaf of fur level.
Like I have a tone of voice reserved only for him and it is HIGH PITCHED AND STUPID level.

I didn’t want him.
But he wanted me.
And that was enough.

Sometimes the best things in your life sneak in while you’re distracted — drunk, dancing, not paying attention.
Sometimes they arrive looking like a mistake or a stray or something you swore you’d never love.
And if you’re lucky (and mildly hungover), you’ll wake up one day and realize you’ve let something truly good into your life.
Even if it pees in a box and screams at birds.

He’s 8 now. He meows like he pays rent, demands snacks at all hours, and bites me when he’s bored.
I love him more than most people.

About the Time I Dated a Married Man

Let me just start by saying: I didn’t know he was married.
Because if I had, I would’ve dramatically backed away like I saw a red flag on fire.
(Okay… I probably would’ve walked away. Dramatically. Eventually. After crying. Twice.)

Anyway.

We met. He was charming in that “has secrets but makes good eye contact” kind of way. He didn’t wear a ring. He didn’t mention a wife - of course. He did, however, mention music I love, films I breathe for and “not believing in labels,” which in hindsight should’ve sent me running straight into traffic.

I was 28 or 29. Emotionally soft. Delusional. The kind of woman who would see a walking red flag and think, “I can fix him with enough love and snacks.” (hey, I said delusional!).

Two months in, I found out.
He. Was. Married.

And what did I do?
Did I end it with dignity and self-respect?
No.
I stayed.
Because somewhere in my tragically underdeveloped frontal lobe, I thought, He’s going to leave her. We have something real. This is fate. (LOL).

What I actually had was a deeply mediocre man with a lying problem and a baby on the way.

Yes. A baby. With his wife. Who called me, calmly and pregnant, and let me know that while I was out here living my telenovela dreams, she was over there living an actual pregnancy.

I was mortified.
For me, for her, for womankind.
I ended it. He didn’t fight for me (shocking). I spiraled, obviously. Deleted his number. Re-added it. Unfollowed. Re-followed. Considered witchcraft. Googled “can karma be expedited?” (it can’t).

But I moved on.

I eventually got a new boyfriend.
And let me just say: he sucked too.
Different kind of awful. Emotionally manipulative with the emotional range of a soggy cornflake.
He also thought he was funny, which is worse than not being funny at all.

So there I was, post-married-man-trauma, dating a discount narcissist with a bad sense of humor, pretending I was okay.
I was not okay. But I had good hair, and sometimes that’s enough to keep going.

Fast forward a few years. I’m out, thriving, minding my own business, glowing with the peace of a woman who no longer answers texts from men - period.
And I run into him — the married one.

Oh my dear reader, he looked like shit.
Truly. A sad, wilted lettuce of a man.
Thin, pale, disheveled, hollow-eyed. Like karma had personally dragged him through the mud, then rolled him back in for seasoning.
He looked like his own ghost. And you know what he said to me? Oh boy. He asked me if I wanted to buy some c-ke. Like, c-caine. He. Was. Selling. Drugs. YIKES.

And I? I looked amazing.
Flawless. Radiant. Unbothered.
Because guess what?

I’ve been happily single. Or in a slightly co-dependant relationship with my therapist who has to remind me she’s not ChatGPT and I can’t text her every day with random ideas and thoughts and expect her to be available 24/7. But that’s a story for another day.

No married men. No liars. No “it's complicated” cowards.
Just me, my cats, my dog, my savings account, my peaceful nervous system, and my ability to recognize a walking red flag in under 30 seconds.

And now, a moment of reflection before I go back to being my unhinged self.

The real tragedy wasn’t that he was married.
It’s that I kept choosing him after I found out — because I didn’t think I deserved better.

I thought love was about sacrifice. About waiting. About “believing in someone” even when they’re objectively garbage.
But it’s not.

Real love doesn’t ask you to shrink yourself or share someone who can’t even share a calendar invite.
Real love isn’t confusing.
And the moment I started loving me more than I loved the idea of “us,” everything changed.

