I found a single strand of cat hair caught in the yarn. It’s so small, so ordinary. Yet it stopped me. It still doesn’t feel real that he’s gone.

*

My life in Toronto was complicated. A home that never quite felt like home, no matter how I arranged it. Quiet in a way that echoed. I adopted Tobi to soften that silence, to fill the spaces that felt too big for one person. And he did, in all the ways that mattered.

If you had met Tobi, you would have understood immediately how special he was. He was cautious at first, always observing, deciding if you were worth his trust. But once you earned it, he was warm, affectionate, quietly devoted. He had a scrappy little edge to him, too. He was playful, a bit stubborn, and full of personality. He wasn’t just company. He was presence. He made things feel lived in.

Now there’s a heaviness in my chest, a lump in my throat that doesn’t quite go away. I keep thinking about afternoons like this one, the kind we’ll never share again. I can see him so clearly. Stretched out beside me in a patch of sunlight, completely at ease. Every so often, he’d get up and nudge me, asking for attention in his own gentle way. A few pets, purring gently, a quiet moment together, and then he’d return to his spot, content just to be near me.

Those small, ordinary rhythms feel impossibly big now.

I’m sorry I left you. That thought lingers more than I want it to. I wish you could have made it here, could have seen Florida with me. I imagine how you would have found your favourite window, how the sunlight would have followed you across the floor. I think you would have loved it, the warmth, the brightness, the way the air feels softer here.

I carry you with me in these quiet moments. In the music, in the stillness, even in the strands of yarn. In the way I pause, expecting to feel you nearby.

You were never just there to fill the loneliness. You changed it. You made space feel like something we shared.

And even now, somehow, it still feels like we do.

I hold on too long. And if someone is happy not being my friend, I want to learn how to accept that instead of forcing something that clearly isn’t working. I want to be unbothered—but I also need to give myself permission to feel. There’s a fine line between honouring your emotions and suffocating yourself with them. I’m still learning where that line lives. I say I want to let it go, but where can I place all that frustration? I am still figuring that part out.

Now, an opportunity has come along that I hope will help me truly learn.

In this new change, if someone wants to be in my life, it’s going to require effort. On both sides. I have to decide whether I want to do that work, and if they don’t agree, I’m allowed to let go. I’m allowed to free myself from the emotional baggage I would otherwise keep carrying.

I’m intentionally ending friendships. Removing people from my life who would rather gossip than talk. I no longer want to entertain people who make me worry if I am a good person.

It’s time to begin the emotional journey for myself to ready me with an answer if needed, or to simply have an outlet to let things go.

**

I keep thinking of Ashley Tisdale’s article for The Cut.

Ashley Tisdale was vilified when she admitted she left her “toxic mom group.”

I don’t know the full story. Maybe, to some people, she really was the villain. Maybe she contributed to the tension, or failed to communicate, or chose a public outlet to express something that should have stayed private.

But in her own way, she chose herself. She put her needs above what others wanted her to be or expected her to tolerate. And that decision, that self-preserving, made her the villain in someone else’s story.

It’s possible for her to be right while others see her as wrong. Both sides can feel justified. In reality, what we label as “right” or “wrong” is almost always dependent on who’s doing the viewing.

For a long time, I believed that if I hurt someone, I was automatically the bad person.

But what if the other person hurt me too?

I spent years putting myself down whenever someone was upset with me. I never learned how to stand up for myself. I can be wrong; many times I have been. What happens when I don’t think I’m wrong, and I end up hurt?

In my journey of learning who is really a friend of mine and who has kept me around for convenience, I’m considering who has hurt me. Who has made me ignore my own emotions because I might have made a mistake? That can’t be friendship, that one moment will make them completely forget everything good. Friendship requires forgiveness, and I am often too quick to forgive others without forgiving myself.

I need to start viewing friendships through how I am treated, rather than just how I have treated others. I’m quick to vilify myself immediately, rather than considering it could be the other person.

*

You may be the villain in someone else’s story, but you must remain the victor in your own.

Not as permission to excuse hurtful or inappropriate behaviour, but because you are the one living your life. You’re the one who has to look in the mirror and say, I am good. If others don’t agree, that belief belongs to them.

The more you choose yourself as the main character, the easier it becomes to loosen your grip on other people’s opinions.

Stand up for yourself. Stop shrinking because of what others believe about you. And yes, sometimes you will be wrong. When that happens, hold your head high. Acknowledge it. Apologize. And then move forward.

You’re allowed to do that too.

What does it mean to love others?
To do it well?

November tends to pull these questions out of me. A month of early darkness, melancholy and a coldness that lingers in the bones.

My birthday month. A reminder of how alone I feel. How alone I am.

Sometimes I fear I’m incapable of love. I don’t know how to receive it. I stumble trying to express it.

I’m the product of immigrants who arrived here in struggle. Who carried memories of war and poverty. Their love ran deep, but it was wrapped in layers of pain and survival.

