He is the prize at the end of the journey. To fully receive that gift and build the life I dream of with him, I have made my health non-negotiable. Nutrition is not just a hobby for me; it is something I can wax poetic about for hours with genuine excitement. I have explored it all — from the MAHA movement (seed oils, fluoride, ultra-processed additives, and all the hidden toxins) to Ray Peat’s principles and everything in between. I have lived the experiments myself: vegan, gluten-free, paleo, keto. I have been underweight and overweight. Through trial and error, I have learned what truly makes the body and mind thrive.
A glowing, multicolored heart-shaped swirl glimmers vividly in space.
A brain injury years ago left me with some lasting effects I can be self-conscious about. It does not stop me from loving deeply or building a lasting relationship— as seen in my current form attracting him (thankfully, the “disability” does not seem to bother him at all), but I still carry that quiet desire to show up as my strongest, healthiest self. I want to move through life with ease — for me, and especially for him.
Currently. Wifely duties from afar.
Because more than anything, I long to be his perfect little housewife. I can already manage it beautifully with one hand, but two steady hands would let me pour even more love into our home. And yes — almost every girl dreams of the aisle. So I am committed to walking strong, not just so I can hold his hand while we stroll down the street or along the beach, but so I can walk down that damn aisle toward him, radiant and ready for forever.
What are the most important things needed to live a good life?
The Essential Ingredients for a Good Life: Love, Health, and Happiness
A person watches a sunset with three glowing heart shapes over the lake
In a world obsessed with success metrics—bank balances, career ladders, and social media likes—it is easy to lose sight of what truly matters. At the end of the day, when the noise fades, most of us crave the same thing: a life filled with love, health, and happiness. These are not just feel-good buzzwords. They are the causes of human flourishing. Without them, even the greatest achievements feel hollow.
A luminous tree with glowing branches and heart-shaped roots against a twilight forest backdrop
Love is the glue that holds everything together. I never imagined finding true love. It really is like nothing else. A life without meaningful connections is like a beautiful house with no one to share it.
Being lazy and cozymaxxing with my true love!
Research consistently shows that strong relationships are one of the strongest predictors of long-term well-being. People with robust social ties live longer, recover faster from illness, and report higher life satisfaction.
Remember: Love is not always easy or constant butterflies. It is choosing commitment, empathy, and repair when things get messy.
Even in my current health status, love has led to greater happiness in all aspects (even seeing my health improve!)
A peaceful sunrise scene with a yoga mat, fresh fruit, and a journal on a wooden deck overlooking mountains
You can have all the love and ambition in the world, but without health, enjoying them becomes incredibly difficult. Health is both physical and mental—your body’s ability to move and your mind’s ability to thrive.
Poor health creates a domino effect. Chronic fatigue or pain steals joy from relationships and makes happiness feel out of reach. Good health, on the other hand, gives you energy, clarity, and resilience.
Moving your body is important. You do not need to become a gym rat. Walking, dancing, yoga, or playing a sport you enjoy—consistency beats intensity. Aim for strength, mobility, and cardiovascular health.
But make sure you fuel wisely. Bodies are made in the kitchen. Eat mostly whole foods that make you feel vibrant. Hydrate. Limit ultra-processed junk. Small, sustainable changes (like adding vegetables to every meal) outperform restrictive diets.
You can meditate and get therapy too. Apparently mental health is pretty important. I have found that I am able to mentally relax the most when I talk to my boyfriend/am physically with him. I learn about my life and its patterns from this. My writing. This is the way that I manage my stress— thus I do not really have any anymore.
Health is not about six-packs or never getting sick. It is about having the vitality to chase sunsets with people you love and wake up excited for the day.
Happiness is not a destination or a constant high. It is a skill—It arises from collecting memories rather than just things. And being grateful for what is. We often get bogged down about what we want in life vs. what we have. This leads to anxiety and a general sadness.
Thus, without happiness, love feels like a duty and health feels like a chore. Happiness amplifies everything good in your life and helps you weather the inevitable storms.
