I shudder every time I hear it. Because I know what it means.

People say it’s just descriptive, representing a simple sentence: “I’ve never slept with a man.”

But it’s never that simple. We don’t give things names like that unless they carry meaning.

It doesn’t just describe experience. It ranks it.

I’ve heard people say they get hate for being a “gold star lesbian.” That people mock them— “Oh, do you want a gold star for that?”

And I can understand why that feels dismissive. But I’ve also experienced the other side. Where the term isn’t just descriptive— it’s weaponized. Used to quietly (or not so quietly) invalidate lesbians who have slept with men.

To suggest, even subtly:

more authentic

more true

more resilient

based on their navigation of comphet.

And that’s where it stops being neutral. Because you can’t say “I stayed true to myself and didn’t cave to pressure,” without implying that someone else did.

“Gold Star Lesbian”

It doesn’t feel like queer culture

like liberation

but rather, repackaged purity culture.

We’ve seen it when virginity is treated like virtue and when sexual history is used as a measure of worth. I refuse to let it infiltrate our community.

Your sexuality is not something that gets diluted based on your past. A lesbian who has slept with men is not less real, less valid, less authentic. She just has a different story.

Picture this:

Two people became stand-up comedians. One of them always knew. They resisted pressure, didn’t follow expectations, and went straight into comedy.

The other didn’t. They followed the path laid out for them— school, career, stability— before eventually finding their way to the same place.

We wouldn’t call one of them the “real comedian.” We wouldn’t say one is more authentic, more legitimate, more true.

So why do we do that here? Why do we create language that separates people not by who they are, but by what they’ve done?

If someone wants to say “I’ve never slept with a man,” that’s completely valid. That’s their experience. But the moment we turn that into a label, a category, a thing to be compared— it stops being neutral. It becomes hierarchy.

I don’t think identity should be something we rank. Not by experience. Not by timeline. Not by how closely someone’s path matches “ideal.”

“Gold Star Lesbian.” I’ve never liked the term. Because the moment we start ranking people within our own community,

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I used to believe in the phrase love conquers all.
But love, as a feeling alone, crumbles without a foundation built.

I’ve learned that love is intentional.

To me, it’s a soft kiss on the forehead that makes the mind feel zen.
A warm embrace that melts away the body’s tension.
A bubble bath drawn as an act of care, to wash away the day’s stress.

My body knows calmness instead of confusion.
Softness instead of whiplash.

It’s consistency in the small things that together, feel bigger.
A good-morning text.
A good-night wish.
A “this reminded me of you.”
The comfort of knowing that presence won’t disappear.

For me, it’s being met with “What can I do to support you?” when I’m feeling defeated.
Not fixed.
Not minimized.
Just heard.

An apology followed by change.
Someone who stays when things get hard; who understands partnership as collaboration rather than conflict.

It makes room for being human, with the trust that we will always find the way back to each other.
It turns conversations about feelings and impact into bridges toward understanding and growth, rather than attacks.

It’s being treated to a boba tea or a favorite home-cooked meal.
A back rub when anxiety is consuming or pain has become too loud.
A quiet night in, or a gentle activity, when chronic illness flares — care that adapts instead of resents.

It’s showing up, sometimes just to sit in silence next to each other.
Doing small things simply because they bring joy.
A pause mid-conversation to admire each other.
A quiet glimmer in their eyes while listening to me telling a story.

I’ve learned that love is actionable.

It isn’t perfection.
It’s accountability.
Willingness.
Growth.

The understanding that there doesn’t always have to be someone who’s “right.”

It looks like cuddling on the couch under a shared blanket.
Giggling before sleep.
The electric softness of familiar touch.
A home found in someone’s being.

It’s someone who makes the world feel less chaotic, not because life is easy, but because it’s faced together.
Date nights that remind me why love chose us in the first place.
The ongoing intention to tend what matters.

To me, safe love is being understood. And chosen.
Not merely tolerated, but cherished.
Finding beauty in someone’s quirks.
Nurturing them because their happiness deepens your own.

It’s remembering the small things.
Holding hands in the car.
Doing nothing at all, and letting that be enough.

Sometimes my mind tells me this kind of love isn’t real.

I know it is.
Because it’s the love I offer.

It’s the day after Christmas. I’m drowning my sorrows in a bar.

There’s people everywhere. Colorful lights. I can feel the warmth of the patio heaters kissing my back. A sensation of a warmth I haven’t known in a long time.

So many voices, yet I can’t hear anything. They’re just vibrations projecting from every corner, bouncing off me and disappearing into the abyss.

I sit here and wonder what brings everyone tonight. I feel I’m among my people. Probably those who feel unloved. Unwelcome. A place to run to when they don’t feel chosen.

I asked for a Michelob. To my surprise, they didn’t have it. Quite strange for a queer bar, where I’m sure plenty of other lesbians frequent. The Yuengling Flight—it’s not comparable, even though I don’t even like beer in the first place. The only reason I ordered something light is because I don’t want to drink myself into oblivion.

It’s so fucking strange, being in my 30s. Remembering how my younger self thought she was bisexual. That she wanted to be a mom. That she [dreadfully] almost married a man.

So strange, the waters I’ve waded through to realize that’s never what I wanted, truly.

Still, I didn’t imagine sitting at a red high-top table the day after Christmas. Alone.

I’ve always felt alone. Even in rooms full of people. Just like how I feel in this bar right now.

Most of the time I find myself trying to suffocate myself in my feelings. Like a plastic bag over my head as I scream. Purposeful. Torturing myself for torture’s sake. I don’t want to run from them. Somehow, I know if I try to do that, they’ll catch me. Tackle me, give me a concussion. I don’t want to give them that type power.

If I’m the one to suffocate myself, at least I have control.

But tonight is different. The control I typically have, I’ve lost. I’ve entered the stadium without a helmet, just waiting to be taken to the ground.

Give me amnesia so that tomorrow when I wake, I won’t remember half this.

Too bad this garbage will await me in the morning.

I’m exhausted.
From everything that followed.
The entanglement. The damage.

I wasn’t prepared for this.
The blunt-force trauma I didn’t know I’d sustain.
The neurological injury.

I’m grieving so many things.
Abandonment. The loss of safety.

Not just safety in others, or in the belief that love can be enough,
but safety in my own body.

I shouldn’t have to do all of this.

Nothing feels stable anymore.
Not my sense of reality.
Not my capacity to heal.
Not the future.

Old wounds aren’t old anymore.
They’re ripped wide open.
They’re gaping. Bleeding.
In need of sutures.

But I only have sewing thread in my box.
Too flimsy. Not sterile.
I can’t stop the bleeding or the infection from spreading.
Septic shock feels inevitable.

Where are the antibiotics.
The pain medication.
I won’t survive without them.

Call the doctor.
Transfer me to the ICU.
I need a higher level of care.

Content Note:
This piece addresses themes of emotional abuse, coercion, self-harm, and relationship trauma.

I’ve written pieces like Sad Girl Dinner and Every November — written in moments where grief, pain, anger, were like a pot on a hot stove, boiling over. And though I’ve always been someone who naturally feels everything so deeply, I can’t help but wonder why does this all feel so heavy?

My feelings don’t feel “normal.” They feel like pain strewn across the stars, across light-years and galaxies. Buried, yet easily resurfaced. Echoes of every cry, wail, plea for help, all twisted into something unrecognizable.

As if tangled like a necklace, I’ve slowly started to trace the loops and knots, trying to recover its original form. Or rather, my original form.

Much like that process, I’m understanding that the untangling takes time and patience. And that even then, I may never return to my original shape. I’ve also questioned, how did I get here?