I was the teenager crying in her room on a Friday night, listening to Lady Gaga and yearning alongside her when she sang, “I just wanna be free, I just wanna be me, And I want lots of friends that invite me to their parties.”1

One of my earliest understandings of love came from church. Love was supposed to be the center of everything. Love God, love others, love yourself. I never understood that kind of love. Even there, I was an outcast. A misfit in a place where the lost were supposed to be found.

As an adult, I bulldozed my way into belonging. I found a church where fitting in finally mattered to me. For a while, it worked. It wasn’t perfect, but it meant something.

I still remember that Easter Sunday when I realized it was over.

The curtain was torn, and behind it was just an ordinary man. The “Wizard” I’d hoped for didn’t exist. And the friends I’d made over those five years? I don’t speak to any of them now. They still gather together. And I’m alone again.

The truth is, I feel more unloved by friends than I ever have by the rejection of a man.

And I know I play a part in this. I utilize independence as self-sabotage, a skill learned early. When I feel someone pulling back, I leave.

But I’m genuinely happy alone. I enjoy my hobbies and my idiosyncrasies. I get overwhelmed when what I want conflicts with my need for others. So I choose solitude. I make peace with it.

But this has also forced me, in the last few years, to learn how to love myself.

Because younger me didn’t know how. I didn’t have a clear example of the kind of love that would have made me feel loved. And it’s hard to love ourselves when we’ve never felt that kind of safety from others. But no one is obligated to love us the way we want.

This is the hard truth I’ve learned in my thirties:

We have to learn to love ourselves, because no one else is required to.

And here’s the even harder truth — the one that softened everything:

I was never actually unloved.
I just didn’t receive the kind of love that made me understand I was loved.

We all carry an image of what love should look like.
But the love we’re given doesn’t always match that image.

Learning to accept that, and still choosing to love myself, has been the real work.

PS, the heading is a direct quote from the one and only Teresa Giudice. Ironic.

I’m tired.

Tired of feeling like a joke.
Of not being taken seriously by the people around me.
Of letting every inch of life be squeezed out of my body.

I’m tired of feeling lonely.
Tired of not having friends to spend time with or who want to spend time with me.

I’m tired of not having enough money to live in the city I grew up in. I can’t afford it on my full-time salary, but I work too many hours to even consider getting a second job.

I’m tired of being borderline sick every week. Waking up congested, going to bed with a tingle in my throat. Never fully sick enough to rest, never healthy enough to feel alive.

If this is what being an adult is, why were we ever so eager to grow up?

Why couldn’t I have stayed young enough to cling to wishful thinking? To believe adulthood would be like the shows and movies I watched.

That I’d have friends who dropped by unannounced. That work would be hard, sure, but I’d end the night at a bar laughing about it with people who get me.

Instead, I’m the weird neighbour.
The one with the cat who never has company. Who spends her time crocheting.

Then I’m the freak who moves back in with her parents. Who shows up to family gatherings alone… again.

But it’s not supposed to be like this.
I’m just too tired to change it.

Stuck in a cycle of loneliness and apathy.

I keep wondering what I’m doing wrong.
Then I think, maybe it’s not me. Maybe it’s the culture we’re living in.

Hyper-independent. Afraid to ask for help. Taught to figure everything out alone.

That doesn’t work for me.
I’m meant to be in community.

More than that, I am meant to build community. To lead it. To nurture it.
And I know I’m tired because I’m not living for that purpose.

My mind is full of ideas, but no one seems to listen.

“You’re valued here,” they say,
as long as I don’t cause trouble.

But that’s just not me.
I won’t sit back quietly.

I wish I had a way to find a happy ending. I have no moral to this story, no tidy takeaway. Just the truth that sometimes being tired is what reminds you you’re still fighting. Still hoping for more. Still wanting to believe in the kind of life where people show up for each other.

Maybe that’s the point.

I’m tired, yes — but I’m still here.

Funny, because I was the girl who played oboe in the high school band.

I had a botched boy haircut. I wrote Jonas Brothers fan fiction. I was chubby, awkward, and just trying to figure myself out.

I used to wonder how the pretty girls kept their eyebrows so perfect — still don’t know, but we roll with it.

I wasn’t popular. Just roots quietly growing underground. A seed planted in soil. Expanding. Waiting for my first bloom.

It took time to come into myself. The classic ugly duckling story. I wasn’t anywhere close to the girl I’ve become.

It makes me laugh now, the way people see me.

“You look like Tate McRae.”

“Like Kaley Cuoco.”

“A young Madonna.”

How did that first little bud turn into a rose everyone wants to hold? To add to their bouquet. Soft to the touch until they get close enough to realize there are thorns.

Maybe their perception changed.

Maybe I did.

Learning to trust myself. Learning to accept myself.

From someone afraid to exist in an external way
to the girl who laughs when her friend says,
“The boys think you’re flirting.”