True happiness often feels quiet: contentment with what is, while gently striving for better.The magic happens when love, health, and happiness reinforce each other: Healthy people have more energy to invest in relationships. Plus healthy people tend to be more attractive to others. Loving relationships buffer stress and boost mental health. Being happy makes you healthy. Happy individuals attract positive people and make healthier choices.
They create a virtuous cycle. Neglect one, and the others suffer. Prioritize all three, and life becomes richer than you imagined.
We have been sold a glittering lie wrapped in Instagram filters and “self-love” seminars. The message is everywhere: chase perfection at any cost. Slice, dice, starve, inject, filter, and suffocate yourself in the name of beauty. Yes, beauty matters, but it matters how you get there.
We are not talking about a little mascara or hitting the gym. We are talking about the epidemic of women volunteering for the surgical meat grinder, the Ozempic famine, the rib-removal trends, and poisoning their bodies with fast fashion that leaches microplastics and endocrine disruptors. This is not empowerment. This is slow-motion self-harm dressed up as glow-up.
Botox by 25. Boobs, lips, ass, jawline—booked before brunch. “Just a little work” has become the starter pack for existing as a woman under 40 in 2026. Plastic surgeons are the new gods. Girls were told their natural faces were “mid.”
What happens when you chase that? Nerve damage. Chronic pain. That frozen, uncanny valley stare that makes you look forever surprised. And the repeated surgeries? That is where the real money is. One procedure snowballs into a lifetime subscription of maintenance. Your body becomes a renovation project that never ends.
Meanwhile, fertility tanks. The same hormones we flood ourselves with to stay “ snatched” screw with ovulation, egg quality, and the very biology that lets us continue the species.
We even rebranded anorexia as “clean eating” and “discipline.” Ozempic parties. 500-calorie days washed down with self-hatred. The result? Brittle bones by 30, hair falling out in clumps, skin like crepes, and a metabolism so destroyed you need medical intervention just to eat like a normal human again.
Bones do not lie. Peak bone density hits in your 20s and 30s. Starve through that window and you are signing up for osteoporosis, stress fractures, and looking 50 at 40 (I guess it is good that I spent my 20s over-indulging). Skin? Collagen does not regenerate when you are running on caffeine and spite. That “glow” from restriction is just dehydration and jaw lines.
And do not get me started on the toxic fabrics. Shein hauls, polyester everything, “sustainable” activewear that is basically plastic lingerie. These clothes are full of chemicals that mess with your hormones, inflame your skin, and quite literally embed microplastics into your fat tissue. It is not cute. It is chemical warfare on your endocrine system (especially when you do not wear panties) while you pose in the mirror doing the duck face.
The Real Crime: We Did This to Ourselves
Beauty standards have always existed. Cleopatra bathed in donkey milk. Victorian women crushed their ribs. But the difference now is scale and speed. Social media turned up the dial. Algorithms reward the extreme: the most inflated lips, the smallest waist, the most obvious work. Natural beauty has been buried under 47 layers of photoshop.
Men are not innocent here either—they swipe right on the filtered fantasy and wonder why real women feel inadequate. But the buck stops with us. We are the ones doom-scrolling, comparing, and carving ourselves up to compete in a rigged game. The “body positivity” crowd screams acceptance while secretly getting BBLs. The trad girlies preach fertility but still chase that snatched waist…
This is not about hating pretty women. Hot girls have always existed and always will. The issue is the how. Natural beauty earned through sleep, protein, sunlight, and not treating your face like a Pinterest board has a different quality. It radiates health. It signals vitality. It ages like wine.
The women who age like fine wine—They invested in the foundations: muscle, bone density, hormone balance, skin from the inside out. That kind of beauty slaps harder because it is real. It whispers competence and resilience instead of screaming “I paid $15k to look like this.”
A beautiful woman sits peacefully on a bench in a lush garden during golden hour.
Beauty matters. Health is beauty. Strength is beauty. A face that moves when you laugh, skin that tells the story of a life well-lived, and a body that can actually do things—these are not consolation prizes. They are the main character energy.