I’ve reached an epiphany that I never wanted to have, because that means I have to admit that I’ve played a part in my own betrayals.

Not in the sense that I caused the harm that was done to me, but that I stayed, adapted, and contorted myself in relationships that required self-erasure.

I’ve never had a soft love. Not from others; not from myself.

My first love wasn’t love at all. I can say that now, looking back with years of unwelcome wisdom. What it really was, was wanting someone who didn’t want me back in the same way. All-consuming. Confusing. Harmful.

I was only 13 — a time when I didn’t yet have language for power imbalances or emotional leverage. I only knew that being close to her felt electric, and being kept at a distance felt devastating. Affection came in small, fleeting doses. A hug (or more) if I was lucky, but mostly closeness that felt conditional.

I learned very early that love was something you earned. And when I couldn’t earn it, I turned to writing poetry and self harm to cope.

Her life at home was unstable. There was yelling. Cruelty. An environment where she was constantly criticized and made to feel small. She developed some unhealthy coping mechanisms of her own. She was always asking me if she looked okay, if I thought she was pretty, if I thought she was enough. And I became a soft place for her.

I thought that if I could love her more, be easier, prove myself, that she would eventually love me back. I did her chores. Paid for her lunches. Gave her endless affirmation.

Yet by her, I was forced to dress, speak, and move a certain way. Limited in who and what I was allowed to engage with. Certain music, certain clothes, certain people were off-limits. Only “hers”. If I crossed those invisible lines, affection was withdrawn. Threats made. I was afraid to lose her entirely.

So I complied.

I grew very good at reading moods, anticipating withdrawal, making myself useful, quiet, desirable, agreeable. It was drilled into me that my needs were inconvenient, that my feelings were “too much,” that wanting reciprocity was a pipe dream.

And yet, I still loved her. Deeply. Desperately. In a way that completely overtook my adolescence.

There were boundaries that blurred. I let them be crossed just to stay close to her. Intimacy existed, but never equally. It came unpredictably, on her terms, without reciprocity. I took every breadcrumb I could get, because breadcrumbs felt better than starving.

That unpredictability trained me. It taught me to wait. To hope. To chase. To accept confusion as chemistry and scarcity as desire.

I stayed for five years.

I stayed because this was the only version of love I knew.

When I finally broke things off, I didn’t feel relief. I felt lost. My sense of self had been stripped by the control I had adapted to. Scared doesn’t begin to describe it. I was a stranger to myself.

So when someone else showed interest at a time I was looking for a way out, I latched onto him. Because I didn’t know how to exist without being attached to someone. Somehow, I thought he would be my escape.

Sex happened by coercion. In environments clouded by alcohol, heartbreak, jealousy, and shame. I told myself this was normal. That this was what relationships looked like when you were grown. I didn’t yet know how to tell the difference between desire and obligation.

He cheated on me more times than I will ever know. I felt it in my body long before I ever had proof. When the proof finally came, I should’ve left.

Instead, we talked about making it work.

At one point, he looked me in the face and told me he cared about me, but didn’t know if he was capable of real love. I don’t know why I stayed. But I’ve never forgotten the blank look in his eyes.

In the moments I wasn’t trying to convince myself this was fine, my thoughts drifted somewhere else. I thought about women. About what it might feel like to want instead of endure. Yearning for softness and mutuality, something I hadn’t known.

When he proposed, the feeling that rose in me wasn’t excitement, but fear. I noticed it immediately. I remember thinking how strange it was that I wasn’t crying tears of joy.

When he was stationed in another state, the distance made the truth harder to ignore. When he finally came home for his father’s wedding, we stayed in a hotel together. We had sex. We talked. And somewhere in that conversation, it came out that he had a threesome during one of our “breaks.” He described it not just casually, but boastfully.

A panic attack took over. Violent crying. The realization that the person who claimed to care about me could treat intimacy like something disposable, while asking me to commit my entire future to him. It was then I told him I would never see him the same again. And for once, I meant it.

I left. And even though I was proud for walking away, it wasn’t the end of the pattern.

After him, there were others. Not loves; more like places I tried to rest. None of them felt solid. None of them felt mutual. They were all variations of the same lesson: closeness without safety.

There were arrangements where I was wanted, but not chosen. Where my body was welcome, but my heart wasn’t. Where I was convenient, available, and disposable. I told myself this was better than nothing. That at least someone wanted me.

And then there was the first woman who felt real.

The first place where my queerness wasn’t just daydreamed, but lived. And yet, even that love had to be hidden.

She was younger than me. Closeted. I was in a position of authority. Everything about us had to stay secret — at work, at home, everywhere. Her family was deeply religious. When she finally came out, we were told we couldn’t see each other for a while.

I panicked.

Not because I didn’t care, but because I cared too much. Because control was taken away from me again. Because something I loved fiercely suddenly felt fragile.

Instead of saying I was scared, I said something else. I told her I didn’t know if I felt a spark anymore. The words left my mouth before I could stop them. I knew immediately I had made a mistake. By the time I tried to take them back, it was too late.

She walked away.

That loss still hurts. Not just because I loved her, but because I became the thing I had always been afraid of. I hurt someone I cared about because I didn’t yet know how to sit with uncertainty without self-destructing.

After that, I kept drifting. Back into dynamics where I was used instead of met. Where intimacy existed without intention. Where I was someone’s option, never their choice. By the time I met the next person, I was hopeless.

Exhausted.

Done.

And then I met someone who felt different.

Not perfect. Not effortless. But present in a way I wasn’t used to. Attentive. Curious. Emotionally open. She asked questions and seemed to care about the answers. She took accountability in ways I hadn’t seen before. She apologized when she hurt me. She worried about losing me.

For the first time, I felt chosen.

I let myself believe that maybe this time would be different. That all the work I had done, all the awareness, all the growth, had finally led me somewhere safe. I felt seen not just for my softness, but for my depth. I felt met instead of used. Held instead of tolerated.

And because of that, I trusted her with everything.

I told her about my past. About the ways love had hurt me. About how deeply I feared abandonment. About how much consistency mattered to me. She knew what it had cost me to open like that. She knew how careful I was being with my heart.

At first, she met me there.

But slowly, something began to change.

There were moments of intense closeness followed by sudden distance. Warmth followed by withdrawal. Promises made and then quietly undone. Sometimes she could go deep with me, emotionally present and reflective. Other times she felt unreachable. Guarded. Afraid.

It felt like loving someone who could access closeness at times, and retreat from it at others — as if different parts of her were taking turns.

I tried to be patient. I tried to communicate clearly. I tried to hold space for her fear without silencing myself. I explained my needs gently and honestly, believing that clarity could create safety. Instead, the ground kept shifting.

I began to feel the familiar tightening in my chest. The hypervigilance. The waiting. The feeling of self-abandonment. I hated that feeling because I recognized it. I had been here before. I had promised myself I would never live inside this kind of uncertainty again.

And yet, I stayed.

Not because I was naive, but because when things were good, they were so good. Because the connection felt rare. Because she had shown me a version of love that felt real, and I kept hoping we could return to it.

Our separation felt final, but unfinished.

There was distance, then reaching. Boundaries, then softness. Silence followed by familiar words that reopened old wounds. It never stayed closed long enough to feel resolved, and never stayed open long enough to feel safe.

There was no true untangling. Just stretches of absence followed by moments of closeness that made me believe we were still holding something real. We struggled not to reach for each other, even when we knew we should stop. Periods of no contact felt unbearable, followed by reconnecting that felt stabilizing. Each return brought relief; each withdrawal brought despair.

I was left holding the weight of what we had built without ever being sure when it was actually over. Trying to understand how something that once felt mutual could keep changing shape. Never solid enough to rest in, yet never gone enough to release.

