Kat’s Musings

Tag: good enough

  • 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.

  • Shattered.

    Shattered.

    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. 

    Senior Year High School
    Post University

  • 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. 

  • 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