They noticed? Oh no.

When I was younger, I used to panic at the idea of a boy finding out I liked him.
The anxiety, the fear of rejection, all consuming. Heart racing in the hallway. Stomach twisting and turning. Hiding behind a locker to go unseen. A habit that stuck with me even as an adult.

Then I went platinum blonde.
And I started noticing things differently,
how attention shifts, how people project ideas onto you.

I’m not afraid of the looks. The gossip. It doesn’t fuel me. It’s simply a reflection of those around me, not myself.

Because no matter how blonde your hair is,
how confident your walk becomes,
you’re still the girl who played oboe in the high school band.

And maybe that’s the secret, that we never really leave our beginnings behind.
They hum quietly beneath the surface, reminding us where we started,
how far we’ve bloomed, and how the roots still hold us steady
when the world looks at us and sees something entirely new.

That something new is not the mirror that holds the truth.

It is just an illusion. It only has power if we reflect it onto them.

You want her
She feels it coil between words,
in the sharp pause of your breath,

subtle glances and smiles,
in the touch you give and steal away
before it can scorch

A taste denied,
because you are already claimed

Her name slides like venom from your tongue,
but never the one
who waits in silence,
the one who believes you’re hers

"You’re a bad girl, I know”

what ruin would you risk
if she were yours?
Is it her you chase,
or the chaos she carries,
the unraveling you secretly crave?

Reality would break you,
but fiction devours sweetly,
and you always choose the poison
that keeps you alive

She is real
not a dream,
not a hollow body for you to bend

She bleeds, she burns, she resists

And still,
you conjure her

A flame too close to the bone,
a wound you press just to feel

She is not salvation
she is destruction,
and you want her anyway

.

.

.

to be continued…

*

I see the butterflies, and I think of the journey it takes to be able to fly. They don't just wake up with wings—they change from the inside out. They have to break down entirely in the cocoon, becoming something unrecognizable before becoming something beautiful. I think about that a lot. How sometimes you have to fall apart before you become someone new.

When I was younger, I clung to the idea of a relationship freeing me from my loneliness. Friendships had let me down. I thought romantic love would be the answer. I was desperate to be "chosen." That kind of validation felt like the only cure for the ache I carried.

It's funny looking back at 18-year-old me. The way I built entire fantasy lives around guys who, if I met them today, I wouldn't even want to be friends with. At the time, I thought they would save me. I thought that being wanted by someone else would make me want myself. Then, at 21, I had my first real heartbreak... by a guy who later posted a photo on Instagram of himself doing the splits. That was my wake-up call.

Right around then, Taylor Swift released 1989, and I started watching Girls. It was like I was meeting parts of myself I hadn't fully known yet. I started to feel the early flutterings of change. I invested in friendships again. I started believing in the idea of community. It took a few years, but I started to imagine a life that wasn't dependent on someone else choosing me. I was building something for myself, from the ground up. I was becoming someone new.

Then the world shut down. A global pandemic and isolation.

I remember some of the girls I had just taken a trip with had done a socially distanced birthday party. I wasn’t invited. I still feel the disappointment in my gut when I realized how my deep care for those people was not reciprocated. As I was learning how important it is to value friendship over romantic love, I was being hurt almost more deeply than I had felt at 21 for the boy who did the splits.

Just as I was learning how to fly, everything stopped. The silence was loud, and all the momentum I had started to build collapsed into stillness. I spent my days watching birds hatch from the nest at my parents’ house. Reading Anne of Green Gables, relating to the little orphan girl.

It was in that quiet, I heard myself more clearly. I realized that metamorphosis isn't linear. You don't just transform once; you keep doing it. Over and over again. Every time life breaks you open. Like waves repeatedly crashing down.

*

Now, when I need hope, I reflect on the past. I think about the version of me who didn't think she could get through heartbreak. Who felt so invisible in rooms full of people. And yet, here I am. Still becoming. Still learning how to be soft in a hard world.

Hope doesn't always look like something big and momentous. Sometimes it's as small as getting out of bed. Sometimes it's choosing to reply to a text when you'd rather disappear. Sometimes it's choosing to believe there's still more waiting for you, even when you can't see it yet.

Hope, for me, isn't about blind optimism anymore. It's not waiting to be saved. It's a daily choice. To show up. To keep going. To trust the process even when it's messy.

I see the butterflies, and I remind myself that their flight is only possible because of everything they endured before the wings.

I’m someone who wears my heart on my sleeve. You’ll know when I’m happy. You’ll see when I’m sad. I don’t hide it well.

My boss messages me: “You didn’t seem like yourself today. Just wanted to check that you're okay.”

I want to scream, I’m not. I feel so isolated. Confused. Unsure of how to show up as myself. The messages I receive are mixed. I’m encouraged to be open, but punished when I am. I’m not part of the clique. I’m surrounded by contradiction and quiet exclusion while simply trying to get through my days.

