Kat’s Musings

Tag: good enough

  • My Cringey, Hungry, Blonde Obsession Years

    My Cringey, Hungry, Blonde Obsession Years

    When I was young, I was obsessed with Britney Spears (another basic bitch tendency). I know today she is a total mess, but there was a time when my walls were covered in pictures of her—I was straight-up obsessed with Britney Spears. The one with the flat stomach, tiny outfits, and that “Hit Me Baby One More Time” schoolgirl fantasy that made every pre-teen’s hormones go haywire.

    My bedroom walls were a full-on Britney shrine. Posters from floor to ceiling, magazine cutouts taped up in my closet. I wanted to be her — that perfect blend of innocent and filthy, the girl every guy wanted and every girl secretly envied. People definitely thought I was a lesbian back then. I mean, can you blame them? I was plastering my room with images of a half-naked pop princess. 

    And yes, I took it to the extreme. During the darkest days of my eating disorder, I followed her old workout routine religiously. Twelve hundred sit-ups a day. That was my way of insuring that I was working off every calorie I was forced to eat. No exaggeration. I would lie on my living room floor, starving, counting every crunch while imagining my stomach getting as flat and tight as hers. (Sometimes it would be until two in the morning and then I would be up at six). That kind of obsession is not cute — it is unhinged. But at the time it felt like devotion. Britney was my thinspiration, my goddess, my unattainable fuck-you to my own body.

    Then eighth grade hit and I had a full personality 180. I ditched the pop princess fantasy and became the ultimate “surfer girl.” Still skinny, but not glitzy and glamorous. You know the type — sun-bleached hair, golden skin (spray on tans FTW), that effortless, just-fucked beach vibe. I traded in my old wardrobe for head-to-toe Abercrombie & Fitch and Hollister. I lived in those graphic tees and low-rise jeans that sat dangerously on my hip bones. I wanted to look like I just rolled out of a beach bonfire with sand still in my hair and saltwater on my skin.

    I begged my parents to send me to surfing camp in California. I actually went all the way to Australia chasing that fantasy life. I studied the skinny beach bum girls like they were my new religion — the ones with long, tangled blonde hair, tiny bikini bodies, and that lazy, seductive way they carried themselves. I dyed my hair with platinum blonde streaks and spent hours perfecting the windswept look. I wanted to be the girl guys stared at while I walked down the beach carrying a surfboard, all tan legs and collarbones. 

    This was right in the middle of my most extreme anorexic era, too. The thinner I got, the better my “surfer girl” costume fit. My hip bones jutted out, my thighs did not touch, and my stomach was concave enough to make those Abercrombie shorts hang just right. I was starving myself into the aesthetic. Every wave I caught, every mile I ran, every skipped meal was part of the transformation. I was not just playing dress-up — I was trying to disappear into this fantasy version of myself: blonde, effortless, desired, and dangerously thin.

    Looking back, it was wild how seamlessly I went from worshipping Britney’s polished, sexy pop-star body to chasing the raw, sun-drenched, barely-there surfer chick fantasy. Both versions of me were starving — literally and figuratively — for the same thing: to be wanted. To be the fantasy. To be the girl that made people lose their minds a little.

    I chased that high hard. From bedroom Britney dances to riding waves, bleaching my hair until it snapped, and counting every single sit-up like it would bring me closer to perfection.

    Those years were intense, messy, desperate for attention, and strangely formative.

  • From Sugar Baby to Trad. Wife:

    From Sugar Baby to Trad. Wife:

    I will say it out loud, no shame: I used to want to be a full-on Sugar Baby. Not the cheap fantasy version you see online, but the real thing—pampered, polished, and possessed by a man who could afford to keep me dripping in luxury and attention. I was never on Seeking Arrangements or any of those sites, but when I got really sick, that dream became my secret lifeline. While my body was failing me, my mind was busy painting a future where I was not disabled anymore. I imagined myself as this feminine goddess: luscious long hair cascading down my back, completely hairless and smooth everywhere that mattered, skinny, full makeup—the whole package. The kind of girl men could not look away from.

    I joined a private Facebook group full of girls who knew exactly how to weaponize their femininity. They taught me how to dress, how to move, how to speak, how to flirt with power and money. Every post, every tip, every “how to make him obsessed” thread lit a fire under me. It gave me something to fight for on the worst days. While I was stuck in a wheelchair, I was mentally rehearsing the version of me that would turn heads and drain wallets. I wanted to be noticed. I wanted to be admired. Craved. Spoiled. Chosen. Deep down, I did not feel worthy of any of it yet—but that fantasy made me believe I could be.

