The first thirty minutes upon waking, program your brain for the rest of your day. I read that somewhere so it must be true. I always start my day with HIM. My boyfriend. Any dutiful woman should.
And because it is important that you find positivity in your life, I find it in him. My boyfriend makes the dark days brighter—even when he does not know it. There is this thing he does without trying: he turns my worst moods into something bearable. I mean— I am actually generally a positive person. I am a disabled thirty-six year old girl who still lives with her parents. I am thousands of miles away from the man I love. Given my status in this life, it would be understandable if I was genuinely down.
I receive plenty of criticism. People who love me, like my parents, criticize me. Also, the world at large thinks I am not living my life correctly. Everyone seems to have an opinion on how I should live my life. All I can really do is drown out all of this negativity around me. I choose to live for myself and my beautiful future ahead.
Right now we have to do it virtually through technology (is it really our fault that we met thousands of miles apart?) Because of the time difference (*eye roll*), he wakes me up at three every morning before he starts his day. We whisper sweet nothings to each other. He sends me videos of him making his espresso (real men drink espresso). He knows that makes me insanely happy and proud. Then I drift off to sleep until he gets to work. It’s about an hour—maybe two if I sleep in. Because that is what a committed person does— supports the person they love.
I do not require grand gestures or therapy-speak from him —just his being there for me. And honestly? It is weird how much that matters. I often feel alone— criticized, ignored— like no one cares about what I think or say. He does not argue. He does not fix. But goddammit— he listens.
At times, I do not even want to smile. But, because of him, I usually do. And suddenly the room feels less heavy. It is not that he erases the bad stuff. Life still happens—that gnawing anxiety I cannot shake. But he is like… a filter. Everything gets softer around him.
How he tells me to scream and cry because he gets it. I need that release. I am so tired of keeping everything in. How he entertains my passions. I go on rants about a topic that I love, and he just lets me talk. And how excited he gets for me when I achieve a personal success.
I know that sounds stupid. But to me it is pretty perfect. People talk about love like it is fireworks. They criticize us for not obeying their rules. But our love feels more like a lamp in a storm—quiet, steady, just enough light to see the next step. He does not solve my problems (not yet at least!). He just reminds me they are not the whole story.
Sometimes, I worry I lean too hard on him, like I am borrowing his calm because mine ran out. He does not realize he is the reason I breathe easier. That I smile every time I wake up (even if it is at three in the morning). So here is the truth: he doesn’t fix my negative life. He just makes it feel smaller. And for now, that is enough.
I have traveled the entire world, read every book and attended countless therapies in order to heal. Through all of this experience, I have learned that if you do not want the help— if you do not believe—you will not heal.
Healing does not come when you chase it, it comes when you are quiet enough to listen. My parents took me all the way to Brazil to see a Seeing Eye “doctor” called John of God. John of God—real name João Teixeira de Faria—was a Brazilian faith healer who claimed to channel spirits to perform invisible surgeries without tools or anesthesia. He ran a center in Abadiânia (until the Me Too movement got him in twenty-eighteen because apparently the eighty-year-old man was sexually harassing women during his procedures) drawing thousands of desperate people—cancer patients, chronic pain sufferers, even celebrities—hoping for miracles. My parents wanted this miracle to happen for me us.
John of God would go into trances, say he was guided by dead doctors or saints, then operate by pressing fingers into eyes, scraping skin, or just waving hands. Some swore it worked: tumors vanished, backs straightened, pain gone. Others called it placebo at best, fraud at worst.
I was in the placebo group and I can confirm that I was not mentally ready to take in any miracles or will his strategies to work. I was just along for the ride. Not understanding why this was happening to me but knowing that it would get better.
I mean— the place was magnificent. Abadiânia is a little mountain-top village; there are no giant statues of Jesus Christ. Throughout the night, you can hear the stray cats fighting and roosters crow in order wake you every morning— as if it is an order. We had to wear all white clothing (this is best for letting in the spirit world). We wrote down our prayers/ wishes every day and stood in long lines in order to visit with John of God. We were prescribed herbal remedies and crystal “baths”— in which you lay in a tanning-like bed amongst the crystals for hours. I could not wrap my head around the fact that every single “patient” would be given the same prescription— despite their ailment. How could that help you if it was not designed specifically to your needs?