I feel like an outsider. When I need help, I don’t know who I can trust. I don’t know who’s in my corner.

*

Lately, I keep thinking about Elle Woods. Cute, smart, ambitious. Misunderstood by everyone around her. Treated like a joke for being herself.

But she never stops being herself. And that’s what helps her win, not because she changes to fit in, but because she doesn’t. Her perspective, her heart, her style — those are the things that set her apart and help her succeed.

Imagine if she had shrunk herself to fit in with the rest of the class. Imagine if she gave up.

And yet here I am, filtering myself. Holding back. Dimming down. Because when I don’t, it’s perceived as “too much” or “not serious” or something else I can’t quite name. Is it jealousy? Insecurity? Do I just not seem capable to them?

I don’t know. But I do know I need to cry. I can’t hold it in anymore.

I’m sad. I’m lonely. Just trying to find some peace on this island I’ve landed on.

*

These themes feel familiar—eerily similar to the ones that surrounded me before everything shut down in 2020. That same ache of being in a community where I wasn’t allowed to fully thrive. Where being myself felt like a liability.

In truth, I think I’ve always related more to Britney’s “Lucky” than to Elle Woods. The girl who appears to have it all but feels empty, misunderstood, and unseen underneath it all.

Maybe it’s my Chiron in the fifth house1. Maybe it’s just me. I struggle with rejection. I want to express myself fully and freely, but I hold myself back. I shrink. I silence. I fear being too much.

But maybe the truth is — I’m not too much.

I’m just in the wrong room.

*

Now I’m learning how to make the room I’m in my home. One that’s safe. Where I can shine and be free. With windows to let the light out.

A room to bloom. That’s what I’ll call the place in my mind. Where I will allow myself to heal. It'll be playful, full of colour and light. A space for creative expression. A space for joy.

It will have spots for others, too. A blossoming community. People who want to be themselves. To be free.

I’m finally learning how to create the life I have been desperately needing. I get disheartened by how long it is taking. Having to learn how to balance my own needs, caring for myself in a self reliant way, while also cultivating community.

Even if circumstances keep me from feeling good enough, my worth doesn’t change based on situations.

I’m learning how to be boldly myself, just like Elle, with a confidence that doesn’t bring others down.

If I never leave a legacy, my hope is that I at least live to be the truest version of myself.

Forgive, but never forget.

I am still learning what forgiveness really is.

Growing up, forgiveness was something that was taught in Sunday School. You need to forgive others because that's what Jesus did. If He could forgive those who betrayed Him, who was I to withhold it from anyone?

Being around the spiritually pious, I felt weak whenever I held onto anger, which, if I'm honest, I did a lot.

It felt like a sin to feel wounded, to acknowledge harm. How could I, a mere sinner, cast judgment? So, I forgave quickly. I forgave automatically. And in doing so, I thought I was being righteous. I didn't know that I was silencing myself.

I didn't know I was teaching others that they could hurt me without consequence.

Forgiveness became a kind of erasure. Not of the pain, but of my voice.

I made myself smaller to "be a good Christian," when in reality, I was never meant to shrink at all. I confused silence with grace. I thought martyrdom meant maturity.

If I could go back, there are people I wouldn't forgive.

Not out of spite—but out of self-respect.

I stayed trapped for years in a cycle that made me weak, all because I thought I had to forgive to be good. To be holy. To be lovable.

*

I don't want to believe that forgiveness is not a beautiful thing. Because when it is real, when it is deserved, it blooms. It turns a withered rose back to life. It softens us. It sharpens us. It teaches us strength through vulnerability.

Forgiveness makes us more human, not less.

But forgiveness should not be currency. It should not be an obligation.

It should be earned. It should be offered with intention.

It should come from overflow, not from emptiness.

Now, I'm learning to forgive someone I've long ignored: myself.

Forgiving myself for not knowing better.

For giving too much. For being too soft.

For not drawing the line when I should have.

For mistaking passivity for peace.

I gave away my forgiveness like candy, hoping it would make others sweet.

Now, I am slowly learning to taste the sweetness of forgiving myself.

And that might be the most sacred kind of grace

I’ll find a haunted little beach town to disappear into.
A sleepy cottage veiled by sea rocks and wild ivy.
Inside, an oasis — tangled with plants and memories.
Vases of flowers, both dried and blooming.
Paint-stained jars. Lace curtains fluttering in salty wind.
Mahogany floors worn soft. Vintage furniture kissed by time.
Bookcases spilling over — stories, trinkets, secrets.

My closet will be filled with flowing dresses.
Soft things to hide the shape of me.
No hard lines, no sharp silhouettes.
I’ll float through town, a shadow in the mist.
Rarely seen, save for the quiet ritual:
fresh bread. a bottle of wine. a nod to the cashier.