    And then… it actually happened.

    When we first connected on Twitter (yes, Twitter, before Elon Musk saved us with X) the sugar baby lifestyle was all that I hoped for and I absolutely was not looking for anything real. Commitment? Hard pass. Feelings? Too risky. But attention and shiny new toys? Those I could handle. So that was what I settled for. I strung him along, playing it cool, dropping hints about what I wanted without ever sounding desperate. He read between the lines perfectly.

    He knew the game from the jump. I gave him a PO Box instead of my real address at first—safety first,—and every single week, like clockwork, a new package would show up. AirPods? Delivered with a cheeky video of him on the Apple website ordering them while I was lounging in Cabo, both of us convinced our flirty Twitter phase was fizzling out. A Pretty Woman DVD (yes, an actual physical DVD, the man has taste and nostalgia). Barstool Sports gear for days because we bonded hard over the unfiltered sports talk that made us both laugh like idiots. He spoiled me rotten, and I let him. No guilt. No apologies.

    Every girl should experience sugar baby vibes at least once. There is something powerfully feminine about being pursued, pampered, and provided for while you keep your little heart in a little locked box. The hundred-dollar Venmos, the surprise drops, the thrill of knowing he is thinking about you every time he swipes his card—it is intoxicating. It is not just about the stuff. It is the power dynamic. The way it makes you feel desired, expensive, worth the chase.

    But then it got real. 

    The constant contact—the good-morning texts, the voice notes that made me smirk in public, the weekends that turned into three hour-long FaceTime coffee dates—started cracking my walls. What began as “he buys me things, I give him attention” slowly became I can’t quit him. The sugar daddy arrangement was the gateway drug, but the real addiction was him. His humor. His voice. The way he matched my chaotic energy and then some.

    Now? He still pays my bills. No more random Venmos, but the support is deeper, steadier, sexier in its reliability. He is not just a sugar daddy anymore—he is my man. My love. My favorite person on the planet.

    Yet those Baby and Daddy vibes? They never left. They evolved into something deliciously playful and immature that keeps the spark filthy and fun.

    We act like absolute children together. The kind of childish that involves wrestling over the remote (when we are physically together), ridiculous nicknames, and the kind of uncontrollable laughter that turns into happy tears and breathless squeals. I have never laughed as hard in my life as I do with him. The squeals he pulls out of me—they are embarrassing and addictive. When we first started talking, I used to slap my hand over my mouth— hiding my crooked smile from his view. We are talking full-on belly laughs that leave my abs sore and my face hurting. Pure, unfiltered joy. The man makes me happy in a way I did not know was possible. The kind of happy that makes you glow, that makes everyone side-eye you like, “Who the hell are you right now?”

    There is something profoundly hot about a relationship that can go from “Daddy’s spoiling his baby” to deep, soul-quenching love without losing the playfulness. The power exchange is still there. He provides, I tease. He leads, I challenge. He has me feeling both safe and completely unraveled.  A feeling I never expected. I thought that I would be the other woman. Or a sugar baby. Not the main event. 

    So if a man is willing to show up for you like that—financially, emotionally, playfully—do not be afraid to lean in. Sugar baby energy is not about being shallow; it is about knowing your worth and letting someone prove they can match it. And when the gifts turn into genuine love, when the “arrangement” becomes “forever,” it hits different. Deeper. Wetter. Louder.

    I went from stringing him along with a PO Box to being completely, stupidly in love with the man who still makes me feel like the most spoiled and cherished woman alive—went from a sick girl who did not feel worthy of being looked at to the woman who gets spoiled, and loved so intensely/passionately it leaves me ruined for anyone else.

    And those squeals? They are just getting started.

  • Stop Romanticizing the Past: Embrace Today

    Stop Romanticizing the Past: Embrace Today

    We have all heard it. We have all said it. “Man, things were better back then.” People are always yearning for the good old days—start appreciating everything today:

    Nostalgia is not a memory—it is a seductive liar.

    It edits out the bad.

    The ugly.

    We airbrush the boredom, the limited choices, the untreated depression, the rotten teeth (yay for healthcare!) and the way information trickled so slowly that ignorance felt like wisdom. I kind of do wish we ladies were still dumb, though… I rely more on my man to know what is going on in the world so that I can just be delulu about things.