Now I understand that it is all about intention. I can consume the same herbs as you but— for me— tumors would shrink/disappear and I would be cured of my paralysis, but others bones would be healed and bleeding would stop— with the same herbs. I guess sacred does not always mean that it is holy, because I would pray. For years, I was searching for a higher power, but I was asking the wrong questions. Healing is not always gentle— sometimes you need to be shoved. Life has shoved and shoved— now I am ready to listen.
What activities do you lose yourself in?
Experiences: traveling, fine dining and immersing myself in luxury
Let’s take a little hiatus from reminiscing about the past (it is not the easiest time of my life to relive). I want to talk nutrition. One of my passions in life. Something I can go on and on about. I already mentioned that I am absolutely enthralled by the movements being made by RFK and the current administration. One of the main targets is: glyphosate.
Glyphosate works by blocking an enzyme plants need to grow, so glyphosate is used to prevent the growth of invasive plants (i.e weeds)— think Roundup—plus it is an incredibly cheap product so obviously it is being used a lot throughout the country : farms, lawns, and even city parks.
Studies show that glyphosate can be carcinogenic when used heavily. Roundup has had to pay billions of dollars in damages because their products were proven to give users Non Hodgkin’s Lymphoma (plus caused the death of a pet!)
This does not bode well for our farmers; as there is currently no other alternative for ridding the environment from weeds. Somehow European countries have figured out a way to grow their crops without having to deal with weeds/ needing a chemical to get rid of them.
So now the American people have to worry about gut bacteria, hormone tweaks, even birth defects— as traces of glyphosate are found throughout our food. The new “trend” of gluten intolerance points to the fact it may be the substance that we spray our wheat with — not the wheat itself—as it is not a prevalent allergy in other parts of the world. Yes, glyphosate kills weeds great, but is it worth it?
It appears as though we are only getting sicker in this country. I am no doctor or scientist; I am just a girl who has had her fair share of issues with food and I simply love “bro science” and listening to podcasts with Gary Brecka and Robert F. Kennedy jr.
I lived a gluten free lifestyle for years. Thanks to my Functional Neurologist, I learned that this diet was beneficial for my arm’s erratic movements. And ultimately, because I did not have any actual reactions to gluten, I chose to enjoy the food I was craving. It is not like I am about to eat an entire pizza or loaf of bread again, but goddammit, if my man wants to take me to a nice restaurant… I am going to enjoy every bite. However I acknowledge the fact that our crops and our wheat is tainted so I do opt for all organic and the most natural sources available.
What movies or TV series have you watched more than 5 times?
PRETTY WOMAN!! I basically base my life around it…
If we are going to go through the character arc of my not being good enough and the affect that it had on my life thus far , we have to further elaborate on what led me into my post-high-school downward spiral and my current health issues.
In high school, I tried extremely hard. After my middle school experience at being an overweight/ flunking embarrassment, I was shown how people only gave me praise and attention if I wore a size zero and excelled in my studies. So I withered away and took notes/ highlighted my books until my fingers bled. I tried to keep a social life, but eventually the obsession with my food and appearance gave way.
I even drove myself to school (once I got my license) hours earlier so that I could sit in the computer lab and search for homes where an adolescent can live on her own (I always thought that living on my own was the answer to my prayers!)
And then of course there was a boy. He was a firefighter, did not go to my school and actually showed interest in me. I was not used to this. I was deprived of romance and even though I had no interest in him, I craved his touch, his kisses and his text messages as if I had been trekking through the desert for years and he was a fresh spring of water.
But I never slept with him. I must have had some kind of moral code, because this would continue in university. We would do everything but as soon as it came to the actual act, I became dismissive. That did not please the twenty-year-old-playboy -firefighter, and suddenly his attention turned elsewhere. He went back to his ex-girlfriend— an easy get— fake tanned, a bit chubby and dumb as rocks.
My ego was absolutely shattered. My heart cracked open—like someone took a hammer to a glass jar and just let it shatter. Even though I had spent years not eating or enjoying life in order to be at the top of my class and in order to look like I was perfect—even though I made myself better than anyone else—I was once again still not good enough. My carefully curated Kate Moss-esque figure and resume quickly became crumpled trash in the midst of a “normie” high school girl. So I officially gave up.
I literally just stopped caring. I threw my hands up and started eating everything that I was missing out on for years. I stopped studying too. I took my tests after spending the night binging a television series (and binging copious amounts of snacks!). I would skip my classes the day that a major paper was due so that I could get it done the second before it was due.