Chase beauty the right way or watch it destroy you the wrong way. The scalpel, the Ozempic, the toxic trends—they are all shortcuts to nowhere good. Real glow does not come from a syringe. It comes from refusing to break yourself for a standard that was never built for human women in the first place.
I am not exaggerating, and this is not hyperbole: fasting legitimately saved my life.
I am an all-or-nothing girl. Always have been. That same wired-in extremity that nearly destroyed me with anorexia is the exact thing that is now keeping me thriving. For years I could starve myself into oblivion without blinking. My body knew how to disappear. But here is the twisted part—I love food. Not in a “oh I enjoy a nice salad” way. I am talking deep, carnal, mouth-watering obsession. Decadent, buttery, chocolate-drenched, sprinkle-covered, still-warm-from-the-oven baked goods that make you moan when you bite into them. Yeah, those.
University was a sad, hollow circus. I was not “enjoying food”—I was scarfing down everything that I would not allow myself to have before. Cabinets stuffed with chips, cookies, chocolate bars, fancy cheeses—anything I could get my hands on—but also chips, ramen and full trays from the dining hall. Whole pizzas and pints of ice cream. It was punishment dressed up as control. I was miserable and secretly dying inside.
Then I flipped the script.
Now I eat like a queen on my terms. I worship treats, but I do not let them run my life. I am not some joyless monk. I have boundaries.
A wooden table in a rustic kitchen filled with fresh fruits, vegetables, bread, and herbs near a window
I run a brutal but beautiful intermittent fasting schedule. Lunch around 11 a.m.—usually something vibrant, colorful, and actually nutritious, because I am not an idiot. Then one snack somewhere between 2 and 5 p.m. That is it. The rest of the day my body gets to chill, burn fat, repair itself, and stop being a slave to constant digestion.
Eating out on holiday with my man.
Weekends are when I let the beast out. Chocolate. Nuts. Freshly baked pastries. I go all out. And because I have kept my weekdays tight, I do not blow up or hate myself on Monday. This is not restriction for restriction’s sake. This is strategy. This is power.
This way of eating does not look perfect for cohabitation. Living with my man means I am going to have some late dinners. And plenty of steak and potatoes (his favorites). But right now, this is how I learned to enjoy my life without turning into a bloated, anxious mess. I am still dedicated. I am still disciplined. And most importantly—I am still playing.
I love my body now. I am done punishing it. Done with the war. Fasting showed me I could have both: the thrill of indulgence and the iron grip of self-control. It is the ultimate flex.
Intermittent Fasting is my daily weapon—the one that actually fits real life. 16:8, 18:6, whatever. You shrink the window of the hours in which you allow yourself to eat, expand your freedom.
But there is more. The dark arts:
Water Fasting—just water, sometimes electrolytes, for days. This one takes god-tier discipline. Your body goes full apocalypse mode: autophagy on steroids, inflammation crashing, mental clarity. I have done shorter ones. The first 48 hours can suck your soul out, but then something shifts. You float. You feel dangerous. Powerful. Like you could conquer anything on nothing but spite and sparkling water.
Fruit Fasting—basically what I did during my high school years. Flooding your system with natural sugars and enzymes from fresh, ripe fruit only. It is a gentler cleanse, great for resetting taste buds and giving your gut a break without going full nuclear. Sweet, juicy, vibrant—feels less like punishment and more like a tropical vacation for your cells.
Dry Fasting—the final boss. No food, no water. Absolute zero intake. This one is not for beginners or clout-chasers. It is extreme, it is controversial, and it forces your body into survival—pulling water from metabolic processes, accelerating repair like nothing else. I respect the hell out of it, but I approach with caution. Your body has to be ready.
All of them revolve around the same truth: sometimes the most radical act of self-love is not putting food in your mouth 24/7.
Fasting did not just fix my body. It rewired my relationship with control, pleasure, and power. I am no longer the girl hoarding snacks. I am the woman who decides when and how she feasts—and when she lets the fire burn clean.