    And while we are busy pining for that heavily filtered past, the actual miracles are all around us right now. We are living in the most abundant, connected, opportunistic era in human history, and most of us are too busy doom-scrolling and whining to notice.

    Technology seems to be sprinting. AI that writes better essays than most college students. Instant access to the entire library of human knowledge in your pocket. You can video call your grandmother on another continent while ordering takeout that arrives piping hot. And still, people scroll past miracles to complain that their coffee order took four minutes instead of three.

    This change terrifies people. It always has. That is why every generation thinks the next one is doomed. But here is my hot take: your nostalgia is a coping mechanism for your fear of the unknown. It is easier to idealize 1997 than confront 2026. People are afraid. What is going to happen tomorrow or next month?

    It seems easier to romanticize rotary phones than master and learn the new tools.

    Stop yearning. Start appreciating—aggressively.

    The secret is not in the past. It is in the lens. Shift it—or stay miserable.

    Look at your smartphone not as a distraction device but as a doorway for wonder. With it, you can learn a language in weeks, watch a live surgery in Tokyo, or hear the voice of someone who died decades ago (I know… Creepy.) We treat these luxuries like it is normal. It is not. It is insane.

    We find food in our grocery stores from every corner of the world. Planes and automobiles have actually united us. We consume other cultures and cuisines. This is the true meaning of America.

    Surgery and modern medicine (despite its faults) make it absolutely insane to continue complaining about the small aches and pains. Some of us do not even walk; are you really going to cry about a hangnail?

    The internet has also demolished geographic and social barriers. You can meet your person- someone who actually matches your weird frequency- instead of settling for the least awful option within a 10-mile radius. I personally would despise settling down with someone from around here. The old days had arranged marriages and shotgun weddings. We now have sad dating apps and yes, we rate each other based on our looks. So yes, trade-offs exist, but pretending the past was pure romance is historical fan-fiction.

    In a culture addicted to outrage and comparison, choosing to appreciate the present is rebellious. It is punk rock. It flips off the algorithm that profits from dissatisfaction. People really do love to complain, criticize, and comment.

    Essentially, the world is blossoming with possibility while you are staring at old yearbooks. One thing that has always bothered me is that most of our bodies are a biological marvel capable of running, dancing, orgasming, and healing—and yet people are mad about theirs not looking like a filtered influencer. It is called do something about it—if a disabled girl can lose more than one hundred pounds, you can do anything. The body is truly a marvel.

    The mind is too.
    Your mind can comprehend quantum physics (or silly girly things—like writing a blog!) and write love poems, yet you use it to relive 2008 politics.

    The good old days are a trap. They keep you small, bitter, and blind to the abundance screaming for your attention. Every moment you spend mourning a myth is a moment stolen from building something better.

    The world is changing so fast that if you blink too long in nostalgia, you will miss the best parts of being alive right here, right now. The coffee is hot. The internet works—until the power goes out, because living in the woods is great. Your heart is beating. The future is wide open.

    Appreciate it all—fiercely, obnoxiously, unapologetically.

    Or keep complaining. The past will not care, and the present will keep delivering miracles whether you notice them or not.

    The choice is yours. But only one of them feels like living.

  • Fragrance Obsession: A Journey through Scents and Memories

    Fragrance Obsession: A Journey through Scents and Memories

    My boyfriend is obsessed with fragrances in the most delicious way. He can spend hours watching reviews. He dissects notes like a mad scientist. He chases the perfect dry-down and obsesses over base notes. Years ago, he introduced me to Jeremy Fragrance. Back then, Jeremy was still deep in the fragrance rabbit hole. He was not preaching fitness and health yet. Now my man plays with layers of tonka bean. He experiments with creamy vanillas, warm spices, and light, fresh sea-notes. It is as if he was composing his own signature pheromone. I am not a certified nose. However, I have become dangerously good at finding scents. These scents will drive him insane. Those scents are especially anything heavy with tonka bean. The rich, sweet, almost edible warmth clings to his skin. It makes me want to bury my face in his neck for hours.

    I never really had “my” scent growing up. In college, I went through a shameless phase where I only wore men’s cologne—bold, woody, masculine fragrances that screamed confidence. (I even wore Old Spice deodorant). I did it on purpose. I wanted every man who spent the night tangled in my sheets to walk out the door carrying my scent. It lingered on his skin, his clothes, and his hair. Let his girlfriend or wife catch a whiff of something undeniably male when he got home. A little floral or berry note from me would have been too obvious, too sweet, too feminine. No—I wanted to mark them. Quietly. Dangerously. Provocatively.