I gained more than twice the amount of weight that I weighed in high school. My parents were shocked when they saw me, they had me workout with a personal trainer, as if that was the issue—I simply had to move more not eat less. However , the judgements only made me eat more. Still not good enough.
I reached out to some of the family friends I had grown up with so that I could have some semblance of a social life. And they helped. Invited me out. Made me laugh. But now everything felt fake.
I was avoiding everyone from high school who knew me as the “anorexic girl “— the one who would only wear high heels and dresses or skirts instead of the jeans and sneakers of everyone around me— because I used to be better than everyone around me (or at least I believed I was).
Now I was ashamed. Now high heels would pinch my chunky toes and instead of flaunting my slender legs in skirts, I hid my giant slabs of meat in sweatpants and size thirty-two jeans. I avoided posting pictures of myself. I used to be so beautiful. I used to take immense pleasure in hearing my father tell his friends, “isn’t my daughter so hot?” He stopped saying that…
Essentially the high school “breakup” did not just end a relationship—it ended me. Once we had met, once I had tasted the attention I had been yearning for; I had built my whole senior year around him: I had started eating again (but not too much and of course I would never let myself go to sleep without working off every calorie I had eaten that day), late-night texts so that he could get more attention than my studies did, and fantasies about life together.
College was supposed to be freedom. Instead it felt like punishment. Instead of being lithe and studious, I was just studying myself—how to numb out, how to fake smiles, how to avoid anyone who might matter. I “slutted” around, but obviously nothing stuck. Every kiss tasted like betrayal. Every “I like you” sounded like a lie, because why would anyone like an over-two-hundred-pound girl? I drank too much and I slept too much (making up for sleeping only a few hours every night in high school).
The worst part? I blamed him. For years. Like if he had never cheated, I would have gone to Yale, had a perfect GPA and had a perfect boyfriend. But It took recovering from my upcoming disability for me to realize: heartbreak does not ruin college. It does not ruin life. You do. You ruin it when you stop showing up. When you decide you are too broken to try. When you treat every new person like a ticking bomb.
Do not let one bad love story become the whole plot. Because the truth is, the boy who broke me? He is probably still in his mom’s basement, playing Fortnite. And I am here—yes, I do not like my current situation but I am surviving—writing this, breathing, alive and planning for a future. That is the real win.
Essentially this entire experience taught me that everything happens for a reason— as corny as it may sound. Because honestly? The real damage was not the “breakup”—it was how I let it define me. I let one boy’s cowardice rewrite my future. I let shame decide my friends and my life.
It is not something that I should look back on and regret, because what is really the point of that?! If I was never made to feel like I was not good enough and thus never imploded, I would not have gone through the whole process of finding my voice and who I am, that means that I would not have started with the Twitter account full of snarky comments and controversial statements (seriously— people would constantly accuse me of either being a federal agent or a man pretending to run a girl’s account) and that would not have led me to meet the someone three thousand miles away— the man of my dreams. Maybe he is that perfect boyfriend I had envisioned finding in college.
I have been struggling with this body for my entire existence. At first, I had to wear suspenders in order for me keep my pants from falling off. Then, as a little girl who just moved to America, I discovered my love for loaves of white bread, snickers and Coke-A-Cola. The combination not only made me into a chubby elementary-middle school girl who was constantly made to feel like the ugly duckling in her own house (by my beautiful and perfect cousin), but led to the most pivotal moment in my young development.
In the summer before the sixth grade, my parents and I returned to our motherland (Russia). It was terrible. I had not seen any of my family since I was four years old and now as soon as my grandmother opened the front door she exclaimed, “Oh my! You look so American!” I had no idea what that meant but I knew that it was not good. It was like my cousin had been telling me — I simply was not good enough—at this point, she had moved out and was sent to boarding school.
My other grandmother would also partake in the criticism of my appearance. I remember having my hand smacked away as I reached for the bread basket. Listen, I get it. The family should not be embarrassed. But I was just a kid, not some morbidly obese adult who just sat around and ate junk food all day . I had not even gone through puberty! (All little girls puff up before their bodies release the excess storage).
Turns out, I would not even go through puberty until the end of high school because as a result of that criticism and the immense shame I felt, I simply stopped eating (and showing my body that it simply was not worth growing and developing).
It started innocently. The summer after the horrendous seventh grade— in which I ballooned into a new heavy weight category and began failing classes/ not trying—I started eating only fruits after 5 pm. No more snacking. No more junk food.