If you are all-or-nothing like me, maybe this is your answer too. Stop the endless grazing. Stop the guilt-shame spiral. Draw a hard line, protect your window, and then truly enjoy yourself when it is time.
Your body is not a temple to be constantly decorated with snacks. It is a weapon. Sharpen it.
I am living proof.
He loves to take pictures of me indulging!
Now if you will excuse me… it is Sunday. There is something chocolate calling my name.
There is something viciously satisfying about stomping up a grassy knoll with nothing but your own two shaky legs and your physical therapist’s hand clamped on the gait belt like a human safety harness. No clanking metal nightmare beside you. Just dirt under your sneakers, wind slapping your face, and the quiet middle finger you are flipping to the broken version of yourself that once existed…. Every step feels like a small rebellion against the version of me that once was told that walking again might not be feasible.
A smiling woman takes a leisurely walk on a sunny park trail.
I carry immense pride in these walks. Not just because I am challenging my body, but because I remember—vividly—how it all began. The early days of rehabilitation were a blur of frustration, disbelief, and a stubborn refusal to accept what my body had become. I kept envisioning the woman that I desired to be… Yet, I could not walk. And balance was a foreign concept, something I had taken for granted like breathing. I was like a baby giraffe on an ice rink. When my parents and therapists first brought out the walker, I stared at it like it was an alien artifact dropped into my life. This clunky, industrial-looking one sided thing
Given that my entire left side does not function, I have to use this contraption
with its ugly gray frame was supposed to be my new normal?
I was young. Walkers were for “the olds,” for geriatrics with silver hair and stories spanning decades. Not for me. In my head, I was still the person who moved through the world with effortless confidence. So I resisted. I would not lean into it properly. I refused to put meaningful weight through my arms, convinced it looked weak, pitiful, unnatural. Seeing someone else shuffle along with a cane or walker had always struck me as heartbreakingly vulnerable. Now that vulnerability was mine, and I rejected it outright. “It looks weird,” I would think, as if aesthetics could somehow override physics or healing.
The wheelchair, oddly enough, felt more palatable. Sleeker. Less like an admission of defeat and more like a temporary chariot. I could sit tall, roll with some semblance of dignity, and pretend this was just a phase. Anything but gripping that handle and hobbling along like I was suddenly ancient at a young age. Like I had given up. Denial is a powerful force—it shields you from the full weight of loss, but it also delays the work of rebuilding.
Years passed in that strange space. Progress came slowly, measured in inches and small victories that felt monumental. There were falls. Many falls. There were days when fear gripped my chest so tightly that my legs simply refused to cooperate, as if my brain and body had declared a temporary truce that fear could shatter in seconds. That is when the gait belt became more than a safety tool—it became psychological armor. My therapist’s steady hand there gives me the permission to take risks. Without it, panic creeps in, muscles lock, and suddenly I am frozen, overthinking every shift of weight. With it, I can push. I can try. I can be.
A person walking on a sidewalk using a support
And now? I am walking without devices. Real, unassisted (mostly) steps outdoors, feeling the breeze, hearing birds, noticing how the ground changes texture from pavement to grass to mulch. The pride swells in my chest because I fought for this. I outlasted the version of myself that was not good enough. Thankfully, I was too proud, too vain, too scared to accept help in the “ugly” forms it took. Healing is not always graceful or Instagram-worthy. Sometimes it looks like tight muscles and shaky legs. Sometimes it requires stubbornness, not swallowing your ego and refusing to grip the walker that you swore you would never need.
I still cannot stand the walker, if I am honest. I am still vain. The idea of using my arms to walk feels fundamentally wrong to me—like recruiting the wrong tools for the job. Legs are for walking. Arms are for reaching, hugging, creating. For a long time, that mental block held me back. But I have learned that true strength is in believing. Even if it is believing you do not need support.
These outdoor walks with my therapist are more than exercise. They are proof of resilience.They are quiet celebrations of a body that was broken and is mending. They are reminders that “human again” is not about returning to who you were before (I do not want to be that person)—it is about becoming someone new, someone wiser…
Cheers to every awkward, eyesore-assisted mile that led me here. And to every device-free one still ahead.