    I NEVER EXPECTED THAT THE UNIVERSE WOULD PUNISH ME FOR IT—

    Now that I am proudly spoken for, I have embraced my own rotation of scents. These scents make me feel like pure sin wrapped in silk. I adore my YSL Mon Paris. Its massive, unapologetic floral notes bloom loud and wet on my skin. Then there is Baccarat Rouge 540. It is expensive and addictive, with its fiery saffron and ambergris edge. It feels like liquid luxury. I wear Kai Ali Santal Wedding Silk more often than I probably should, partly because of the ridiculously romantic name. But honestly? I steal his Missoni Wave constantly. It is fresh, aquatic, and a little citrusy. It carries that signature Italian warmth. It smells like him—clean and expensive, yet somehow still filthy in all the right ways. I spray it on my wrists. I also spray between my breasts and along the inside of my thighs. It mixes with my own scent to convey that he is with me. I do this with all of his colognes. I have a nice little collection so that I can smell him at every moment of every day. 

    In this collection is his Abercrombie cologne—the one we bought purely for the scent memories it drags up. That one hits different. It pulls me straight back to those dimly lit, aggressively cologned stores of my teenage years. It was the kind of place where the bass thumped low. The lights were turned down just enough to make everything feel forbidden. Half-naked male models stared down from every wall and catalog page like gods you were not allowed to touch. I remember standing there as a high school girl. I was desperate to buy enough clothes to finally belong. I wanted to look like one of those catalog girls. They had sun-kissed skin and tiny waists. They radiated that effortless “fuck me” energy. I wanted to be wanted that badly. I wanted to be the fantasy.

    Scent memory is such a beautiful thing. My boyfriend surprised me with Tom Ford Tobacco Vanille one day, and I became instantly obsessed. That rich, boozy tobacco takes me right back. The thick vanilla and warm spice remind me of the skinny French cigarettes. My “Auntie” (who is not actually related, but a really good family friend) used to smoke them when I was little. She smoked those elegant little sticks, lighting them with a flick of her lighter. The smoke would curl around her red lips like a dirty little secret. I used to crave sucking on those delectables when visiting a little French cafe in the future (I will never though, unfortunately, because they are no longer sold!) It is nostalgic and erotic all at once, like childhood innocence mixed with grown-woman hunger.

    Every spray now feels layered with meaning. His cologne on my body. My perfume on his neck after I bury myself in it. Our scents collide and create something new. It says we belong to each other in the most primal, possessive way. We are together even when we are apart. It is foreplay. It is memory. It is identity. It is pure, delicious obsession.

  • The Princess Within: Embracing My Damsel in Distress Heart

    The Princess Within: Embracing My Damsel in Distress Heart

    From the moment I could dream, I wanted to be a princess. Not just any princess—This was not a fleeting childhood whim; it was the quiet heartbeat of my entire life. Even now, as an adult, that little girl inside me still looks at the world through tinted glasses. She hopes for magic and rescue. She dreams of a love that feels like it was written in the stars.

    Ever since I was a little girl, fairy tales were never just bedtime stories. They were blueprints for how life should feel. I grew up listening to different princess stories than you. I mean every culture has its own rendition of Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, and Snow White. I devoured these stories. I was captivated by the princesses’ grace under pressure. Their kindness eventually led to their happily ever afters. I did not just want the happy ending; I wanted the entire experience. I longed for the gentle spoiling by a doting prince (and life itself). I yearned for the soft protection from the world’s harsher realities. I craved that undeniable sense of being seen and valued.

    I craved being spoiled by life in the sweetest ways. Surprise flowers would delight me. Someone remembering my favorite coffee order on a bad day would lift my spirits. I cherished simply feeling like the universe had my back. Beside my desire for abundance and delight, I also deeply wanted to be saved. I longed to be rescued from sadness and loneliness. I yearned to escape the weight of carrying everything alone. I wanted arms that would wrap around me and say, “You don’t have to be strong right now. I got you.”

    This is not about laziness or entitlement. It is about yearning for a softer existence. One where my vulnerability is met with strength and my sensitivity is celebrated rather than criticized.