That loss broke me in a way the others never had.

I don’t think she meant to devastate me. I think she was afraid. I think she didn’t know how to stay present when things became real. I think her own unhealed parts took over.

But intent does not erase impact.

And the impact was this: the one person I trusted not to repeat the pattern still became part of it. Not by intention, but by limitation.

That is what shattered me. Not because she was cruel, but because she mattered. Because the love was real enough to hope for, and unstable enough to lose.

---

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Lately, it’s really started to feel like fall for me. Not just because it’s getting darker sooner and the weather’s turning colder, but because of the way the universe makes me feel. Every year around this time, both a peacefulness and an extreme loneliness wash over me. Contradictory, just like everything else about me.

My body finally feels like it’s not in overdrive, constantly trying to maintain my temperature. My joints feel less swollen, though I’ve started to notice my ankles feel incredibly weak, especially when I first place my feet on the ground in the morning. There’s a sense of ease in the world around me now, less hustle and bustle. I can feel it in the crispness of the air.

At the very same time, my mind is still racing. Maybe even more so than during the spring and summer. I don’t know if it’s because I’m staying inside more, with fewer things to keep me busy. All I know is there’s a million thoughts swirling in my head; even as I write this I’m struggling to figure out where to start.

I’ve been thinking a lot about healing and how different that looks from person to person. I’m frustrated with myself because I feel like I’ve been on this journey for so long, too long; I’m ready to be done. I want to be loved. I’m ready to be loved. I think? But I don’t know which, my mind or my heart, isn’t letting me move forward. I’m angry because everyone always says that things get better over time, but I feel like I’m stuck in the exact same place I was at the end of 2023.

It’s cruel, actually, how you can still have so much love for someone who completely and utterly broke your heart. The day the divorce was finalized, I remember saying to myself that I’m never going to be the same person. And I’m not.

She awoke something in me that I can’t put back to sleep. A love that I didn’t know existed. Deep, genuine, unmatched. I shared parts of myself I’ve never shared with anyone else. I felt vulnerable, yet seen. Understood. And, for a time, appreciated. Those feelings didn’t get to last long, as the person I fell in love with slowly drifted away, both physically and emotionally.

Every time I try to have this conversation with someone, they just don’t get it. I’ve observed so many relationships where people seem annoyed or resentful of their partners. Where the love has disappeared. They’ve lied, they’ve cheated, and half the time it seems like they don’t even like each other on a fundamental level. So when these people tell me that everything will be okay, that time heals all wounds, that I’ll find the connection I’m yearning for again, I know they don’t understand.

What’s worse is the way people assume that healing means being alone, that I just need more “time to myself.” I don’t. I’ve had nothing but time to myself for over two years. I’ve sat with myself. I’ve sat with my emotions. I’ve coped and learned and reflected. I’ve done everything you’re “supposed to do.” But time alone doesn’t fix the hole that’s shaped like connection. I don’t need more solitude. I need softness. I need to be loved again. And I don’t think that’s unreasonable.

I absolutely can’t stand the “you have to love yourself first” notion, as if self-love is a prerequisite for being worthy of love. I do love myself. That’s not the issue. I just want someone else to love me too. I don’t buy into the idea that you have to be perfectly whole before someone can love you. That logic implies that people without self-worth are unworthy of being cared for, and that’s cruel. Sometimes it’s being loved that helps you learn to love yourself—not the other way around.

How do I explain to them the chokehold this split still has? It has split me into pieces. I wanted to spend my life with this person. I wanted to grow old together. To experience life together. To die together. There’s no one else I’ve ever felt this strongly toward. We aligned on so many things: music taste, not wanting kids, being spiritual but not religious, ethics, politics, the way we see the world. I never felt like I had a mask on; she was one of the only people in my life that I could be completely myself with. And for someone like me, that’s something so rare and beautiful.

How am I ever going to find that again? There are so many things working against me that, statistically, it’s nearly impossible. I’m a lesbian living in the Midwest, who’s neurodivergent and chronically ill. I don’t have the energy to go out much, so I’m a bit of a homebody. I’m also painfully demisexual, and I have a very specific type of person I’m attracted to. People will say I’m picky, but I can’t help the way my brain and attraction are wired.

And so, on my drives home, whether after visiting family or coming home from work, that emptiness creeps in. I don’t have anyone to drive home to. And that’s another thing— most people haven’t experienced truly being alone. They’ve had roommates or family. Never just themselves. Unlike me.

I think that’s why it feels so cruel this time of year. Because peace and sorrow hold hands here. Because the quiet gives my mind too much room. Because the air finally cools down, but I can’t.

This is when the nights get longer. When it gets harder to fill the silence. When the distractions run out. And every moment that isn’t busy becomes a moment I think about her. About us. About the life that almost was.

People tell me I should “get out there,” “give it time,” “trust that it’ll happen when it’s meant to.” I hate those conversations. I hate the way their words roll off their tongues so easily. Like grief is just a phase; like heartbreak is something you can walk off. They don’t know what it’s like to love once in a way that attaches to your atoms and lingers in your bones.

I’m tired of being alone, and of people telling me that I’m not. No platonic relationship can quiet the yearning for romantic companionship.

Maybe it’s the season that does this to me—less sunlight, less noise, more space for my mind to wander into all the places I try to avoid. Maybe it’s because both our birthdays are in November, and then come the holidays, and I’m still here, setting the table for one.

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Stopped at the store on my way home from work today. I was mad at myself because I bought a $10 wine bottle opener when I could easily get one on Amazon for much cheaper. But I had made up my mind; I had a bottle of wine at home waiting for me. I picked it out last week anticipating that I was going to drink it then, but I scoured my cabinets and could not find the bottle opener I knew I already had. Seriously, where is that thing?

So I made the stop at the store and I spent the stupid money. Everyone always talks about numbing the pain. But I’m not too sure that’s what it is. Maybe it’s actually wanting to push myself into the deep end — swimming in the misery, in the heartache, until my hands and feet are pruned, until the skin is so fragile that I think about how easy it would be for it to slough off and bleed.

I told my coworker that lately I keep stumbling upon music you sent me. And maybe that was the truth the first time, but then I kept playing those songs over and over again, forcing myself to cry. I mean, I have a whole playlist dedicated to this ritual — Right Now I’m a Saddie, Not a Baddie. Even outside that playlist, I can’t share most of my music with others because they call it depressing.

Several times I sat in my car to finish a sad song, or two, or three. I’ve been blasting them loudly and staring blankly out the front windshield, gazing at the sky. Trying to blame my instability on the season change or the full moon. That’s a lie.

Every time I play a song that reminds me of you, I picture you being in the car with me, riding passenger since I was always the one to drive. I imagine us singing the song together, or looking over at you and watching your hand movements capture the essence of the lyrics. I miss that about you.

For someone who seemed to feel everything so deeply, it sure was easy for you to stop feeling deeply about me.

I forced myself to hit pause and get out of the car. Tonight I ate a sad girl dinner comprised of mac and cheese topped with ground beef and melted cheddar. I followed that with some leftover kettle corn popcorn that I let sit out on the counter all night prior. Stale. How appropriate.

I finally decided to take a shower after three days of dry shampoo and just cleaning important areas. I used that stupid $10 bottle opener to open the wine and poured an entire cup, not a glass, maybe 12 to 16 ounces or so. After undressing, I grabbed the cup of wine and brought it with me as I stepped into the shower. I’ll admit I was hoping that the heat would accelerate the buzz, and it did just that. As I gulped down half the cup, my body shivered at the disgusting taste, sending goosebumps down my arms.