At night, I’ll drink and write.
Poetry like a leak in the ceiling — slow and constant.
Music will fill the quiet, louder than the thoughts.
It will rise to drown the shame.
Try to hold back the tide of guilt that wants to break me open.

There we’ll be — me and Tobi.
Curled on the couch in candlelight.
Blankets like a cocoon.
Tobi purring softly, the only heartbeat I need.

I’ll be alone.
But I will be free.

I am reflecting on girlhood this afternoon, watching the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. Thinking about the phrase "I'm not like other girls."

I hate to admit this, but I don't think I know how to relate to other girls.

I'm in a situation currently where it is obvious that I do not fit in. It's reminiscent of my younger years. Maybe even a tiny bit triggering.

I think I always struggled to fit in with a group of girls. It could stem from the fact that I grew up around boys. Or that one of my first childhood friends made a new friend and decided they didn't want me around. It could be because I have a loner mentality. Maybe my need not to play the social games is the problem?

*

Meanwhile, I've always embraced traditionally girly activities. I love the colour pink. I had a deep love for Barbies. For clothes, hair, and makeup. It can be taken as a threat. I noticed how differently I was perceived when I had platinum blonde hair. People expect you to be stuck up, full of yourself. Of course, I do have my moments, but I'm not high maintenance deep down.

Still I've have had several encounters where people have labeled me "bitch" before they even got to know me. Telling me later, they misjudged me.

*

Despite all this, I can't ever seem to make it work in a group of girls. I have several girlfriends, but in groups, something doesn't click. It's something that has always pained me. I always wanted a sister. There's something so magical about women coming together in the spirit of acceptance and love.

*

I picture girlhood as slumber parties and secrets. Giggling and whispers in the dark. Sitting together in a tiny room, doing each other’s hair and makeup. Clothes all over the floor.

"I think the first top goes better with those jeans."

Not being afraid to cry. That they'll find the exact words you need to hear to feel better.

No matter how old you get, the feeling of being a young girl is still with you.

*

I want so badly to find a group of women. Without competition, just friendship, laughter, and trust. I won’t stop trying. And I won’t stop believing in the magic of girlhood.

*

I love girlhood.

I love it when girls want to all dress the same.

Is it cliche, or is it friends who are not competitive with each other?

I love girlhood.

When we lift each other up in our accomplishments and encourage each other in our failures to keep going.

I love girlhood.

Because in a world designed for men, we're stronger together.

I started wearing a '999' necklace, and it has become the obsession of strangers. I figured I should explain it, especially since my simple synopsis in passing will never do it full justice.

In numerology, 9 is the last single digit. It represents completion but not in totality. It is an ending that is not final because every ending makes way for a new beginning.

Maybe it's a little woo-woo of me to have this necklace. I get it. I laugh at myself sometimes for it, too.

But I love the significance. I've finally learned how essential endings can be.

Of course, most people would agree about the bad moments. The number 9 can be a reminder that hard times will end eventually. That every mountain we face has a peak. We will reach the top eventually. Overcoming the challenge of the climb.

Yet the good endings are just as important. It's how we balance out our lives. We can appreciate the good moments more when we've had them end. It's the paradox of happiness and sadness.

I always think of Sophia Loren in Marriage Italian Style when she says, "You know why a person cries? When they know happiness, but they can't have it."

If we've never been sad, how can we appreciate the moments when we are happy? That happiness becomes sweeter, having experienced what it feels like on the other side.

So when we're happy, remember it will soon end. Enjoy it for what it is. Embrace it. It will pass, but it hasn't yet.

I wear my angel number necklace as a reminder of release. That nothing is final in this life. The harder we try to hold on, the more we delay our next beginning.

*

*

*

*

I'm on the subway, listening to Miley sing,

"I'm driving 'round town in a beat-up old Mercedes,

You think I'm crazy, you might be right"

The imagery in this song is what I clung to last winter to help me get through those gray days. The idea of being free, with no set destination.

To start fresh, like the flowers that bloom in Spring. 

*

As I get older, I realize the importance of the seasons. The lessons we learn from nature. We go through cycles of change and growth that mimic the seasons.

Spring has always felt like the most radical of seasons. To come out of winter, where everything freezes and new life is found.

Spring, to me, is long walks and seeing all the flowers starting to come back into existence. The smell of fresh air, no longer breathing in and feeling numb. Enjoying all the colours. No longer just whites and greys, but greens. Green bringing feelings of calm.

I feel the sun starting to bring warmth to my skin. Sitting outside with a coffee and a book. I can feel sanity creeping back in through the stillness.

I get to wear dresses and skirts. A literal weight off my shoulders to not be bundled in a bulky coat and scarf.

Hibernation is over. Birds begin to sing to us again.

Spring is when I feel most like myself. Thawing out from the cold of winter, bringing myself back to life.

I become the worst version of myself when I cannot be in nature. Maybe that is why I will always crave Spring.