    Of course, every good fairytale needs its villain, right? In my story, my cousin first played that role. I affectionately refer to her as my “evil stepsister.” Growing up, her teasing and bullying left deep marks on my young heart. She was seemingly perfect and she made sure I knew that I was not perfect. Her actions portrayed her as the ideal antagonist in my personal fairytale. I continued to question my worth throughout my life because of it. 

    Essentially, those experiences did not break me—they shaped me. They reinforced my identity as the misunderstood princess waiting for her turning point. I learned to retreat into my imagination, where I could be graceful and worthy instead of awkward and overlooked. I built emotional walls disguised as daydreams. I always held out hope that one day my real story would begin. To this day, my mother loves to tell me that I live in lala land. 

    Looking back, I see how that dynamic taught me resilience, even if it hurt at the time. But it also cemented something deeper: my tendency to frame my entire life around the “damsel in distress” archetype. (Thank you Pretty Woman!)

    I have basically organized my whole existence around this identity, and I am finally okay admitting it. I love romance that feels epic. I adore knights in shining armor who make me feel protected and adored. I thrive when life offers little sadness and provides moments of pampering. But unfortunately it is  not all sparkle and glass slippers. It means I feel emotions intensely—joy like fireworks, sadness like storms.

    I have had moments where I wondered if this part of me was too much. I have turned to my boyfriend with wide eyes and asked, “Am I simply too much?” His responses have been patient and loving. They remind me that wanting to feel cherished is not a flaw—it is a feature. I am not terribly spoiled. I do not demand the impossible or throw tantrums when things do not go my way. I just carry this princess heart. It believes life can be kinder. Relationships can be more. I deserve to be treated with tenderness.

    This identity has influenced my career choices (or lack thereof), my friendships, and especially my romantic life. I seek connections where I can be soft without being seen as weak. I want to give my all to someone who sees my sensitivity as a gift, not a burden. And yes, I still believe in being saved sometimes. It is not because I am helpless. It is because partnership should include lifting each other up.  And I know that I inspire/ motivate him.

    The older I get, the more I realize that being a princess does not mean waiting in a tower forever. It means wearing the crown despite the life limitations that are around me. 

    I still want the magic. I still hope for grand gestures and quiet moments of being adored. But I am also writing my own story now. In this story, the princess has agency—does not just lay down. She attracts people who match her energy rather than just rescue her from it. 

    So here I am—still that little girl at heart, but with bigger dreams and a stronger sense of self. Proving that wanting softness in a hard world is not weakness and craving love that feels protective and spoiling is not childish.

    Life has not always been a fairytale, but I am learning to create the chapters I always wanted. And who knows? Maybe my prince is already here while still leaving room for a little magic.

  • Defying Disability: My Daily Act of Rebellion

    Defying Disability: My Daily Act of Rebellion

    Every single morning, I whisper sleepy sweet nothings to my man. After that, I rise with fire in my veins. I spend the entire day fighting against the disability that constantly tries to drag me down.

    I push this stubborn, trembling body to its absolute breaking point. I lean hard against the bathroom counter while brushing my teeth. My legs shake as I take selfies for him in the mirror. I refuse to let weakness win. In the kitchen, I grip the edge of the counter. I make my espresso with gritted teeth. My knees threaten to snap back beneath me. I refuse to constantly sit in a wheelchair. I refuse to strap on those ugly, soul-crushing leg braces that would mark me as conquered.(Only HE is allowed to do that!).

    A physical therapist once looked me dead in the eye. She suggested I stop relying on my mother to drive me to appointments. She calmly recommended I call a WHEELCHAIR VAN! It would pick me up and drop me off. She acted like I was some fragile invalid. The words barely left her mouth before I shut that shit down. I was not feeling it. The idea of being loaded and unloaded like cargo made my blood boil. The thought of sitting in a wheelchair instead of the seat of a car was infuriating. I told her no, thank you, and never went back. Now I get down onto the floor everyday and do my own exercises, No van needed. I refuse to give in. I refuse to let anyone reduce me to a scheduled pickup in a van built for surrender.

    Life keeps trying to force me onto my ass. There is even a goddamn chair sitting right there in my shower like a permanent joke . Most days I have no choice but to sit under the hot water like a broken doll while it cascades over me. But the only time I truly get to stand—proud, naked, water streaming down my body—is when my man steps in behind me, his strong hands gripping my hips as he holds me upright so I can clean myself. I love the way he steadies me, the way his hard body presses against mine, keeping me vertical through pure possessive strength while steam fills the air. In those heated moments I feel rebelliously alive, even as my legs scream and tremble beneath me.