I have always been passionate about the Make America Healthy Again (MAHA) movement. In a world full of processed foods, additives, and policies that seem more interested in managing sickness than preventing it, MAHA feels like an awakening. Under this administration, we are finally seeing the government prioritizing nutrition, whole foods, and root-cause solutions to the chronic disease epidemic plaguing our families.
From reforming SNAP benefits to restrict unhealthy items (the average weight of a woman on SNAP is ~211 pounds versus ~146 pounds for the average woman!), to turning the dietary guidelines upside down — they put real, nutrient-dense foods front and center. They are also pushing Farm to School programs that connect kids with fresh produce from American farmers—this is the kind of change I have dreamed about (I adore farm-to-table dining!). MAHA is not just a slogan; it is a commitment to making our children healthier, our communities stronger, and our nation resilient again.
But one issue hits especially close to home for me: fluoride in our water supply (read my blogpost about water and hydration here). It has been a controversial topic for decades, amplified by memes, podcasts, and the bro-science community who refuse to accept the official narrative. The question that keeps echoing in my mind—and in so many conversations online—is this: Do you really believe the government added fluoride to our drinking water purely to fight cavities?
For years, we have been told that community water fluoridation is one of the greatest public health achievements of the 20th century. At optimal levels (around 0.7 mg/L), it supposedly strengthens tooth enamel and reduces decay, especially for those without regular dental care.
Yet, the skepticism runs deep—and for good reason. Large doses of fluoride have been linked in studies and discussions to brittle bones (skeletal fluorosis), lower IQ in children, memory issues, and other neurological concerns. So you are actually poisoning yourselves by boiling healthy foods, like vegetables. Podcasts and viral content often highlight how fluoride accumulates in the body, potentially crossing the blood-brain barrier and affecting cognitive development (funnily/ironically enough, the kids who test the lowest in cognitive abilities, etc. live in communities who cannot afford to filter their water). And would it not be beneficial for the people who you rule over you to be dumb and ignorant? Animal and epidemiological studies, particularly from areas with naturally high fluoride levels, raise red flags about neurotoxicity, thyroid disruption, and weakened bone structure.
RFK Jr. has been vocal about this for years, calling fluoride a neurotoxin and industrial byproduct that does not belong in our taps. Under MAHA, we are seeing action: efforts to review CDC recommendations, state-level bans or restrictions (like in Utah and Florida), and a broader push for transparency on what we are actually ingesting every single day.
Was it ever really just about teeth? Whether you lean toward conspiracy theories or simply demand better evidence, the pattern is clear: mass medication via water supply bypasses individual choice and informed consent.
We now have alternatives for dental health: better diets low in sugar and ultra-processed foods and improved access to dental care. MAHA’s focus on nutrition and real food aligns perfectly here: stronger teeth and bodies come from the inside out, not from a chemical added to every glass of water, shower, or boiled meal.
Chronic disease is skyrocketing—diabetes, obesity, cognitive issues in kids. If even a portion of that stems from exposures like fluoride, then removing it is common-sense (something that is not necessarily common) prevention. MAHA is about ending corporate capture of our food and health systems, questioning outdated beliefs, and empowering people with pure water, clean air, and nourishing food.
Questions about small town water supply
I love how this administration is tackling nutrition head-on: new dietary guidelines emphasizing whole foods, proteins, healthy fats, and vegetables over junk. States experimenting with SNAP reforms. Investments in soil health and regenerative farming. These steps build a foundation where we do not need bandaids like mass fluoridation.
Personally, I have switched to filtered water , researched remineralization options (electrolytes!), and focused on mineral-rich diets. My love for MAHA grows with every new ruling. The memes are funny, but the science and lived experience are compelling.
Fluoride in water might have started with good intentions (or not), but in 2026, with better tools and awareness, it is time to rethink it. Support local efforts to review or remove it. Back MAHA initiatives that prioritize transparency and choice. Demand studies that look at total exposure from all sources, not just narrow dental metrics.
