Kat’s Musings

Tag: housewife

  • Physically.

    Physically.

    I am still buzzing from last week —just lying there, tangled up in sheets, his arm slung over me. 

    I swear, nothing feels better than finally being in the same room as him. No more FaceTime lag, no more “can you hear me?”—just his stupid grin, his real voice, the way he smells like his high end cologne collection. I melt every time he opens his arms towards me . Like, actually melt. My shoulders drop, my jaw unclenches, and suddenly the whole past —my parents criticisms, constantly feeling ignored and not understood —evaporates. 

    He does not even have to say anything. Just stands there, arms open . We did not do grand gestures. No roses, no playlists. Only sweet treats waiting for me upon arrival. Then him flopping onto the hotel bed, me curling into his side like it is the only spot that fits. His hand finds mine—always does—like it’s muscle memory. And I think, “God, this is it”. This is what I have been waiting for.

    The best part? He gets quiet too. Like he knows I need five minutes of nothing—just us breathing, the TV on mute, his thumb rubbing slow circles on my knee. I could stay like that forever. I do not care if it sounds sappy. I am happy. Not content or fine—happy. The kind that makes my chest ache a little, like it is too big for my ribs. And yeah, I miss him. But right now? I guess I just wait. 

    The waiting is terrible but necessary and I hope —temporary. When the bleed took my body away from me, I was waiting to go back to university (I thought I would physically be back on campus), but instead, my parents made me apply online and finally finish my Bachelor’s degree TEN YEARS LATER. Then came the waiting for my recovery—I realized that I wasn’t made for the indoctrination and fake “wokeness” of the “real world.”

    But when I met my man I thought that this waiting was over. He loves me as I am—so I no longer needed to rush anything or force myself into school/ work. 

    I found that in these settings, I was constantly being penalized for having the “wrong “ opinions in my essays and papers, but would immediately be rewarded and praised as soon as I brought up my disability. I did not want to use my situation as a crutch. I hate pity.  So I chose to be myself. A little right wing, conservative and definitely against any kind of diversity. And everyone hated that. Except the love of my life. 

    But when I am back home alone again—in my own little bubble—the quiet hits different—like the rooms are too big without him breathing next to me. I miss the way he rolls over and pulls me closer—I keep replaying it: his fingers tracing lazy circles on my back, the way he mumbles to me even though I’m already half-asleep. It’s stupid how much I crave that—his weight, his heat, the dumb little sounds he makes when he is dreaming. And yeah, I know it is cheesy to say out loud, but… I am happy.

     Like, stupid-happy. Not the Instagram-filter kind—just the real, messy, I-cannot-believe-this is-mine kind. I never had this before. Was I ever truly happy?  I manipulated my way into graduating with straight As and everything else I had done was always done through force or for someone else. This is mine. My life. My happiness. So here’s to him. To us. To every second I get to be physically right there, skin on skin, no screens, no distance—just him and me and this ridiculous, perfect quiet… I guess I have to go back to waiting for this feeling again. 

  • My little journey

    My little journey

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • This Is Me…

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

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

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


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