    I face that humiliating chair and the endless war with gravity everyday. Yet, I reject every medical enhancement. I refuse every synthetic crutch and modern healthcare. I do not believe in any of it. If it is meant to be, it is meant to be. If sickness is coming for you, it will find you. It does not matter how many pills, injections, gene therapies, or experimental treatments they invent. All the advances in medicine are nothing more than dressed up as progress.

    I will not be synthetically made better.  
    I refuse to be rebuilt, patched, upgraded, or artificially propped up like some defective machine.  
    Only the natural way.  
    Only the forever way.

    And my hands? That is another story. For over fifteen years now, I have had the use of only my right hand. My left hand is dead weight, a silent traitor that sways useless at my side while I fight like hell. I have mastered one-handed shoe tying, buttoning, and zipping. I have learned to handle my personal hygiene with stubborn grace. However, some cooking (chopping, etc) and deep cleaning are still slow and frustrating for me. They are nowhere near as efficient as I demand of myself. I practice longer to get better physically. I refuse to accept the limitation. My ultimate goal is to do it all for my man. I want to cook his meals with these one-and-a-half hands. I want to deep clean our home until it shines, all for him. I want to serve HIM. I want to care for him. My broken body can still rise up and give him everything he deserves.

    This is my daily mantra. It is my middle finger to disability and to weakness. It defies a world obsessed with comfort and “fixing” every imperfection. I choose to feel every tremor, every ache, every exhausting victory on my own raw terms. I lean on counters instead of rolling in chairs. I am held up by my lover’s grip instead of cold metal and plastic. I struggle one-handed. I am eager for the day when I can entirely care for the man I love.

    In a society that worships ease and vulnerability, I stand as a living, breathing, unapologetic rebellion. My legs may shake and threaten to give out. My left hand may be useless dead weight. However, my spirit is lava. I will keep going every single day. I will keep whispering filthy sweet nothings into my man’s ear at night. I will keep fighting with everything I have left.

    This is how I love.  
    This is how I fight.  
    This is how I remain fiercely, provocatively, alive.

  • Embracing Life’s Chaos: Finding Meaning in Pain

    Embracing Life’s Chaos: Finding Meaning in Pain

    There was a time when I saw life as nothing more than a chaotic tangle of random events—senseless pain. I spent years fighting against the current, clenching my fists at the universe, demanding answers for every unfair event. But one day, exhausted from the resistance, I finally let go. I stopped fighting the detours and started tracing the threads that connected them. What I discovered surprised me deeply.

    Every heartbreak, every closed door, every tear-soaked “why me?” moment… none of it was an accident. They were (gluten free) breadcrumbs scattered along a path I could not yet see.

    The misery was not punishment. It was preparation — raw, necessary preparation for the woman I was becoming.

    I think about the guys who chose other girls over me. At the time, the rejection felt devastating, like a statement that I was not good enough. It cut deep. But looking back now, I see how those experiences were teaching me something important. I had been shrinking myself. I dimmed my light and apologized for my ambitions and my desires. I did this just to fit into someone else’s limited version of love. I hid who I truly was with certain friends. I also did this with family members to keep the peace or earn approval. Those painful rejections became the jumping off point that forced me to stop. They motivated me to stand taller. I reclaimed my voice. I refused to apologize anymore for wanting more. I wanted real, deep, reciprocal love and respect.

    Because I finally stopped shrinking, I created space for something better. Now I am with a man who does not just tolerate me — he truly sees me. He celebrates the parts of me that others overlooked or asked me to tone down. The beautiful truth is that I can accept love now. I finally learned to see and value myself first.

    The brain injury was terrifying. Those life-altering chapters turned out to be crucial. It became one of the most important turning points of all. It felt like the universe hitting the brakes on a car speeding toward disaster. Without that sudden stop, I honestly do not know. I would have ever slowed down enough to notice how far off course I had drifted.

     I was heading down a dark, exhausting path— chasing things that were never meant for me, ignoring the universe’s warnings. The injury forced me to pause. I had to seek the help I had been avoiding. In that healing process, I met the real me. This was the version of myself that had been buried under layers of fat: pain, expectations, and survival mode. 

    Rediscovering myself changed everything. This version of myself found the courage to take a completely different path. This path eventually led me to the man I now share my life with.