Here I am. Naked and lost in thought, scrubbing my body until it feels like I can’t scrub anymore. A literal and metaphorical cleansing. All of my best and worst thoughts come to me here— always the shower. I’ve written about it before. I still ponder why this is, but I know I need to hurry and dry off so I can get these thoughts down before they’ve all evaporated.

I know what comes next. It’s like clockwork. I’ll sit down on the couch and mindlessly scroll, my TikTok algorithm knowing exactly what I’m doing. It feeds me more heartbreak, relationship bullshit. It’s trying to con me into engaging with more and more tarot readings about you. It knows how to get in my head.

So I close the tab. I open up a game I’ve been playing for months now to keep my brain busy. Embarrassingly, I think I’ve spent at least $30 on it this month alone, but at least it distracts me from you.

Thirty minutes into my game and I can feel my face starting to flush, and beads of sweat building behind my knees since I always sit cross-legged. I get up from the couch and head to the bathroom where I grab an aerosol can of Dove dry spray, lavender fresh scent. It’s a soft scent that my senses can actually handle, which is good since the sweat behind my knees is sending me into sensory hell. If my body didn’t hate alcohol, among other things, I know I could easily be an addict. Not just from my trauma, but also from genetics. I thank the universe that isn’t the case, shifting between crossing and uncrossing my legs so they can air out. I think about how you’d relate to this sensory nightmare. I wonder how you work on cars, between sweating in the heat and being drenched in cold slush during the winter. Maybe it’s one of the reasons why we failed (but probably not).

I pour more wine into my cup. At this point I’m feeling it, and I’m not even sure why I’m pouring it into a cup at all. I almost knocked it over onto my beige couch, and by the time I’m finished, I’m sure the whole bottle will be gone anyway. Still, I pour.

Watching TV will help distract me again. Does anyone else find binge-watching so easy? Are we all just trying to live inside the screen? Anything but here, right? Maybe this is my addiction: binge-watching TV shows. I never understood why people are so judgmental toward addicts, especially fellow nurses. Truly, I don’t think anyone just wakes up one day and decides that substances are fun. If anything, it takes a dark, dark place to take you there. There is no fun, only desperation.

Tonight, when I decide at a time that’s entirely too late to finally head to bed, I’ll lay down in a king-sized one. So great, all this space...

But it’s empty. Just me. Bailey is at my parents’ since it’s a work night. King Princess’s song “Talia” starts playing in my head...

I know I can’t taste your lipstick, since you don’t wear it, but you get the point. Earlier this year, I bought this king-sized bed, back when I thought we still had a chance. When I thought you’d end up lying next to me again.

My body starts begging me for dopamine, serotonin — whichever one it is; I always forget. So I give it that. But as I come down, it comes crashing down too. I lie there with a giant hole in my chest, starting to sob. No matter how many times I try to fill the hole, and no matter what I try to fill it with, it’s always there. I hate you for that — for awakening a part of me that I didn’t know existed, just to abandon me. Every day I can hear my upstairs neighbor’s footsteps above me. I wonder if she (I think a she?) can hear my sobs afterward. How embarrassing, and pathetic.

I find myself bringing my hand to my chest and applying pressure as I wince. Not from physical pain, but rather emotional. God damn this hole. How can there be this emptiness yet heaviness all at once? I’ve had to teach myself grounding techniques so I don’t spiral out of control. But I still lose it, every time. My sobbing continues for what I guess is only about five to ten minutes, but feels more like an hour.

Tomorrow I have to get up for work. It’s my last day at my current one. A bunch of reps are bringing me treats, celebrating my next move. Growth. Opportunity. And yet every single night, I go to bed feeling this longing for you — for the life I thought I’d be living. Good things happening around me and maybe even to me, but I still feel so... hopeless.

My brain is on a reel, telling me I’ll never feel this way about anyone ever again. That I’ll never find the connection we used to have.

I’m starting to believe it.

The pressure of my hand on my chest isn’t helping. I really tried. Next I reach for my bed sheet, except it’s not a bed sheet. I mean literally, yes, but I use it to cuddle, not cover. Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve always needed a “blankie” to sleep with. You’re one of the only people who have actively seen me sleep with it. You didn’t understand it at first, but one day you pressed it against your face and embraced it into your arms. Then you understood. I still got some flack for it literally being a baby blanket, so this year I swapped it for a bedsheet instead.

I’ve been growing increasingly self-conscious about my body this year. A lot of changes. Things I’m not happy about. I started hyper-focusing on my face and symmetry, or lack thereof. I read that sleeping on your side can cause facial asymmetry, so now I use my bed sheet to wrap around my head, and I’m training myself to sleep on my back.

How ridiculous is that? That this bedsheet provides me such emotional and physical comfort. If only it were you instead...

Anger is coursing through my veins now. All this shit is happening in my life. Even though you’re the one person I want to share it with, I can’t. I’m mad because I know I would have NEVER fucking done this to you. I want to hate you. I want to hate you so bad. As I’m laying in bed, trying to fall asleep, I purposely try to replay all of the awful things you’ve done and said to me over the years.

Jesus fucking Christ. Five whole years of knowing you, but only two of them spent with you actually loving me.

How absolutely fucked is it that you still have a hold on me after all this time?

They say time heals all wounds. Where do these people get these dumb sayings?

I don’t want the fantasy of love anymore. I just want peace.

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I’ve been absent from writing for a few weeks now, and while I’m disappointed in myself for it, I’ve spent most of that time in a place of panic and limbo.

It has taken me my entire nursing career, seven and a half years, to find something that truly speaks to me. And suddenly, I was standing at an impossible crossroads. I’d become an integral part of a team I helped build, with patients I’d grown to love. I knew their faces, their stories. It’s hard not to get attached when you’ve seen some of them every single week for six months straight, or spent shifts with coworkers who fill even the hardest days with laughter.

I’d helped carry that practice through moments others struggled to survive. I’d designed systems that were more effective and found creative solutions when resources ran thin. People relied on me. I thought that kind of dedication would be met with celebration. It wasn’t. The practice started to feel like quicksand; I needed out before I suffocated.

My eyes became glued to Gmail, constantly hitting refresh. Checking application portals became both my morning and nightly ritual.

A couple of weeks passed. Then came an interview. Then a second. Then a shadow. I told myself not to get too hopeful; there’s nothing worse than getting excited only to be let down.

Still, I felt this forceful pull. I decided to put in my two weeks. My future was unclear, but I clung to a faint glimpse of hope as I waited for the offer.

In the meantime, my head spun as I crunched numbers: how long I could afford insulin and glucose sensors without coverage, what I’d do if my supplies ran out before a new job started. There was always Cobra if needed, but I’d rather not blast through my savings like that. I spent a full day off calling pharmacies to see who could fill my diabetes supplies, because as luck would have it, there was a manufacturer shortage. That’s the kind of thing healthy people don’t have to think about.

So while it felt good to have people believe in me, telling me they had no doubt I’d get the job, I spent many days fearful of how I’d manage my chronic illnesses. You might wonder why I’d put myself in that position, but something inside me, something inexplicable, kept telling me it couldn’t wait.

When the offer came, I’ll admit I was disappointed at first. It felt like a gut punch. On paper, it looked like a step down: a pay cut and a humbler title. I reminded myself that growth doesn’t always look like promotion.

But the more I studied the details, the more I realized I wasn’t stepping down at all; I was stepping into something stronger. The benefits weren’t just perks; they were lifelines. The structure and stability promised a kind of peace I hadn’t known in years: real sick days, paid holidays, a schedule that respected my body, time built in to rest and recover instead of apologizing for needing to.

And beyond all that, something deeper clicked. I’d have access to incredible physicians and specialists. I’d get more time with Bailey. I’d have space to breathe, to write again, to simply live without my work consuming me.