This movement is not anti-science—it is pro-truth, pro-freedom, and pro-health. I am all in because I want to thrive without hidden burdens in our most basic necessity: water.
Water ripples with DNA strand and medical icons in a lab setting
In a world drowning in sloppy sweatpants, filtered selfies, and the exhausting cult of “I’m a strong independent woman who don’t need no man,”: a woman should not only be beautiful. She should be dangerously interesting.
Beauty opens doors, sure. It turns heads, stops conversations mid-sentence, and makes weak men stutter. But beauty without substance? That is just expensive wallpaper. Pretty to look at until someone better walks by. Why do you think men are always leaving the Halle Berrys and Victoria’s Secret models?!
It is a honor to be beautiful. Own it. Revel in it. Wake up every morning and treat your femininity like the rare, intoxicating weapon it is. Keep your legs (and the rest of your body) smooth like it is foreplay. Move with the kind of grace that makes other women clutch their pearls and men adjust their pants. Speak with eloquence that drips like honey—slow, deliberate, unforgettable. Wear the dress that shows off every bone like it is personally offended by fabric. Because your body, your presence, your entire aura is a privilege, not a participation trophy.
Be elegant, not powerful
But here is where the modern girlies lose the plot: please do not dare stop there.
Your man does not just want a pretty face on his arm at events. He wants a woman who makes his blood run hot, his mind race, and his ego feel like that of a king. Beauty gets you in the door. Depth keeps you locked in his bed, his heart, and his future. Cook for him like you are seducing his soul. Laugh at his jokes even when they are mid, but roast him when he deserves it—sharp, playful, never bitter. Read books. Have opinions that are not just recycled social media drivel. Know when to be soft and yielding and when to challenge him just enough.
My boyfriend was initially drawn to me because of my edgy and controversial personality that I exhibited on my old X account (Twitter). I have always been book smart— not naturally intelligent— but my man is always amazed by the amount of information I retain. I am obsessed with listening to podcasts (although I have been on a bit of a hiatus) and yes I read X.com like it is my personality curated newspaper. So I tend to be well versed and able to discuss his interests with him. (But I also had a fire profile picture…)
How I do the “news”/ stay interesting now
Yes, it has always been my number one goal to be arm candy for my husband.
YES, please
I did not stumble into this. I craved it for years before I even met him. While my friends were out chasing careers, validation from strangers, and that mythical “self-love” that somehow always required new hair dye and more therapy, I was curating myself like a masterpiece. I was sitting there in my wheelchair all fat and bloated— just daydreaming about the day my husband can show me off. I wanted to be the woman other men envy and other women quietly resent. I still do. The one who turns heads in the restaurant and makes his hand instinctively tighten on my waist. The trophy that is not just shiny but sharp as a blade underneath.
And now? I take immense pleasure in being exactly that for my man.
A single chess queen piece illuminated on a wooden chessboard in a dim room
There is something deliciously powerful about being on his arm, knowing every eye is on us—and that I am the one he gets to take home, unwrap, and ruin. I love being the visual feast he shows off and the private obsession he devours behind closed doors. I crave the way people glance a second too long and then look away because they know they could never have this. I love the quiet pride in his eyes when I charm, when I look flawless at four a.m. with bed hair that somehow still looks intentionality messy, when I anticipate his needs before he voices them.
Call it outdated. Call it anti-feminist. I call it honest.
Because let me be real: the “girlboss” who spends her nights crying into takeout because her “high-value” standards left her with a vibrator and an empty calendar is not winning. She is exhausted. Meanwhile, I am glowing, desired, and secure in the kind of traditional dynamic that actually satisfies something primal in both of us.
Femininity is not weakness. It is strategy. It is power wrapped in silk and perfume. Being beautiful is the baseline. Being interesting—the kind of interesting that makes him obsessed—is the flex. And being unapologetically his arm candy? That is the victory lap.
Maybe it is time to stop competing with men and start completing the one worth keeping.
A green silky dress and casual clothing draped on a vintage chair in a cozy room.