    I do not know exactly what the future holds. I feel a deep sense of trust and excitement as we step into it together. The universe has surprised me before, and I believe it will again. I am ready to see what beautiful, unexpected chapters it has planned for us — for our forever.

    It is not magic, though sometimes it feels that way. It is a pattern — one I can finally recognize when I look back (20/20 right?!)

    Every “no” was a redirection, gently (or sometimes forcefully) steering me away from what was not mine. Every scar I carry has become armor. I have plenty of those scars now, and I wear them with pride instead of shame. The universe never handed me a neat script or a perfectly mapped-out plan. It simply kept nudging me — through joy and through pain — until I stopped resisting and started listening.

    So yes… I truly believe everything has happened for a reason. Not because some distant cosmic puppet master was orchestrating every detail from above. But because I kept showing up, kept moving forward even when it hurt, and kept choosing growth over bitterness. 

    Somewhere along the way, without me even realizing it at first, the chaos began to transform. The random, messy pieces started falling into place. What once looked like pure disaster slowly revealed itself as something far more elegant. It was a kind of dance. A dance I was always meant to learn, step by imperfect step.

  • Spring Awakening and Manifestation

    Spring Awakening and Manifestation

    March twentieth, twenty-twenty- six : the vernal equinox arrived at 10:46 a.m. Eastern. For one perfect moment, day and night were in perfect balance. The universe seemed to hit pause, exhale deeply, and whisper, “Okay… new chapter.”

    Astronomers see it as simple celestial mechanics: Earth’s tilt finally neutral, the Sun crossing directly over the equator. But astrologers know it as the real New Year. The Sun slips into Aries—the bold, head-butting ram—and the message is loud and clear: “Let’s fucking go.”

    No formal resolutions. No champagne (unfortunately). Just raw, fiery momentum.

    Winter has finally stopped sulking. Everything is waking up. Bulbs are cracking through the soil, birds are screaming at dawn, and your skin is already aching for the sun. It is not random. The planet is rebooting. The energy is higher, sharper, alive.

    This is the time to release the old baggage—the heavy thoughts, the stale patterns that have been holding you back. Aries energy does not do polite. It is fire. It is passion. It says: “do it now.” (Almost as if it was a Nike slogan). 

    But here is the secret: balance comes first. Equal light, equal dark. Plant your intentions slowly, deliberately. Manifest, yes—but then get to work. The universe does not hand out rewards for wishes alone. It responds to movement. It rewards those who prove they are worthy of what they are asking for.

    Me? Tonight I will be sleeping with my crystal under my pillow—not to beg for wishes, but to show gratitude. I have learned the hard way that desperate praying and bargaining usually pushes what you want even further away. The universe rarely delivers on a silver platter exactly as you pictured it. Instead, it shows up in its own clever, roundabout way.

    Last year’s mess was just fertilizer. Spring is not only about flowers (though I do love me some flowers). It is living proof that nothing stays buried forever. The cosmos do not do accidents—the universe does cycles. And right now, we are standing at the starting line.

    So grab your coffee, step outside, and feel the shift. This year feels brand new—not because the calendar flipped, but because the stars say so.

    We are also in the Year of the Fire Horse. In the Chinese zodiac, the same animal sign returns every twelve years. For example, my mom and my boyfriend are both born in the year of the Dog. However, they are not the same age. They are just twelve years apart. And 1990? That was the Year of the Metal Horse. Which makes this my year.  I am a fiery horse!

    Everything happens for a reason. There is no such thing as purely negative—only upside waiting to be uncovered. Maybe the year itself does not even matter that much. What is meant for you will find you one way or another. I choose to believe that the universe is on my side, though. 

  • In My Marilyn Monroe Era.

    In My Marilyn Monroe Era.

    Sophomore year of college, I finally felt like I was finding my groove.

    I had made a new friend I planned to live with the following year, and I was starting to get ahead academically after a rocky freshman year. That year, I roomed with a Russian girl from the university’s swim team. We clicked almost immediately and became genuinely close friends. 

    I was slowly gaining confidence in my new, more voluptuous body, even if I still struggled with it. We had a surprising amount in common, and she helped me adjust to living on my own while everything back home continued to unravel. We met in a Russian language class. I signed up thinking it would be an easy A. Even though, I was basically fluent in Spanish in high school. But, I was burned out and did not want anything too demanding. Because she was still very new to the U.S., I got to play guide, showing her the ropes of American college life.