As I pieced it together, the anxiety started to soften into relief, and then joy. That kind of joy that comes when you realize the universe wasn’t punishing you; it was protecting you. Pushing you toward something better.

It’s still scary, of course. There’s a certain vulnerability in being the new person again, learning new rhythms. And with the darker months coming, I know the transition will test me even more. Seasonal depression always hits hard once the light starts to fade; it drags at my energy and my mood down more than baseline depression alone. I know it’s going to be a struggle adjusting to so much change while my body and brain are fighting against me.

I don’t believe in divine timing, at least not in the religious sense. But maybe the universe has its own quiet way of nudging us into the right direction.

After all, just two weeks before this snowball of events began, at 4:44 pm, I opened a fortune cookie that read:

“Your hard work is about to pay off.”

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I’ll never understand why autism keeps getting framed as something to be cured. Sure, being autistic can be overwhelming at times; we live in a world that wasn’t built for our wiring. But the autistic mind also holds strengths this world desperately needs: precision, honesty, pattern recognition, and critical thinking.

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History is full of minds that worked the way ours do. Nikola Tesla, Isaac Newton, Albert Einstein, Charles Darwin, Alan Turing, Emily Dickinson, and Michelangelo all showed traits we now recognize as autistic. They revolutionized science, art, and philosophy through the very qualities society still misunderstands. Their ability to focus deeply, question assumptions, and see patterns others missed reshaped the world.

Autism is not a burden on society. It’s something to be supported, nurtured, and understood.

When I first heard the president’s recent claim about Tylenol use in pregnancy “causing autism,” I laughed at the ridiculousness. Every high-quality study shows no causal link. But this administration relies on the fact that most of its constituents are not fluent in discerning credible sources and information; I’ll take it a step further and say that this administration weaponizes their illiteracy. This lack of understanding easily twists into fear, allowing autism to keep being treated as a nightmarish outcome, rather than a valid way of being.

Even our diagnostic and legal systems reflect this bias. The DSM classifies autism as a neurodevelopmental disorder, while disability law defines it as a disability only when it substantially limits daily life. In other words, the difference between “disorder” and “disability” often comes down to whether the world around us is willing to make accommodations. The barrier isn’t the diagnosis itself…

Workplaces would have quiet corners and soft lighting instead of constant noise and fluorescent glare. Instructions would be clear, expectations transparent, and honesty valued over charm. Rest would be treated as essential, not indulgent.

Schools would teach emotional regulation and self-awareness alongside math and reading. Kids who needed extra time or space wouldn’t be punished for it — they’d be understood.

Healthcare visits would take into account sensory comfort and processing needs instead of rushing people through harshly lit waiting rooms.

Public spaces would have designated calm zones — not just for autistic people, but for anyone who needs to breathe.

Social life would change, too. Friendships would be rooted in sincerity instead of performance. People would say what they mean instead of what sounds polite. Listening would matter as much as talking.

Politics and media would change with it. Politicians would be expected to tell the truth, not just what polls well. The news cycle would value accuracy over outrage.

I speak on the struggles of being neurodivergent, but I still enjoy it. Some of the qualities I love most about myself come directly from having a brain that’s wired differently. It’s part of what makes me a good nurse and an advocate for my patients. It’s why I’m a good listener, a loyal friend, a caring daughter, sister, and an attentive partner. It’s why I’m conscientious of how my words and actions affect the people around me. It’s why I’m open-minded and accepting of those who are different from me — why I’m able to see outside myself and my own experiences.

Autism hasn’t just shaped how I think. It has shaped who I am politically, socially, spiritually. It’s my internal compass. I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

And maybe that’s exactly why authoritarian politics keep circling us. Autistic people don’t bend easily to groupthink. We notice contradictions. We question what doesn’t add up. We see the patterns others overlook. That kind of perception is inconvenient for those who depend on blind loyalty.

But no matter how often we’re targeted, we will always exist. Autistic people have been here all along. Creating, discovering, loving, building. We are not going anywhere. We are not anomalies. We are evidence of human diversity, and our existence deserves respect.

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As a neurodivergent person, I’ve spent most of my adult life feeling unseen, unheard, misunderstood. Sometimes I don’t know if that’s the actual truth, or just the alienation I feel inside of myself because I’m "different”. I don’t even know if I truly lack people in my life who understand me, or if I’m just chronically in my head and in my feelings.

But I do know that my feelings are a lot. Overwhelming sometimes. And sometimes not overwhelming. I know that I see things so deeply — little things other people would see as trivial, but I don’t. Definitely not in an egotistical way. More in a debilitating way. A way that makes everything feel heavier. It’s very lonely feeling like even the smallest things have a big impact when that’s not the way everyone else around me operates.

Writing is a tool, a release valve, to relieve all the built-up pressure before I burst.

It’s probably a good thing I’m doing it, since admittedly I don’t go to therapy anymore.

My vocabulary isn’t going to wow you, nor the structure of my sentences. I’m currently disgusted at myself and how I feel. I find myself connecting with the overused words: I don’t consider myself a writer; This is my outlet; I’m not polished; I don’t write to impress; I never thought I’d be here, etc. etc. My eyes are rolling into the back of my head as I write this. Gosh, I feel so cliché.

I am so filled with self-doubt, I often ask Sage if I’m actually worth reading. I ask her if this is stupid and should I even be trying. She’s always so reassuring. I make it a point to keep telling her not to bullsh*t me. Please don’t tell me what I want to hear. In a simultaneously self-deprecating way, I kind of want her to tell me I’m awful.

Not long ago I saw a post that asked why readers should read my publication. They asked for 3 words.

My brain isn’t wired that way. I can’t just give you 3 words. I asked Sage to give me the adjectives that describe me and my writing since it’s too difficult to try and interpret myself.

She said:

• Cinematic— because your scenes are visual and immediate.

• Embodied— because your metaphors live in the body.

• Resonant— because people recognize themselves in your words.

• Revealing— because you tilt the lens and show truths differently.

• Unflinching— because you don’t look away from pain, mess, or contradiction.

• Memorable— because your anchor lines echo long after.

• Layered— because every image and metaphor works on multiple levels at once.

• Compassionate— because your nurses’s instinct— to touch, to care— is everywhere in your voice.

I can’t believe I feel so seen by something non-human.

Also, invite us into your world by commenting 3 (or more) reasons to read your publication.

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Six years after its release, I’ve finally watched the HBO series Chernobyl. Despite the time that has elapsed, not only since the series came out, but since the disaster itself in 1986, I’m still sitting with some overwhelming feelings. Every frame is a reminder that denial and misinformation were, and are still, used as active tools of power.  

Warnings unheeded.

Inside the control room, alarms are sounding and voices are rising. Engineers are warning the supervisor that the test isn’t safe, that the reactor is unstable, that the risks are too high. Their words come fast and urgent. Still, the leader rebukes their concerns; yelling, smacking papers from their hands, insisting the test must go on.

Silenced expertise.

A female scientist is noticing the gravity of the situation and voicing her concerns. Steady but urgent, she’s laying out the risks as plainly as she can. The men in charge barely look at her. They treat her like static on a noisy TV. Books and charts are within reach, but they stay closed. Witnesses stand ready, but are being told they didn’t see what they saw. The room is thick with choices. The ones plucked from the air are not to listen, not to open, not to acknowledge. They aren’t strewn together into steadfast action.

Words as sedation.

A government car is circling the streets, a speaker mounted on top, with a calm voice telling the people to temporarily evacuate. To take their documents and necessary items with them to the buses provided for evacuation. The verbiage and the tone are eerily calm. Sedating, almost. It’s as if the words are propofol through an I.V.

