Kat’s Musings

Blog

  • Undefeated.

    Undefeated.

    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. 

  • Physically.

    Physically.

    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. 

  • Putting the pieces back together again

    Putting the pieces back together 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

  • Insecurities/ Love Is In The Air.

    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.

    Well I am done hurting. Maybe this is the way

  • Do you believe in fate/destiny?

    Definitely. This is my purpose for living.

  • Saved by Boston Sports.

    Saved by Boston Sports.

    Back around 2015, one of my girlfriends had me watch every Seahawks game on television (it was local) so that I could get into the game of football. I got into it, because I needed a distraction, but I wanted to find a team that was a little bit more classy, and still had some personality (I wanted to be able to drink champagne and eat caviar while watching!). I was watching the game—then bam, the Patriots popped up. 

    They popped up because I eventually went to see a Functional Neurologist in Windsor, Canada. Hockey players would often see him after suffering from a concussion and I really enjoyed seeing him and being with him (I might have had a teeny crush…. It happens with patients and their doctors sometimes). But this neurologist also made football feel… scientific. Like, watching a touchdown wasn’t just pretty—it was physics in real time. I got hooked. 

    Tom Brady was suspended at first, but I absolutely loved watching the backup quarterback throw zingers to Gronkowski and the good looking receivers on the team (what can I say?  I am just a girl who enjoys the good eye candy). I felt saved… a distraction to forget about my current situation. Finally. 

    By the time Brady came back, I was hooked. I had been a drowning. Not in water—just everything else—nights spent staring at the ceiling wondering if tomorrow was worth it. Then Sunday rolled around, and I flipped on the TV. Pats versus whoever—didn’t matter. Brady dropped back, Gronk hauled in a bomb, and for three hours I forgot how broken I felt. It wasn’t just the wins. It was the rhythm: the crowd roaring like they knew me, the way Bill Belichick stared down the refs like they owed him money, the stupid little fist-pumps I’d do alone on my wheelchair (eventually I would watch the games while I leaned over the counter, but that is neither here nor there). That team—those jerseys—gave me something to root for when I couldn’t root for myself. 

    So I watched every snap, even the losses. Learned the playbook like it was therapy. When Brady left, I had just met my boyfriend and he was shocked that I cried—real tears—but then Drake Maye eventually stepped in, I realized: the Patriots weren’t just players. They were proof you can rebuild. 

    Now that I met someone who likes football almost as much as I do, I still yell at the screen when they blow a coverage. But now it’s joy, not desperation (I also taught him to watch the game without being too negative and always being positive that everything is happening for a reason). So thanks, NFL. Thanks, New England. You didn’t know it, but you carried me through the dark. If you ever need a fan who’d run through a wall for you—well, I’m already here.

    Now I’m just yelling at referees over bad calls, tracking stats on my phone, even wearing my boyfriend’s old merchandise like it’s armor. Turns out sports aren’t just noise—they’re stories, strategy, heartbreak, and weirdly, therapy. All because some guy in Windsor loved Tom Brady more than sleep.

    Today I am all-in on the whole Boston sports family. Patriots, Bruins, Celtics, Sox… no favorites, just pure hometown loyalty. It may not be my personal hometown, but I owed my savior (the New England Patriots) the loyalty. And because of this fandom…. I was able to find my new savior— my man, my one true love. 

  • My little journey

    My little journey

    I still remember the date—June thirtieth, twenty-ten—like it’s etched into my skull. That morning, everything felt heavy. I’d been carrying this quiet tumor since sixth grade; doctors shrugged it off back then, said it was dormant, harmless. 

    But I wasn’t dormant. I was crumbling—mentally frayed, body aching from the stress and exhaustion of my broken heart —and then it happened. One second I’m pacing, doing my PR work for a R&B artist in Seattle, Washington, next I’m gone. Coma. Lights out. 

    When I woke up two weeks later, the left half of me was missing. Not gone, just… silent. Arm limp, leg dragging like dead weight. I couldn’t grip a spoon, I couldn’t even hold my phone let alone text, and I couldn’t step without someone holding me up. The tumor had burst, they said. Pressure built, brain swelled, and my left side paid the price. The first weeks were a blur—hospitals, tubes, nurses who spoke too loud. I remember staring at my hand, willing it to move. Nothing. Just a stranger’s fingers attached to me. 

    Rage came next. Why me? Why now? I’d already been broken—why finish the job? 

    But rage burns out. What stayed was stubbornness. Physical therapy felt like torture at first—electrodes zapping my arm, therapists yelling squeeze! Even the simple task of sitting up in bed or in the wheelchair was torture. I hated mirrors. I hated pity. I hated the way people talked slower, like I’d lost my brain along with my limbs. Months turned into years. I learned to walk again, but only with help—slow, lopsided, cane in right hand like a crutch. I taught myself to write, even though my handwriting looks like a kid’s. I can complete tasks like buttoning my shirts and tying my shoes awkwardly. And I can cook—awkwardly, one-handed—because I refuse to live off someone else’s help forever. 

    The real recovery wasn’t muscle. It was headspace. I stopped asking why and started asking what now? I went through a number of therapists and some of them turned out to be lifesavers. I read all of the books and I watched all of the videos on neuroplasticity—stuff I never cared about before—and realized my brain was still rewiring, still fighting. 

    Today, I’m not cured. My left arm waves around without purpose while clenched in a fist. While my left leg drags on bad days. 

    But ultimately I have found an incredible love who accepts me as me and continues to inspire me through this journey. This is why I am writing this—I’m not the girl who got thrown into a coma; I’m the one who clawed out. If you’re reading this and you’re in the dark—whether it’s a brain injury, depression, whatever—listen: the body forgets, but the mind remembers how to want. And wanting is enough. Keep moving. Even if it’s just one stupid, stubborn inch at a time.

  • This Is Me…

    This is a little project that I am working on while I wait for my Prince Charming. You can follow my journey as I recover from disability and wax poetic about my passions in this life. I do not want children but I strongly desire to be a perfect little housewife. This is where I speak my dreams into reality…

    I have always loved the quiet thrill of a well-run home—like it’s my own little kingdom. There is something magic in turning chaos into calm. Folding laundry while the kettle whistles, watching sunlight hit the counter just right, knowing dinner’s simmering and no one’s yelling about deadlines. I’m not here to sell you on domestic bliss. I just… like it. The rhythm of it. The way a clean sink feels like a tiny victory. The slow burn of bread rising while I write this little blog . This is me. A future housewife who’d rather scrub grout than climb ladders.

    I will also write about being natural and all-in-all health. I spent years chasing perfect bodies, pills, and quick fixes until I realized healing isn’t about looking good; it’s about feeling whole. Now it’s less kale smoothies and more slow walks barefoot on grass (once I get to walk again!), breathing like I actually mean it, and saying no to anything that makes my gut twist. It’s messy, it’s unglamorous, but damn if it doesn’t feel like coming home to myself. 


    And the man of my dreams? I have finally found him, but even though he is over 40, he’s still growing into someone who loves me mid-recovery, mid-mess, mid-laundry pile. He knows that I want a man who can sit with me while I journal about old wounds, who can hand me my espresso without asking why I am crying (I can be overly emotional). Not a prince. Just… steady. Kind. Real. So I’m writing it all down—recovery, health, love—before the apron goes on. Before I start folding his socks like they’re sacred. Because if I’m gonna build this life, I want the foundation to be mine. Not borrowed. Not borrowed from anyone.