My parents loved my new look and would constantly praise me. I even started trying hard in school and I finally got straight As. I loved the praise and attention that came with this. Life was so much easier. I made lifelong friends and I loved the attention I would receive. Even from the teachers. No one talks about that part.
Ultimately, my body and I have been in a toxic on-again, off-again relationship for years. One minute I’m squeezing into size-sixteen (big kid) jeans, feeling sad and defeated—convinced I would never see my collarbones again (my favorite body part!). Then it gets extreme. The only-fruit diet turned into full-on anorexia. Not the glamorous kind you see in movies—just me, a bathroom scale, and a daily tally of how many grapes I could stomach before crying. I’d stare at my ribs like they were trophies, I would flush my food down the toilet—until one day my mom would see me pass out after a day of a few Venti americanos from Starbucks and she dragged me to a counselor.
I lied to that counselor about everything. I told her that I was gaining weight and that I was being forced to eat more. Ultimately it was the counselor’s fault though. I was an adolescent girl whose soul purpose is to be perfect— why would you put your full faith in me? (She should have weighed me!)
College flipped the script. Depression rolled in like fog, and food became comfort. I ballooned—obese, sure, but also numb. I’d eat a whole pizza alone in my dorm, then hate myself for it, then eat another slice because why stop now? I was broken hearted when a dumb high school fling showed me that I was not good enough (here we go again!) and I carried that pain all the way to Syracuse University in New York.
I ended up not caring anymore. The straight As turned into Cs and Ds. When I could no longer befriend the beautiful people around me, I decided to hide from the world— only finding temporary solace in strange college boys who enjoyed plushy emo girls.
Now? I am actually happy and extremely healthy. I love everything about this government’s whole MAHA movement. I have been following “bro-science” accounts for a while now and have been obsessed with the detrimental impact of everyday products— like fluoride and seed oils. So yeah…I am no longer eating whole pizzas alone in my room.
Years after the bleed, I also managed to lose over one hundred pounds— all while being bound to a wheelchair. I did this ultimately because my mindset had changed and I had finally discovered my own voice. Maybe it was because of Functional Neurology, but I had to learn that bodies were made in the kitchen and while I cannot currently take a walk or go for a run— I can show determination and discipline. This is what finding my own voice and personality taught me…. That I am invincible. I still yo-yo, I still binge eat when I get stressed or anxious, but I know how to stop it.
This reminds me I’m not broken, just… human. And yeah, my weight has been a mess. But I know that I can win. I can be better than human. So here’s to the yo-yo: up, down, sideways, whatever. I’m still here. Undefeated.
I am still buzzing from last week —just lying there, tangled up in sheets, his arm slung over me.
I swear, nothing feels better than finally being in the same room as him. No more FaceTime lag, no more “can you hear me?”—just his stupid grin, his real voice, the way he smells like his high end cologne collection. I melt every time he opens his arms towards me . Like, actually melt. My shoulders drop, my jaw unclenches, and suddenly the whole past —my parents criticisms, constantly feeling ignored and not understood —evaporates.
He does not even have to say anything. Just stands there, arms open . We did not do grand gestures. No roses, no playlists. Only sweet treats waiting for me upon arrival. Then him flopping onto the hotel bed, me curling into his side like it is the only spot that fits. His hand finds mine—always does—like it’s muscle memory. And I think, “God, this is it”. This is what I have been waiting for.
The best part? He gets quiet too. Like he knows I need five minutes of nothing—just us breathing, the TV on mute, his thumb rubbing slow circles on my knee. I could stay like that forever. I do not care if it sounds sappy. I am happy. Not content or fine—happy. The kind that makes my chest ache a little, like it is too big for my ribs. And yeah, I miss him. But right now? I guess I just wait.
The waiting is terrible but necessary and I hope —temporary. When the bleed took my body away from me, I was waiting to go back to university (I thought I would physically be back on campus), but instead, my parents made me apply online and finally finish my Bachelor’s degree TEN YEARS LATER. Then came the waiting for my recovery—I realized that I wasn’t made for the indoctrination and fake “wokeness” of the “real world.”
But when I met my man I thought that this waiting was over. He loves me as I am—so I no longer needed to rush anything or force myself into school/ work.