    She only lived with me for one semester. When the swim team at Syracuse was cut, she moved out. But I kept thriving (*exaggerating*) and it was all thanks to that Russian class. Through it, I met another girl — an American — who quickly became one of my closest friends. She lived off-campus in a chaotic house full of eccentric roommates. The place was straight out of *Fight Club*. It was filthy. Everything seemed to be broken. I vividly  remember waking up on the couch one morning to see a rat-size cockroach scurrying across the coffee table.

    Every weekend, I would take the bus and then hike up the snowy hills just to get there. I loved it. I loved the weird mix of characters who lived in that house. Looking back, I know they were mostly low-class, pot-smoking losers, but at the time, I finally felt needed. And God, I needed that feeling more than anything.

    One weekend, they threw a Valentine’s Day house party. That’s where I met him.

    He was very attractive, and he gave me real attention. We ended up spending the entire night together. No, we did not sleep together, but… we did everything else.

    At that point in my life, I was still deeply disgusted with myself. My new friends were helping rebuild my self-esteem, but I still could not stand looking at myself in the mirror. Every time I saw the size on my clothes tags, a wave of shame came over me. 

    I always struggled to understand how overweight people can genuinely seem happy and confident. I see it all the time. There are plus-size celebrities and popular friends of skinny people. These individuals are living their lives without apparent shame. 

    Even now, I sometimes feel bloated or insecure about my body. I tell my boyfriend he can cheat on me. He always reassures me that he would never and says I am just being a silly little girl. 

    — —

    Now, back to the guy I met over Valentine’s weekend in 2009.

    Through my new chaotic houseful of misfits, I quickly learned the truth. The guy I had holed up with was in a very serious relationship. His girlfriend was just out of town that weekend.

    But he kept texting me. Kept reaching out.

    So I made a decision. If I could not be the one someone chose, I would settle for being the other woman. My experience with love was limited. Up to that point, it had already convinced me I was unlovable. I felt unworthy of anything real. Being the secret side piece felt like the best I could hope for. I felt like a modern, broken version of Marilyn Monroe. I was the girl you have fun with, but never marry.

    I leaned hard into the role. I started dressing more provocatively—low-cut shirts, fishnet tights stretched over my thick thighs. We made plans to keep sneaking around behind her back. I even stalked his girlfriend on social media, studying her life, picking apart what I thought I was missing.

    Sexualized Me (3rd from the right )

    It did not take long to realize he was just another loser misfit with a habit of cheating. But the thrill was still there. The secrecy. The danger. I went home and bragged to everyone that I was “the other woman” (okay, I may have white-lied about actually sleeping with him). I even made plans to finally give in to him during junior year.

    Fate, however, had other plans.

    I never made it back to Syracuse University. I never got that apartment with my new friend. And thankfully—thankfully—I never became the other woman.

    (I still love Marilyn Monroe, though.)

  • Debunking College Myths: What Really Happened

    Debunking College Myths: What Really Happened

    I remember the first day of college. I thought I would rebel. I imagined I would transform and emerge into a much stronger, skinnier, and beautiful person. This was post high school downfall.

    I moved into a dorm. It smelled like old pizza and someone else’s regret. My roommate was an atheist/ anarchist.

    People talk about college like it is this crucible—late-night debates, soul-searching walks across campus, professors who become mentors. These people did not know how emotional I was/ how much I would overreact. 


    Thus, it was mostly lukewarm coffee, group projects where one guy did everything, and a syllabus I skimmed once. I did not even get the degree. I got the debt though. But formative? Nah.

    The big moments—the ones you are supposed to remember—felt scripted. The boys?  The parties?  If I wanted to drown my sorrows, they were easy enough to find. Dumb drunk boys are always willing to canoodle with a sad fatty. And it was college… Cheap beer is always available. Whether you are lonely or a in a group of friends, Natty Light is there.

    Philosophy 101? I nodded along while thinking about lunch— I was always thinking about lunch. There even was a bit of heartbreak as I briefly got involved with a guy who had a girlfriend. I did learn how to fake confidence. I also learned how to survive. Another skill I picked up was how to dodge eye contact in the dining hall. As I basically lived there… Useful? Sure. Life-altering? Not really. I was just a broken person—slightly more caffeinated, slightly more cynical, but still emotional and down-bad me. College was not a plot twist. It was background noise. The real stuff happened after. Outside the quad. No cap and gown required. 

    The myth says it has to be epic. Reality says: it is just school.