*

While I look outside, I see snow and slush. But I know soon it will be Spring. Until then, I'll envision myself in the sun, reading under a tree. Rollerskating by the lakeshore. Soon, this winter will end, and I'll be myself again.

*

"It seems that you're struggling with high-functioning depression," My therapist tells me. I feel like I'm having my own Tony Soprano moment. "It's been a few months, and it seems like the only time that we've talked about you being excited was when you went to Portugal."

I thought about what she said. It had been a few weeks since I had just returned from a trip to Italy. I went to Portugal at least two months before that. Then I remembered August and the beginning of September.

*

I felt overwhelmed. The summer was passing by, and I was exhausted. I had been planning my solo trip to Italy. I wasn't excited to go. I started my trip to Portugal alone and had already experienced travelling alone. Why was I feeling like this? I had no excitement within me.

Then my nonna got into an accident. A few days before, I was supposed to fly. When we visited her in the hospital, I saw her in a way you never want to see a grandparent. She was a shell of herself. Bruised and bloody. Staples in her head. I started to feel guilty. How could I enjoy myself when I should have been with her? What if something happened while I was away?

Everyone told me to go, even with my anxieties. I thought this would shake me awake. Give me some new excitement again.

Flash forward to me sitting alone in the corner of a restaurant in Florence. I ordered a glass of wine and gnocchi. On the outside, the image could easily be romanticized. Here I was; I had put on a cute outfit for this dinner after a full day exploring Florence — a Canadian girl, taking risks and travelling alone. Yet I felt so lonely. I wanted to escape in the flavour of the gnocchi. To drown my emotions in the dry acidity of the wine I drank. But I wasn't able to stop the feeling. I started to cry. I felt confused. How could I be in this place, eating some of the best food in such a beautiful city, crying?

I thought of the girl from Mexico I met on a tour in Montalcino. She was travelling alone as well. She felt like the polar opposite of me. She found everything exciting. She took photos of herself smiling. Made videos. She was full of life. I didn't know why I couldn't be like that, too. I tried so hard to find that joie de vivre

*

I did enjoy myself on that trip in the end. But when I got home, the tears started again. I had temporarily moved back in with my parents. My mother would see me try to hide tears and didn't get why I was upset. I couldn't say either. I was about to move into a new place. I had things to look forward to. But I felt numb. I had no motivation to care.

October came and went, and then November—two more months that felt like going through the motions. Looking back, I can't think of anything that made me feel alive during those times. I knew I would have to keep going, even though I didn't want to. I felt let down by the people around me and by myself.

It was like I was fighting a fight with no end. I knew there was no guarantee any of it would get easier. It was working towards a goal that was always just out of reach.

My existence is limited to what my thoughts are. I had to adjust them.

But I knew there was no guarantee that things would ever truly change. I may never get to a point where I do not stress about money and won't feel disappointed by the people around me. Where I will feel accomplished in my career.

I have to accept how my circumstances are now. If this is the best, I am thankful it is not worse.

It's learning to aim for more while making the most of current circumstances, turning small moments into big wins. It may be another year of blue Mondays, which is okay. It means we endured another year, and that is a win in itself.

I kept so much in. Secrets I didn't tell even my closest friends.

I truly felt alone. 

I had to do it alone. 

I have always felt like I didn't ever truly fit in. Maybe I do it to myself. The way we think is the way we interact with the world. I'm certain now my own limitations with friendships have come from within. My fears. Even though I had a strong desire to be with people at all times from a young age, I kept people close to me at a distance.

I think of the Bridesmaid scene where Megan accuses Annie of having a pity party. When Megan starts to tell her about how she was bullied in high school. How she didn't have friends. She didn't get down on herself, she just focused on studying and made something out of her loneliness. When I first saw that scene, I remember thinking I wish I could have been like Megan. I wish I had the drive. I was always more like Annie. I gave up on myself. My dreams. I let my emotions weigh me down. I would let myself be miserable in my loneliness over losing a friend rather than investing in myself. 

I let myself get into that place this year.

I let the loss of relationships bring me into a place of isolation. I wanted to seek solace in the comfort of others. I wanted to fill the loss. Naturally, we need people in our lives. We need friendship and community. But what I wanted was an escape. I didn't want to sit in the pain I had felt. I was back in that place I was ten years ago when I first watched the film Bridesmaids. 

I hadn't changed. 

I didn't have Megan to beat me up on a couch. To snap me out of my spell. If I had, I would have never realized how important it is for me to be alone. 

To be clear, I still dislike being alone. Especially now, living on my own. Alone time when other people live with you feels different. There's a comfort in knowing that someone is in the room down the hall. 

I have had to learn the only way to deal with loneliness is to confront being alone. To learn about the fears I have. Why being alone became such a deep rooted fear. I never realized it until I had to live it.

At the same time -- and with the complexity of human nature -- I put myself in situations where I created isolation. 