I found that in these settings, I was constantly being penalized for having the “wrong “ opinions in my essays and papers, but would immediately be rewarded and praised as soon as I brought up my disability. I did not want to use my situation as a crutch. I hate pity. So I chose to be myself. A little right wing, conservative and definitely against any kind of diversity. And everyone hated that. Except the love of my life.
But when I am back home alone again—in my own little bubble—the quiet hits different—like the rooms are too big without him breathing next to me. I miss the way he rolls over and pulls me closer—I keep replaying it: his fingers tracing lazy circles on my back, the way he mumbles to me even though I’m already half-asleep. It’s stupid how much I crave that—his weight, his heat, the dumb little sounds he makes when he is dreaming. And yeah, I know it is cheesy to say out loud, but… I am happy.
Like, stupid-happy. Not the Instagram-filter kind—just the real, messy, I-cannot-believe-this is-mine kind. I never had this before. Was I ever truly happy? I manipulated my way into graduating with straight As and everything else I had done was always done through force or for someone else. This is mine. My life. My happiness. So here’s to him. To us. To every second I get to be physically right there, skin on skin, no screens, no distance—just him and me and this ridiculous, perfect quiet… I guess I have to go back to waiting for this feeling again.
I used to think my body was broken. And the worst part? My voice. Literally. I used to enjoy flirting with the world, making funny puns etc. I’d open my mouth to speak, and nothing came out—or worse, it came out wrong. Stuttering, cracking, like my throat had forgotten how to work.
Doctors shrugged. It was just a part of the brain injury , they said. Anxiety. Pills didn’t touch it and eventually I went completely natural and would never touch the stuff. Speech Therapy made me feel worse—like I was faking it.
Then I found functional neurology. It wasn’t magic. It was science—boring, nerdy, brain-map science. My first appointment was with a guy who looked more like a surfer than a doctor. I was so enamored. Very Italian with very right wing views. He asked me to follow his finger with my eyes while he tapped my knee. He watched how my pupils reacted to light. Every test was a clue. Turns out, my vestibular system—the little inner-ear gyroscope—was off. My cerebellum, the part that smooths out speech and balance, was under-firing. And my prefrontal cortex? It was like a dim bulb flickering in a storm.
The brain doesn’t forget. It just waits. We started small. Eye-tracking drills. Balance boards. Breathing patterns that synced my heart rate to my nervous system. No supplements, no woo-woo—just rewiring.
Ten minutes a day, like brushing my teeth. I continued the exercises at home, but I could not wait to get back. I enjoyed the fact that the doctor would flirt with me—something that I thought would never happen again. Little did I know, it was a tactic. Something to encourage me to recover. He said that I was making progress and that clearly my brain was trying. But traveling to the east coast of Canada was not exactly easy so we would see another functional neurologist in Chicago and in Orlando. But what helped me most during these trips was the gyrostem (a machine that would spin you around while you focused on a particular spot). Eventually I would see a functional neurologist in Oregon— another doctor who I was completely enamored by. Dark coffee, rock music and a wine aficionado. He would encourage me to flirt, joke and even sing as I tried to impress him and crawl back into my charming personality.
And my voice came back in pieces—like a radio tuning in. First, just clearer vowels. Then full sentences. Then jokes. I laughed—actually laughed—at his dumb puns, and it felt like the world cracked open. The real miracle wasn’t the recovery. It was the proof: I wasn’t broken. I was miswired. And wiring can be fixed.
Functional neurology isn’t about curing everything. It’s about listening—to your eyes, your gait, your reflexes—like they’re telling you a story you’ve ignored. Mine said, Hey, I’m still here. Just help me get the signal through.
I still sound funny. People still do not understand me sometimes. But at least that is from half of my tongue being numb and too weak. It is not because I am no longer unable to form a thought and have my own lips betray me.
If you’re stuck—foggy, tired, silent—don’t wait for the next pill. Find someone who’ll test your brain like it matters. Because it does. And when it starts working again? You’ll talk. You’ll move. You’ll live. And maybe, like me, you’ll finally find the voice you thought you’d lost forever.
Turns out, it was just waiting for
the right frequency. No more backing down. Now I say it like it is.
So in 2018, I used my new found identity in my new Twitter account (now X). In 2019, a follower kept commenting on how I did not sound like any other girl/ woman. I did not think anything about it. I knew that I was a bit misogynistic and that I enjoy manosphere accounts more than popular culture or whatever girly girls do. I personally believe that men are the most incredible creatures on earth. And that it is the woman’s duty to obey and please. Maybe my opinions are controversial, but something that I figured out while I was healing was that I do not have a fall into a category, I could be unapologetically myself. That is the beauty of the brain— it keeps molding and shaping (neuroplasticity), so we can decide to make our lives beautiful— no matter the past.