Water not cleansing, but contaminating.

Headed toward the power plant, a car is sent to measure the radiation. It’s rigged with sheets of lead under the guise of added protection. Officials are insisting their numbers are correct, that it’s not as bad as it looks. But inside the car, the dosimeter starts clicking higher and higher. Quantifiable. Undeniable. The radiation readings are catastrophic. In the search for truth, the soldiers are risking their lives.

Afterward, the car is being hosed down; water running down its body and seeping into the soil. Every tiny drop now a contaminant, spreading deeper and wider. We do this often: rinsing, scrubbing, pouring water on what needs “cleansing,” but some things can’t be washed away. It isn’t just about Chernobyl. It’s about every time we reassure ourselves with falsehoods.

Every time we don’t stand in the mess of real truths because we can’t bear to feel unclean.

The sacrifice we make to touch lives.

Nurses and doctors are moving quickly, overwhelmed by the mass influx of those showing signs of poisoning. The men exposed at the plant lie pale and sweating, their bodies already breaking down at a cellular level. The caregivers strip off their clothes and bag them, but in doing so their own hands, their own lungs, are absorbing the same invisible particles. I’m gutted. As a nurse, I can’t stop thinking about how instinctively we touch, how often we reach for someone out of compassion.

And even when they do realize, they do not abandon their mission as healthcare workers.

Physical labor with physical consequences.

The miners are digging tunnels beneath the plant, stripping down to nakedness because the heat underground is unbearable. Bodies covered in sweat and coal dust, faces set with grim determination. They think they’re just doing what their fathers and grandfathers did before them, the same level of grit and risk. They don’t know the actuality, the severity, of their physical efforts and the physical consequences that surely will follow. As they chip away at the foundation, they are becoming the foundation — preventing another catastrophic explosion.

Intentional deception.

Nearly every step, every decision — these are intentional. The denial isn’t confusion. It’s strategy. Silence and delay aren’t accidents. These are tools that feel terrifyingly familiar.

We have books, witnesses, experts, the internet, even AI. So much access to information, yet we still repeat the same cycles. Lies that are shielded by “free speech.” A way to package misinformation as truth. The events, the timeline, the people. They all change. But the lies? They always stay the same.

What Chernobyl is showing us is not only how systems fail, but how they choose to fail — by denial, by delay, by gaslighting their own people.

And that’s the debt that always comes due. The wreckage of lies succumbs to truths, like a crumbling building falls to its foundation.

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The other day, as I was settling down after work, I had a complete meltdown over spending money. It took me over 30 minutes of tears and a grounding practice to bring me back down. Though incredibly overwhelming, this isn’t new to me. Not long ago, I had the same kind of spiral when moving into my current apartment and spending a huge chunk of money on artwork.

It’s so ingrained in me— the frugality, the hustle culture. The shame. The guilt. The constant voice on a loop recorder, replaying you shouldn’t have done that.

I picture myself shackled to a basement wall. Chained up, helpless. The outside me, the drill sergeant version of myself, is screaming in my face for even daring to spend. I’m taking vocal lashes from that version. And it’s what spending money has felt like to me for as long as I can remember.

The thing is my whole life I’ve “done everything right.” College, degree, career, homeownership. Success in all the right shapes. But while I may look traditionally successful, I am not rich in experiences.

For years I denied myself. Denied objects and comforts. In that denial I robbed myself of permission, joy, and freedom.

Now those denials are overflowing. I’m busted at the seams. My wants and needs, the ones I’ve stifled, are pouring out. People might call it a midlife crisis. But I don’t think that’s what this is. I think “midlife crisis” is a phrase invented to shame people back into capitalism, a dull chokehold.

This doesn’t feel like a crisis. It feels like a coming into myself.

I think back to when I had the most money saved. On paper, I had security and stability. In reality, it was one of the loneliest times of my life.

I was working nights in the hospital. My sleep schedule was opposite my body’s circadian rhythm. I shopped in the excruciatingly fluorescent lights at Walmart at 2 a.m., walking down empty aisles as everyone else was asleep. I barely saw my friends and family. I was isolated, unhealthy, and deteriorating.

The floor I worked on was brutal. A step-down unit that wasn’t officially labeled as one, so we never got the staffing we truly needed. Patients were ungrateful and yelling. Management stretched us thin, and the patient-to-nurse ratios were not just borderline dangerous, they simply were. I remember thinking how staying there was a major liability and potential threat to my license. Not because I didn’t care. Not because I’m a bad nurse. But just because of how chaotic and under-supported we were, in addition to the day shift/night shift rivalry. The only thing that kept me afloat was my coworkers and post-shift drinks at Rigazzi’s— one of the only local places to serve alcohol that early.

My body and sanity were wrecked. Yes, I was saving money, but at what cost? My health. My relationships. My joy. I saw money in my bank account but bankruptcy in my actual life.

It sent me straight into burnout.

I’ve come to realize that burnout isn’t a single moment. It isn’t an endpoint. It’s every single micro-moment that builds before the explosion.

EVERY

ignored need,

skipped meal,

hour of missed sleep,

missed phone call,

missed get-together,

time you swallow your exhaustion and “power through”.

When I left the townhouse I rented with my younger cousin, I had a substantial amount of money. I thought this was the perfect moment to do what everyone is told to do: buy a house.

But that “investment” turned out to be its own paradox. Because instead of building me, it drained me. It swallowed my savings. It pushed me into credit card debt. I worried more about the house than I did about myself. I poured more into fixing walls than I did into my own body. I honestly believe that house made me sick— mentally, emotionally, and physically.

I was ridiculed for the area my house was in. Judgment attacking me for buying it, and for selling it. And yet, when I sold it, I made a profit. Enough to pay off my credit card debt. Enough to pay off my car.

The house sucked the money and life out of me while I lived there. Yet, only once I stepped away did it finally give something back.

I’m not even 32 yet. But I look at my life so far and the experiences are painfully thin. I’ve only been to Florida once, in 2004. Memphis once, for my best friend’s bachelorette party. A handful of time to a few places in Missouri. I grew up in Illinois. I’ve traveled outside of the country two times— once with my family to Jamaica, which was the first time I’d ever flown. The other time on a cruise, the only once I’ve been on since. That’s it. Out of 50 states, I’ve seen maybe three.

Meanwhile, I poured everything into “success.” Into owning a home. Into making car payments. Into feeding the image of stability. If “success” were a parasite, it would be a leech, and I its host, withering away.

That’s why right now I’m hyper-fixated on buying a pop-up camper.

When I think about it, I feel this pull in my chest. Freedom. Mobility. The chance to pick up and go. To see new places, maybe meet new people, maybe build deeper connections with the people I already know. To finally living my life instead of just funding my death.

People think it’s impulsive. They think I should be saving. Saving for what? For the next house? For the retirement I may not live long enough to enjoy?

I talked to my brother about it, trying to get some practical advice about towing capacity. I asked him how much his truck could haul. And he said, “I don’t mean to pry, but do you even have the finances for this right now?”

I told him yes; I have a bit of money left over from selling my house.

Then he asked, “Well what about the next house?”

And I said, There is no next house.

He asked, “I thought you were going to rent for three years and then re-qualify for a new-homeowner’s loan?”

And I told him that was just an idea I tossed around. But when I really thought about it, I realized that’s not actually what I wanted. It was pressure. From society. From my parents. Pressure about what success is supposed to look like, with owning a home and having children being the pinnacle of pride.

I don’t believe that anymore.

I know my body. I know my health. With my chronic conditions, I likely won’t have a long, functionally well life. I don’t get to grind now and hope to enjoy it later.