So no, I didn’t end up with the married man. Or the other trash fire after him.
But I ended up with myself.
And honestly? I’m the best relationship I’ve ever had.

About the Time I Was Almost Murdered (By a Moth)

I’ve survived bad breakups. I’ve lived alone. I’ve assembled IKEA furniture without crying.
I’ve even calmly pretended to understand what a mutual fund is (I don’t).

But nothing in my 35 years on this planet prepared me for the night I almost met my maker via moth.

Let’s set the scene, shall we?

It’s 11:43 PM. I’m in bed, freshly showered, slathered in overpriced night creams I can’t pronounce, watching a TikTok therapist explain how maybe you’re not dramatic, maybe you’re just in survival mode. Relatable. My dog is snoring. One cat is on my head watching my phone. The other one is mad at me, somewhere under the couch (I refused to let her scratch the curtains - sue me!).

Then I hear it.
The telltale sound of evil in flight: a dry, flappy, chaotic flutter.
There is a moth. In. My. Apartment.

Now, you don’t know me, you don’t know my name, my face, my life. But I will share one thing with you: I am terrified of bugs. Specifically the ones that fly. I will burn a house down. I will crash my car. I will jump off a ledge. But I will try to avoid a bug at any cost.

At first, I try to be brave. I am a grown woman, for fuck’s sake. I pay rent. I have a retirement savings account. I have survived 37 consecutive Sundays of doom.

“This is fine, I am fine,” I tell myself.

But then the moth dive-bombs me like it’s been sent by an ancient curse. And hey, I just came back from Egypt, so you never know.

It brushes my arm. Ugh.

I scream. I get out of bed faster than I’ve ever moved in my life.

I knock over my water bottle, the cellphone, and my sense of safety. My dog, bless him, blinks twice and goes right back to sleep - he knows any chaotic drama coming from me is not worth his time. My cats? Useless. One watched. The other ran. Cowards.

I grab the nearest weapon: a chancla — as tradition demands.

What happens next is hard to explain. It’s part exorcism, part interpretive dance, part emotional breakdown. I swat (and sweat), scream, crouch, yell, cry-laugh. I beg:

• “Please just go back to hell!”

• “This is my home!”

• “I’m not emotionally stable enough for this!!”

At one point I genuinely consider calling someone. Not for help — just so someone can hear my final words: “Tell my pets I loved them.”

Eventually, the moth disappears. I don’t kill it. I lose it. It vanishes behind a curtain or into the void or maybe ascends to deliver a report to the Moth Elders. I don’t know; but it’s out of sight.

I try to sleep. I clutch my dog like a teddy bear (he hates it) and I text my best friend, “I was almost murdered.” She replies, “Again?”

Did I technically almost die? No. Probably. Still unclear.

But for someone with anxiety — the kind that sometimes knocks the wind out of you in the middle of a completely normal Tuesday — the line between “everything’s fine” and “I am dying” gets real blurry, real fast.

And that night, with a moth zigzagging toward my face like a tiny agent of chaos, I felt it.
That same little spike of panic. The jolt.
The weird floaty feeling where you ask yourself: Am I okay? Am I safe? Am I... dying?

There’s an old belief that moths symbolize death. Transitions. The in-between.
I think about that sometimes.
How something so small and ridiculous can still trigger that deep fear.
How we live with it.
How we laugh at it.
How we survive it.

So yeah — I didn’t die that night.
But I had a moment with mortality…and a chancla.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

In the end, the moth wasn’t the real threat. It was the way it made me feel — small, helpless, totally unhinged (okay that last part can’t really be blamed on the moth). And sure, maybe that’s dramatic, but so am I. The truth is, moths will always exist. Chaos will flap into our lives at 11:43 PM, uninvited and dusty. But fear? That part’s mine. I get to choose what to do with it. Whether I scream, fight, freeze, or grab a chancla, the moth doesn't control my emotions — I do. Which is comforting… until the next one shows up. Then all bets are off.