Ultimately , I was drawn in to this mysterious man on Twitter. The guy’s profile picture was just a picture of Larry Bird, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt and eventually found out that we had a lot in common. I was no longer afraid or hesitant to be myself. I had been through enough in life to know that sitting on the sidelines did nothing for me. I found my inner voice and was motivated to let it out Now we are in love. It really is a beautiful love story. Girl meets boy on social media. And eventually we become each other’s lives. All because I found my voice in Functional Neurology
The insecurity began when I was just ten years old. I used to hate looking in the mirror. Not because I was ugly—just because I was not her . My cousin was three years older, but honestly? She looked like she had stepped out of a magazine before she even hit puberty. Blonde hair and a waist so tiny I could circle it with one hand, and yeah… those boobs. They showed up way too early, like nature decided to fast-forward her body while I was still wearing training bras and praying for a growth spurt. She’d walk into a room and every head turned. I’d follow behind, invisible. And I would constantly hear about it.
Every morning I’d wake up to her stretching like a cat, hair perfect even before breakfast, while I’d tug my pajama shirt down over my flat chest and wish I could disappear.
Eventually I would hear “you’re not enough” from family, friends and the universe as a whole. As if I was supposed to be grateful for second place.
I would cry in the shower until the water went cold. But eventually, something shifted. Not because I suddenly loved my body— but because he does. I finally found someone who taught me how to be good enough. I realized: my cousin wasn’t perfect. She was loud, clumsy, terrible at math, and secretly terrified of being just a pretty face. We were both insecure. Hers was just louder.
Years after she left ,the scars remained: I had a battle with an eating disorder and I even began competing against my own mother. It was not until I fell into the depths of hell and was pulled out by the greatest man alive, that I grasped the fact that I could be good enough too.
Now I find myself struggling to drown out the “you are not good enough” feeling again as I prepare for last solo flight to Boston this week.
I have always loved flying first class. Not because of the champagne or the extra legroom—though yeah, those help—but because it is the one place where no one needs anything from me. No texts, no calls, no small talk. Just me, an aisle seat, and five hours of quiet. I can finally exhale.
This trip will be different. Like it is final. Like I am closing a chapter mid-flight. For years, I have been doing this dance: Boston one weekend, home the next. He’d send the ticket, I’d pack, we’d laugh and spend time together and pretend the miles didn’t matter. First class made it bearable—luxury as a bandage.
But bandages don’t heal distance. They just keep the wound from bleeding on the carpet.
This is my last solo trip. Next time I land in Boston, I’ll be stepping off with him—or not at all. I love the flight. I love the quiet. But I don’t love the back-and-forth. I’m done commuting. As I introduced myself as the obedient good girl, he had never pictured me saying no. And honestly? That felt better than the seat upgrade. It might have made me cry in the shower again. But I am not giving up on us and I am not going to hit rock bottom again. I’m just giving up on pretending this works. Love shouldn’t feel like a layover.
This is goodbye to the solo aisle, the complimentary mimosa, the little blanket they fold into a square. And hello to whatever comes next. Maybe it will be messy, but I know that I cannot be ruined like before. At least it won’t be 30,000 feet apart. I think I’ll miss the quiet. But I won’t miss the goodbye.
The goodbye is the worst. We spend time together at the airport— having drinks, getting food and maybe he even buys me some memorabilia. But then at the gate, I rehearse it in my head—keep it cool, keep it short trying not to get too clingy. But then my throat does that stupid thing where it knots up and suddenly I am choking on “see you later” like it’s a confession— something that I am ashamed of . Worst part? He always knows. He hears the crack in my voice, the way my eyes flick away from his. And we both pretend it’s fine, because saying “I don’t want you to go” feels too real, too needy.
But honestly? I just say it. I have hidden for far too long. Maybe I should have just told my cousin to stop calling me “Miss Piggy” and actually stood up for myself instead of letting my insecurities morph into a brain tumor that would eventually steal half my body.
I guess the real glow-up isn’t boobs or blonde hair. It’s deciding you don’t need to be anyone else to be enough. He shows me that I am good enough so I will let it hurt. Goodbye tastes like metal anyway—might as well make it honest.
Kat’s Musings 