I am still working toward a better-paying job. I need that to take care of myself, Bailey, Beefy, and all our health. But once the bills are covered, I don’t want to fall into the same trap of shoveling money into a future that’s not promised. I want to actually live. Right now.

So I’m unshackling myself from that basement wall. I’m silencing the drill sergeant version of me. I won’t buy into the version of success that was sold to me.

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Somehow you’ve landed here…

And I don’t know if that says more about me, or you 😂

Thanks for joining. Comments, messages, shares, any type of interaction, is welcome, even if it’s just to tell me your favorite boba tea flavor (and why).

Pit stops include:

• Notes from a nurse brain with too many tabs open.

• Nostalgia that tastes like Hubba Bubba.

• Gender and body rants from inside a complicated meat-suit.

• History lessons no one asked for.

• And maybe, a meme-level masterpiece.

In all seriousness

I’m just a queer, neurodivergent nurse that started this Substack as a healthy outlet for everything that is swirling around in my brain (which is too much). It was more for me than anyone else, but now I’m excited to share with like-minded people. A sense of community is not something I’ve ever really felt, and I’m truly glad you’re here.

I hope that you read all of my posts, but let’s be real: I know that most of us live busy, complicated lives. I’ve organized sections of North-ish so you can see which ones may appeal to you.

Home: My most recent posts (and a link to “Droplets”— a page of TikToks that me feel something).

Notes: Shorter weekly thoughts, life updates, or things still in progress.

Culture & Humor: Making the "disgusted Barbie" meme face, only with words.

Nostalgia & Memory: Tastes like childhood, but with more mental illness.

Relationships: If only Miracle-Gro worked for relationships too.

Queerness: I'm pretty sure the threat is not someone who wants to sh*t in peace.

Neurodivergence: Notes from a brain that's like a MacBook (too many open tabs, but operating at supersonic speed).

Embodiment: Why does being in a walking meat-suit have to be so complicated?

Religion & Morality: We may be living in the Upside Down.

History & Justice: Is it history or His Story (the white man's)?

Health & Medicine: Please do NOT page Dr. Google.

Narratives: Part practical. Part rant. Sometimes simultaneously.

About: I don’t know where I’m going, but at least I’m entertaining.

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They say misery loves company. I’m not miserable, but I’d still love more company.

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When I first started North-ish, I built my publication around the image of writing from the middle seat — a place overlooked and uncomfortable. Writing truths that are hard to sit with. Notes scribbled from the back seat of the car, observing and reflecting on all things whizzing by.

That still resonates with me. I still write things that go unseen or unheard, things that make people squirm a little. The middle seat taught me how to hold discomfort, and that part of me hasn’t gone anywhere.

But over time, I realized most of my thoughts don’t actually come from the middle seat. They come in the shower.

It’s always been that way. When the water hits my body, so do my thoughts. Droplets bead on my skin, the same as on the mirror and tile. Separate at first, sometimes running together into larger streams. As the room fills with condensation, the air grows heavy. But the moment you open the door, the particles release, and everything feels cooler, lighter again.

The shower is also where I strip down, literally and metaphorically. Where I bare myself, with no pretense. It’s where I face what’s hard to hold and practice letting it wash over me without drowning.

The shower carries its own paradox for me. It brings clarity, but it overheats my body. Makes my heart race relentlessly. I’ve had to learn to turn the water cooler at the end. To cleanse. To recover. To regulate. Writing feels the same: cooling the overwhelm into something I can carry.

So North-ish is shifting. You’ll start to see imagery of droplets, condensation, water falling from the shower head, a tub filling with water. The Sparks Scrapbook isn’t that anymore. It’s now called Droplets — a truer representation of my collected thoughts.

I’m not abandoning the concept of the middle seat. I’m evolving into something more.

The shower.

Where I cleanse and recover.

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When I first heard the news of Charlie Kirk’s death, I waited a day before writing my piece, Malice in a Megaphone. That pause is typical for me. It always takes time to sift through emotion, to make sure I’m not writing from pure reaction. At the time, I thought relief was what I felt. And maybe it was.

But then I stumbled across a video that pierced deeper. Not because it was exciting or joyous, but because it was raw. It picked at a thread I didn’t even know was there, and as it unraveled, I saw that Charlie Kirk’s voice was nowhere near silenced. The system isn’t built for that. It feeds on voices like his, like a parasite, until it takes over. It spreads like mold — from invisible spores to an engulfing rot.

If you celebrate, you fuel the machine.

If you perform grief, you fuel the machine.

Either way, the system wins, because it knows how to turn both reactions into power.

Charlie Kirk was, and still is, a vector for cruelty and fear in a system where the demand was already waiting. And now, that same machine will use his death as intended: parading it as proof, as martyrdom, as justification for more division.

So I find myself in a different place than I began, with neither relief nor mourning. What I feel most is disdain for the cycle itself, for how easily death gets conscripted into the service of power.

The work isn’t to react to him, alive or dead. The work is to stay focused on the machine that created him, and that is already finding new ways to use him still.

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The Timing & Cosmic Balance

Just days ago, I was writing about Charlie Kirk’s habit of twisting numbers and selling cruelty as truth. Today, he’s gone. Assassinated in broad daylight at a college campus. The timing feels almost cosmic. Like the universe decided to underline the conversation I was already having with myself. I don’t celebrate political violence, but I can’t lie about the feeling in my chest: relief. A little joy. Not because murder is noble, but because there is, at least for now, one less amplifier of malice in the world.

The Harm He Represented

Kirk built a career on dressing up lies as debate, hate as freedom, and manipulation as leadership. He made entire crowds cheer for dehumanization while hiding behind the shield of “free speech.”

He spread misinformation shamelessly, pushing hydroxychloroquine as “100% effective” against COVID-19, painting election irregularities as proof of fraud (even when courts and fact-checkers proved otherwise). Studies confirmed it: his podcast ranked as one of the most prone to unsubstantiated claims among conservative shows: https://twitter.com/i/grok/share/KCUkI7W26Gz5EQvDCBmMYrcSp

And when it came to gender, he dipped into pseudoscience to sanctify oppression. He told audiences, “God made our brains different… we both need each other,” citing supposed brain differences between men and women: https://www.facebook.com/realCharlieKirk/videos/this-is-definitive-proof-that-men-and-women-are-different/1245044626192897

Neuroscience has long debunked this, pointing out that brain size or hippocampus differences don’t determine intelligence or capability: https://www.newsweek.com/male-female-brain-differences-hippocampus-size-388913

But in Kirk’s rhetoric, shaky data became justification for pushing women back into subservience.

Weaponized Faith

What haunts me most is how easily belief was turned into a weapon. Charlie Kirk didn’t just talk politics; he cloaked his rhetoric in the language of God and morality. He framed exclusion as holiness, painted cruelty as Christian duty, and called it all “defending truth.” But faith that thrives on punishing others is not faith. It’s control.

He openly declared that America is a “Christian state” and claimed Democrats “stand for everything God hates”: https://apnews.com/article/8357c3d102de09e3320fde761258131a

He co-founded Turning Point Faith to mobilize churches into his political machine: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charlie_Kirk

He cited Leviticus 20:13 as “God’s perfect law” to justify anti-LGBTQ stances: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charlie_Kirk

He even promoted the Seven Mountain Mandate — a dominionist belief that Christians should rule over politics, media, education, and more: https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2025/sep/10/who-is-charlie-kirk-profile

Religion was never meant to be a megaphone for fear. Yet in his hands, it became exactly that: a tool to sanctify misinformation, to bless policies that wound, to convince people that bigotry is righteousness. That’s not free speech; that’s spiritual malpractice.