I have been known for mainlining sugar, stress, and antibiotics like they are essential vitamins (add in some coffee and bubbles and I am in nutrition heaven!). That often leads to a condition called Candida.
An array of sugary treats contrasts with fresh vegetables on a wooden kitchen table.
If you have never heard of it, Candida is not a bacterial infection. It is a yeast, a type of fungus that lives in all of us in small amounts. But when your gut ecosystem goes haywire, it throws a wild party and multiplies like crazy. The result is extreme bloating that makes your jeans beg for mercy and brain fog so thick you could cut it with a knife.
I have always been the queen of “Treat Yourself” and yes, sometimes stress can make me take the playing a bit too far. I have always had a preference for fruits and sweets. Plus I would hydrate myself only with caffeine and I would treat drinking as if it was a medical necessity (aperol spritz, champagne, Chardonnay?)— and , we cannot forget obsession for my bubbly water with yummy flavored electrolytes!
A peaceful morning scene with coffee fruit, pie, and a journal on a rustic table
Yes, I thought I was functioning. But looking years back, my body was waving red flags. That post-meal bloat was not just “I ate too much.” That mental haze where I could not remember simple tasks or focus for more than 10 minutes was never just the side effect of brain damage. It was my gut screaming for help.
Sugar and refined carbs are Candida’s favorite fuel. These are also the main sources that make up my diet. Stress pumps out cortisol, which further imbalances your microbiome and weakens immunity. Coffee keeps the party going. It is a vicious cycle: the yeast craves sugar, you feed it, it grows, symptoms worsen, you stress-eat more. Heaven for Candida, hell for me.
Then it stopped. I did not seek help from the western medical establishment… as you ask them for help and they turn into pill pushers (telling you that Big Pharma will heal you— never mind what the blood work etc shows).
It is sneaky because symptoms overlap with so many other things—stress, thyroid issues, etc. Many people (myself included) brush it off for years. Fatigue that no amount of coffee can cure and intense sugar cravings.
Cross-section of the digestive system showing candida yeast overgrowth in the small intestine
Candida overgrowth is not always a formal medical diagnosis everyone agrees on (some doctors are skeptical of “systemic” claims), but the symptoms are real, and addressing the root causes helps a ton of people feel better. Realizing that any gut issue is an issue with something that you are eating is the first step. Yes, most doctors will say that you have some sort of Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS), but I have found that starving out the yeast is the way to go. Plus, eliminating any stress in your life. So ultimately mindfulness is most important. Not some sort of medicine.
No, I am not eliminating all of the yummy joy out of my life— I am not about to spend my life being miserable. I simply added in fasting, limiting the overly sugary/ processed and voila! I get to play again. I will treat myself and then practice self discipline. Weekends are often for indulgence. Weekdays are definitely disciplined. One meal per day and always full of vibrant and nutritious foods. It is pretty fun (plus the reflection in my mirror and the look on my my boyfriend’s face are both ecstatic!)
Side-by-side display of sugary snacks and fresh fruits on a kitchen counter
This might as well be a part of ‘My Passion for Nutrition’ series…
Remember the “Horse Paste” Hysteria? Time to Talk Honestly About Parasites and Ivermectin
Back in the chaotic 2020s, when the world felt like it was spinning out of control, one of the strangest battles was the all-out demonization of ivermectin. Labeled everything from “horse paste” to dangerous misinformation, it became a cultural exclamation point. But it is time to step back from the noise: Ivermectin is a legitimate, Nobel Prize-winning antiparasitic medication with a proven track record in human medicine. And yes—there is a broader conversation worth having about whether most of us could benefit from thinking more seriously about parasites in our modern lives.
Discovered from soil bacteria in Japan and developed into a powerful tool against parasites, ivermectin has transformed global health. It paralyzes and kills certain worms and parasites by disrupting their nerve and muscle functions. It earned its discoverers the 2015 Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine for its impact on river blindness (onchocerciasis) and lymphatic filariasis—diseases that blinded and debilitated millions.