So I became a contradiction. A person afraid of being alone who also isolated themselves. Reliant on others to keep my fears at bay but then I pushed those close to me away. 

I manifested my loneliness. That's why I have to learn to get out of it alone. To utilize this time to create goals for myself. To finally start those projects I have put aside. 

I had to change my mindset to view time alone as a blessing. Though I am validated in my loneliness, that extra time spent with friends would be valued, I am at an advantage being alone.

I'm on an island. I can view it as either being stranded or as paradise.

Thirty was... not a great year.

It was filled with heartbreak and loss. New beginnings and a lot of endings.

I started a new position at work. I lost a lot of friends. I made mistakes. I travelled alone for the first time. Through all of it, I gained new wisdom. Now I'm reflecting and am left with this:

Thoughts from thirty:

Unsolicited advice can be more harmful than helpful. I believe we are all guilty of this. I had a few moments this year where I had some people almost tell me what they think I should do, and though well intentioned, actually hurt my feelings more than helped me feel better.

Nick Jonas is the ideal man. Short king. Athletic. Family man. He's funny but wouldn't be funnier than me.

No one will understand your loneliness except for you. It's what makes it so difficult, why it feels even more isolating.

Some people make time for you and have time for you. Learn the difference. Those who make time for you are the ones who value your friendship.

The actions of others are usually more truthful than their words. If there's a disconnect, trust their actions.

Money will come and go. As long as you're responsible, enjoy your life.

You feel better when you don't oversleep, but sometimes you need to.

Carrie Bradshaw made terrible decisions about guys. She hurt herself and others constantly. But she always got her column out. Writing requires experiences — good and bad.

Terry Fox is a national hero who isn't spoken about enough.

Don't wait for friends to go to see shows, movies, or travel. You'll end up not going. Go alone and meet friends along the way.

The Real Housewives are more than just women fighting on TV. It's an insight into social dynamics. So much can be unpacked on a socio-economical and racial level through those relationships. The way these women treat each other and the connections they have with their husbands and families. I would write a 20-page paper on this if I was still in school.

Change is difficult. Some changes are healthy and needed. Some are not.

People will cheat for a lot of reasons. They usually won't admit why.

Most people's perception of you is different from your own. If you're rooted in who you are, that perception does not matter.

Your worth is inherent and can't change regardless of circumstances or experiences.

Don't let yourself be the second choice. If a guy goes back to a girl he thought he had a chance with, she drops him, and he goes back to you…. He's using you.

In the Sims 4, when you make your sim work hard every day, they get tense. The same thing happens to us. Learning to create balance and take time for yourself is the best way to keep working hard without burning out. It's hard, but it is possible.

The thoughts I have inside.

The secrets that I keep. 

The shame that I hide. 

The once abundant fig tree has turned rotten to the core. There are no more figs to bear. All that’s left is the musty stench of decaying wood.

I know my touch can ignite flames. Why leave the tree to die?

Is there hope? It’s irredeemable.

One touch, that’s all it’ll take.

I stand in the heat of the burning fire.

Watch the flames touch the surrounding trees, though the fire can’t seem to catch.

So I watch the only tree alight; the flames continue to rise.

They grow with every regret.

They grow. They grow.

The final life the tree is given is the one that makes it die.

No more figs. No more life.

And all I’m left with is a pile of ashes at my feet. 

Like the end of summer memories.

The walks to get candy as a child. Eating sour keys and playing the Sims. Games of hide and seek. Basketball at the BJCC. Frozen burritos. Watching Arthur in my room. Playing with Barbies. Volkswagen Beatles. Abercrombie and Fitch. Digital pets. Trampolines. Music videos. CDs. Dance classes with friends. Vince Carter. Water bras. 

Sometimes, it’s hard to remember that version of me. 

Bold but afraid. The part that’s still the same. 

Was I happier then? 

Built-in friends from the playground. Neighbours the same age. 

The wounds from childhood still exist. The feeling of never fitting in. Friendly to all, friend to none. 

The seasons change, and the pattern repeats.

Like the leaves in fall.

The leaves may change; they fall, but they’ll always come back in spring. 

*

Nostalgia feels like the leaves changing colours. You know they’re about to fall. Trying to cling on to them before it’s too late. 

What happens to us when the leaves fall? When we can’t recognize ourselves anymore. When we know the pattern is about to continue. 

Do we just wait for the spring? 

Is it possible to change the pattern?

I thought I was lonely before, but I've experienced a loneliness beyond crushing boredom. 

*

Yesterday, a coworker told me how content he is with the social aspect at work. It's enough to keep him content because he has few friends. He's happy that way. He has his girlfriend and his pets, and he gets to go home after work and do his hobbies. 

I love my hobbies and my time to work on my crafts and projects. But for me, it's never enough.