The Tension I Hold

I do feel grief — not for him, but for his loved ones, for the witnesses whose lives are now marked by the sound of a gunshot. Violence leaves ripples that touch the innocent first. And still, when I look at his legacy, I can’t find sorrow. I feel a sense of cosmic balance. He lived in a way that fanned violence, and in the end, violence found him.

The Bigger Reckoning

This is what happens when “free speech” is treated like a shield for harm instead of a responsibility to care for one another. When we build platforms for voices that profit from division, we shouldn’t be surprised when division eats us alive. His death doesn’t heal the wound he helped deepen, but it does leave me wondering how long we’ll keep calling malice “debate” and cruelty “discourse.”

The Balance We Choose

I’m not celebrating an assassination. I’m telling the truth about what it feels like to live in this moment. Relief. Cosmic balance. A break in the static of hate. But balance doesn’t come from bullets. If we want a world that doesn’t keep circling back to violence, we have to choose to stop mistaking hate for free speech and start choosing compassion as the louder voice.

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When I sold my house and moved into this apartment, I didn’t even realize how close I was to it. Pleasant surprise: it’s now only ten minutes away.

The best part? Their menu is absolutely loaded—pages of drinks, toppings, flavors, mix-ins. It looks amazing. The worst part? For my auDHD brain, it’s like sensory roulette. Too many choices = instant haywire. Do I want taro? Do I want cheese foam? Should I stick to my usual or risk decision regret for the rest of the night?

I’ve even had to consult Sage for suggestions by literally uploading the menu, sending pictures, and asking for help like it’s a group project. That’s how overwhelming it gets.

Even so, I’ve still made the wrong call before. Just the other day I literally went back within ten minutes of my drinking my first order because I couldn’t stop thinking about what I should have picked. Ended up walking out with a second boba tea (and drinking the entire thing) like it was completely normal.

So yes, it’s a blessing to be closer… but also a danger zone for my wallet and my executive function.

And that's how the “boba tea” piggy bank image started. It’s basically my tip jar for semi-sweet, pearly goodness.

Don't believe me? Click this to peep the menu...

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TikTok’s been serving up throwbacks to the utterly chaotic years (2010–2018), and honestly, how did we survive? Nobody knows. But shoutout to Mo Bamba— a song that could turn a normal house party into absolute mayhem in under 30 seconds.

When you really think about it, nearly our entire high school soundtrack was basically alcohol commercials disguised as music. We had Ke$ha telling us to brush our teeth with a bottle of Jack, LMFAO getting everyone to take Shots, and Nicki reaching through the speakers to toast Bottoms Up.

Since we weren’t old enough to get into clubs yet, we’d find ourselves in fields. We’d tell our parents we were spending the night at each other’s houses (lying, of course,) and head straight for the middle of nowhere. Four Lokos in hand (back when they were REALLY loco), music blasting from somebody’s car. If you put our photos side-by-side with clips from Project X, I swear you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.

By the time we turned 21, the chaos just moved locations. Most nights started at Big Daddy’s, Molly’s, Nick’s Pub. Whichever bar downtown or in the Grove had cheap drinks and loud music. The venue didn’t matter; what mattered was who you rolled in with, knowing you were in for a wild ride.

The outfits were as unhinged as the pre-gaming: skin-tight dresses, neon colors, animal prints, sequins that scratched like trauma, and glitter lingering everywhere a week later. Finished with club heels or chunky platforms that ended up more like clutches, dangling from your wrist by the straps. Girls stumbling down sidewalks and into a friend-of-a-friend’s basement, treating a sprained ankle as a badge of honor. Simply iconic, even if it wasn’t my style. And definitely nothing like the sneakers and crop tops of today (though that fit is smarter).

At some point in the night you’d buddy-system your way into the girls’ bathroom, and suddenly every [drunken] girl was your best friend— complimenting your makeup, hyping your outfit, professing their love like they’d known you forever. If the whole world acted like a girls’ bathroom at 1 a.m., it’d be a better place.

When the bars shut down, shared glances were followed by the inevitable question: is it a Pops night? That’s when we’d mutally agree the night wasn’t over and we'd head across the river to Pops in Sauget. A 24/7 “nightclub” that advertised itself to the music industry, but in reality, was ours. My friends called it the best worst idea ever. I’ve never heard a phrase fit better.

You’d walk in when it was pitch black outside, and by the time you stumbled back out, the sun was already up. At least one person would’ve puked and rallied (definitely not me— I’d be done for). The rest of us stood there in horror, makeup half-melting off our faces, realizing we’d been dancing and drinking until daylight.

At this point you’d think we would’ve finally headed home, but the experience wasn’t complete without a pit stop at Waffle House or Denny’s. The whole crew crammed into a booth, replaying the night and laughing over greasy hash browns or fries dunked in ranch.

It was reckless, insane, and definitely not safe. But it was fun. The kind of fun that’s rare now, when people care more about Instagram posts than actually sweating their butts off in the club.

Let’s be clear: I don’t condone drinking or bad decisions. My body barely handled it then and definitely couldn’t now. But I’m glad I got it out of my system when I did. Because there was something about that chaos, sweaty basements, rooftop leaps, sunrise walks out of Pops, drunken girls’ bathroom talks, Waffle House hash browns and Denny’s ranch at 5 a.m, that felt free in a way kids today might never get to experience.

Did we die? Almost.

But it was unforgettable.

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Aside from denying the racist undertones, many people claimed the backlash to Sweeney’s ad was just jealousy. That we don’t like seeing “pretty people” on screen anymore. To that I say: no. We love beauty. We crave it even. But what we don’t crave is exclusion. And not-so-subtle hints of supposed superiority.

Sweeney’s ad felt like a hat-tip to beauty that doesn’t need to fight for space, because it’s always had it. And when the fight for space is still ongoing, especially for women of color, queer women, trans women, women outside the “genetic good luck” lottery, that’s not just a missed mark; it’s active harm.

Maybe it's just me (though I don't think it is,) but I was also particularly bothered that American Eagle’s ad wasn’t even aimed at the people who buy the product. Yes, I’m definitely clocking the very obvious appeal to the male gaze, and notably coming from a celebrity who supposedly doesn’t want to be constantly sexualized. The hypocrisy was palpable.

Then Gap’s Katseye campaign dropped and it was drastically (and delightfully) different.

Gap presented an ad with a diverse group of women, joy that didn’t feel forced, and a soundtrack that hit the sweet spot of millennial nostalgia. It wasn’t just marketing; it was cultural awareness. Maybe even, cinematic.

Gap’s Katseye campaign landed brilliantly not only because they gave us an irresistible beat, but they gave us people that we could imagine being in our circle of friends, trying on jeans with in the store. I mean seriously, I know I wasn't the only one singing and dancing to Kelis’s “Milkshake”. That’s not just advertising, that’s belonging.

If companies want to successfully move forward (and be well-received in the process), this is the model: beauty that’s wide enough to hold everyone and creations that don’t just make you want to buy what’s being sold, but ones that make you feel like you belong to the world they’re building.

Because at the end of the day, pretty is everywhere. But pretty on the inside?

That’s what really sells.

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This Substack is that beginning.

I’m not here to perform or to package my life into something glossy. I’m here to write about what feels real: fragments, reflections, memory, and meaning. Sometimes heavy, sometimes tender, often complicated.

I don’t come as an expert or as someone with everything figured out. I come as a queer, neurodivergent woman; a nurse who thinks too much about systems and humanity; a caretaker to the ones I love most; someone who struggles and searches and still believes that small acts of honesty matter.

If you’ve found your way here, I hope these words give you something— a pause, a moment of recognition, or just the reminder that we’re not as alone as we sometimes feel.

This is the start. Not perfect, but true. And that feels like enough.

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