A petri dish with glowing bacterial colonies under lab conditions
It is incredibly inexpensive to manufacture—estimates put production costs as low as two pennies (I guess you should round up to a full nickel now!) per dose in bulk. Generic versions sell affordably (often under $50–$100 for a treatment course in the US with discounts), which means it does not line Big Pharma’s pockets like patented drugs. Through donation programs, billions of doses have been distributed for free in endemic regions. This accessibility is part of what makes it such a public health success story.
Here is where things get uncomfortable but real. Many of us in developed countries like the US do not wash our hands as thoroughly as we should. Fresh produce (especially organic!) is not always perfectly cleaned. Pets track in dirt, fleas, or other critters. International travel, imported foods, and close contact with others can introduce risks. Thus,intestinal parasites like Giardia, pinworms (Enterobius vermicularis), or others are not unheard of—even in “clean” societies.
I am not here to advocate staring into your toilet bowl (I am a lady, after all).But cleanses can rid us of all the environmental toxins that infiltrate our daily lives.
An artistic portrayal of Earth surrounded by microorganisms and medical symbols, highlighting global health connections.
Ivermectin remains a wonder drug for what it was designed to do. The 2020s taught us many lessons about questioning narratives, but also about respecting evidence-based medicine (even if it does not bring in the big bucks!). Routine cleansing for everyone may be necessary, even for most in sanitary environments. Disease invades those in developed countries. Parasites can also make us ladies act like “lunatics” during full moons (The word “lunatic” comes from Latin luna (moon), reflecting ancient beliefs that the full moon drove people—especially women—mad)…Greater awareness and targeted use of something like Ivermectin is absolutely worth discussing without the {political} drama.
I am not typically a negative person (read more here). I see the glass half full not half empty. However, I often feel that lack in my life—my man will say, “I wish they did that for you… you deserve a win” and my response? “That’s just how life works out for me now…. Whether it is my recovery, my relationship… I always have to wait”. Recovery crawling. Relationship hitting every red light. Opportunities? I am always waiting. Always.
Sounds like some emo, woe-is-me playlist on repeat, right? But I am owning this pattern like its designer. I have stopped fighting the current and started riding the wave. Everything—everything—is gonna drop when it is supposed to. Not a second sooner, not a millisecond later. The delays are not punishments; they are plot armor. Call me delulu if you want, but I am wearing that label.
Now let us talk about the real cancer that is eating souls these days: being black-pilled. You know the type. These miserables look at society’s flaming dumpster fire and the wreckage of their own lives and decide the only logical response is to glorify the potential apocalypse. “It is all doomed. Women are finished. Men are finished. The future is soy, depression, and climate lockdowns. Might as well rot in bed.” Black-pillers do not see problems—they call it realism. They marinate in present-day suckage and future-cucked despair like it is a personality trait. Spoiler: this is not deep. It is just being an emotional with extra steps. Zero growth. All cope.
Personally, I am riding the white-pill wave so hard. White-pilled is not some naive sunshine and rainbows. It is refined, razor-sharp clarity with a side of patience. You start seeing every “delay” as divine diversion for your own good. That job that ghosted you? Saved you from becoming a soulless cubicle zombie. The slow recovery? It is the universe wrapping you in bubble wrap so you do not shatter before you are ready to become the final version of yourself.
DIVINE TIMING ✨✨✨
Nothing takes “too long.” It takes exactly as long as it needs to. You are not being ignored—you are being protected. That glorious 20/20 hindsight always rolls up: Every closed door, every late blessing, every “not yet” is the cosmos playing 4D chess while you are still stuck on checkers.
Thus , I am done romanticizing the wait. I am weaponizing it. The black-pillers can keep doom-scrolling and crying into their half-empty drinks. I will be over here, glass half full (of celebratory champagne,probably), watching the universe cook up my victory lap.
Timing is not the enemy. It is the ultimate plot armor. And when my moment hits it is going to be so loud that even the black pillers will not be able to ignore it.
A winding path through a colorful wildflower meadow at sunset
Stay white-pilled, kings and queens. The wait sucks, but the glow-up? Worth every second.
Kat’s Musings 