I thought for a while it was because I was unhappy with myself. Unable to be content alone because I did not appreciate my own company. Then, I moved out and started to live on my own. I get so much enjoyment from being on my own. And still, I feel a guttural sadness. It hits deep within me at unexpected times. Like a crashing wave pulling me under its current, I struggle to reach for air again. 

*

Loneliness is something I've known since I was very young. It allowed me to wander the depths of my mind, create new spaces, and develop an imagination. 

As I get older, it becomes harder to understand. I've become more introspective and taken therapy, but I remain lonely. 

*

I think of the times in high school when I cried knowing I was so unhappy with my life, wanting change. I would watch Friday Night Lights almost religiously. It was my respite from loneliness. There was one quote that stayed with me.

"You're changing Jason, and it's so real. We're never going to last because I'm not changing with you." 

I felt like I couldn't keep up with my friends. Changing in different ways. It only got worse as I got older. 

I've watched my friends graduate, get engaged, get married. Yet, my life feels at a standstill. I haven't changed alongside them. I made new friends, and when they changed, I stayed. 

As much as I've grown over the years, I stay paralyzed. All my growth is overshadowed by the cloud of loneliness that has never been able to leave me. I'm like a lost boy but without the guidance of Peter Pan.

*

Maybe I'm not meant to fit into the traditional narrative. Maybe my dissatisfaction is intended to push me forward. Maybe that's the reason I can't change.

I tried to follow the traditional path, feeling like I was doing everything "right" back in 2020. Then life changed. All the stability I thought I had crumbled underneath me. I felt lost. 

As life opened back up, I didn't feel any less lost. I am still lost, uncertain about where life is meant to take me. 

And maybe that's the point. In all my loneliness, it is a push to live freely. To not follow a traditional path. To create my own narrative. To use my imagination. To overcome sadness with a life that is all of my own. To find my own Neverland. 

I could be wrong, but I’ll never know unless I try to fly.

 I am not ready to share such a vulnerable piece of my life quite yet. I hope when I am, it will be worth the wait.

**

We've just turned thirty, but we're not scared. 

It's hard to write this. I picture you in your old twin bed, stuffed animals all around you. Dreaming about how things will be when you get older. Hoping it'll be like the early 2000s RomComs you love to watch. Like Hilary Duff in A Cinderella Story. The underdog who finally gets her happy ending. In some ways, it will feel like you are the leading character in your movie. Most of the time, it won't. 

I wish I could tell you only positive stories, but life is inconsistent. For every happy moment, there is another that is sad. Many nights will be filled with tears and heartache—the internal dissonance of simultaneously being too little and too much. 

The beautiful thing about growing older is the wisdom of how to come to terms with this. I can see now what I couldn't back then. At the time, anxiety and fear were your closest friends. Be gentle to yourself; it's hard to see beyond what you're surrounded by. To understand how powerful our minds are. They shape our entire realities. Our thoughts control our way of life. What we believe. What we feel. It all is created by the beliefs in our minds. 

With time, you'll learn to move forward. Your perseverance through the pain is what brings you here today, writing this letter. 

Thankfully, that daydreaming spirit doesn't fade. The creativity and imagination you used as a child are still with you. That is something to be proud of. The playfulness you keep despite the hardness of life. 

I think of you fondly when I picture you with your ferocious spirit, playing with your Barbies and Polly Pockets. Some of the happiest times you had on the floor of your room with the world that you created with your toys.

All the journals you started with stories and dramatics, never finishing one before starting another. Sometimes I find them and smile. They're not good. Mostly terrible, in fact. But to know that it was something you loved to do makes me beyond happy. 

The core of who you were is essential to who you are. It will determine your relationships. You'll start to understand that when you release the fear. 

Now you're doing well. You have friends who care for you, and you're living on your own. You've accomplished a lot. It doesn't always feel like that, but you have. 

I know the thought of having a boyfriend both thrills and excites you. Maybe one day you'll fall in love. It's a dream that has yet to be fulfilled. There's a lot of guilt and shame in that dream. Shame that it hasn't happened. But you'll realize it's more common than you think. A lot of other girls your age have stayed single throughout adulthood. The shame just comes because it's a place where fear still resides.

When it happens, I hope it's more than you've ever dreamed of. If it doesn't, you'll be okay too. You'll learn you're not defined by the attraction others have for you but by how you love yourself. 

I wish you had learned to trust your instincts earlier. Yet, the feeling of contentment and satisfaction when you realize how wrong people were about you will become a spiritual awakening. It will lead you to the right friendships and save you from the wrong ones. 

The path will be lonely. I wish you could see how bright you shine inside. Your capacity for love will be tested. 

It gets better, but it's still hard. 

We still believe our lives will end like those 2000s movies we loved. Even though it breaks my heart to tell you this, the genre slowly dies, and the feeling encapsulated in those films isn't replicated anymore. We still have that feeling in our heart. Continue to keep it close. 

Lead with love. Forget fear. Trust yourself.