Kat’s Musings

Tag: relationships

  • Walking Ten Feet at a Time: My Daily Dance with Recovery

    Walking Ten Feet at a Time: My Daily Dance with Recovery

    Every single afternoon, after the nap my body demands like a stubborn toddler, I film myself walking. It is only about ten feet. To most people, that probably looks like nothing at all. But to me, those ten feet are everything. A step closer. They are proof that I am still moving forward—literally—one brave, wobbly step at a time. It feels incredible.

    My days start brutally early. I am up at 4 a.m., already chasing the version of myself I desire. By the time lunch is over, my body is spent from the morning’s workout and the constant grind of rehabilitation. My eyes grow heavy, my muscles scream for mercy, and I surrender to the bed like a little baby who earned her nap time. I used to fight it, but I learned to listen. The nap is not weakness; it is fuel. When I wake up an hour or two later, something magical happens. Energy surges back. Determination reignites. And suddenly I am excited—actually excited—to challenge myself again.

    That is when I head to the back deck.

    I strap on my brace even though I hate it. Most days I go without, stubborn as hell, refusing any device that reminds me I am not “normal” yet. But when I am about to push my limits, safety first applies (*eye roll*). The deck has a sturdy railing on one side—my own private parallel bar. I used to grip it at first, today I just walk along it slowly, no longer feeling the wood warm under my palm. At the end of the railing, I just stand there, working on my balance. Feet planted, core engaged, eyes focused on a spot in the distance (the heating lamp usually). The world narrows to that single task: don’t fall.

    I film every attempt. Sometimes it is a clean walk. Sometimes it is shaky. First, my left (weak) leg pushes forward. That is the easy one. I do not need balance or strength help on this side, but then I have to shift onto this weak side and move my right leg forward. Sometimes the left side refuses to hold me up. Sometimes I end up on the ground. I have fallen more times than I can count out there—head cracking against the deck, shoulder slamming into the wall. Each bruise is a story. Each tumble is data.

    I send the videos to my boyfriend anyway. I do not even know if he is watching them but the simple act of having an audience changes everything. It turns a lonely struggle into a performance. It makes me bolder. I love showing off for him. There is something powerful about letting the person you love witness your rawest, most determined moments.

    I remember the early days when I had to clutch that railing for dear life, knuckles white, heart pounding. Letting go felt terrifying—like stepping off a cliff (hence why I wear my brace out there— in case my weak side refuses to hold me upright). But I did it anyway. Because I want this more than I fear the falls. I want to walk across a room without thinking. I want to stroll through a park holding his hand instead of a cane or brace. I want zero differentiation between me and everyone else. No explanations. No pitying glances. Just me, moving through the world the way I used to—freely, confidently, joyfully.

    This recovery is not linear. Some days the ten feet feel like a marathon. Other days I surprise myself and push for more. The falls rarely happen anymore , but they sting a little less because I know they are temporary. Every time I stand back up, dust myself off, and hit record again, I am rewriting my story.

    Small steps matter. Naps are not laziness; they are strategy. Now I see that my stubborn refusal to stay down is beautiful. I keep filming. Keep showing off. Keep chasing the version othat refuses to be defined by limitations.

    I am not there yet. But every afternoon, after my nap, I get a little closer. Ten feet at a time.

    And it feels amazing.


    I am already dreaming bigger—longer distances, no railing, maybe even a real walk around the block. I will keep sharing the journey here, bruises and all.

  • Are You a Marilyn Monroe or a Jackie O? The Filthy, Fabulous Femininity Test

    Are You a Marilyn Monroe or a Jackie O? The Filthy, Fabulous Femininity Test

    Forget the polite little personality quizzes. Once a question asked on an episode of Mad Men and very appropriate as I recently watched the JFK junior/Carolyn Besset Love Story. Let’s get raw: Are you the blonde/ brunette bombshell who makes men (and women) lose their minds, or the untouchable ice queen whose quiet power leaves them begging for more? Marilyn Monroe dripped pure sex and vulnerability. Jackie Kennedy Onassis weaponized elegance, mystery, and class into something dangerously seductive.

    In 2026, where everyone is half-naked on Instagram yet starving for realness, knowing your dominant archetype is not just fun—it is foreplay for how you move through the world, the bedroom, and the boardroom.

    Marilyn was curves that would never quit, a whispery voice that sounded like she had just rolled out of bed, and a willingness to bare it all—literally and emotionally. She was champagne poured over naked skin, red lips wrapped around a martini glass, and that famous subway grate scene where she let the world look up her skirt and loved every second.

    You are Marilyn if:

    • You wear the dress that is one deep breath away from a wardrobe malfunction and own the room like it is your personal strip club.
    • Flirting is not optional—it is your native language. You touch, tease, laugh too loud, and leave them haunted.
    • Your sensuality is not hidden; it is the main event. You love your body, your desires, your wetness, your power to make people stupid with lust.
    • Chaos turns you on. Late nights, bad decisions, messy sheets, and waking up infamous. 
    • Deep down you crave to be devoured, worshipped, and remembered as the woman who set the world on fire.

    Marilyn is the party. She does not just attend it.

    Glamorous party, curvy silhouette, confetti, champagne, velvet

    Jackie was pearls (and I do not do pearls!), pillbox hats, and a stare that could castrate a man in public while making him ache in private. She survived scandal, buried husbands, and still emerged as the most desired, respected woman on the planet. Her power was in what she withheld—those long silences, the perfectly tailored suits hiding what everyone would kill to see, the intellectual foreplay that made smart men weak.

    Elegant interior with jacket, pearls, gloves

    You are Jackie if:

    • Your style is so sharp it cuts: tailored everything, bare skin only when it is strategic, and an aura that says “look but don’t you fucking dare touch unless I allow it.”
    • You dominate through composure. One raised eyebrow, one perfectly timed sentence, and people are on their knees—figuratively, and sometimes literally.
    • You fuck with minds, not just bodies. Art, literature, history, and quiet dominance are your aphrodisiacs. You collect powerful lovers like trophies while not letting them in. 
    • Privacy is your kink. The more they want to expose you, the more untouchable you become.
    • Your strength is steel wrapped in silk: grief, betrayal, and public eyes only make you more exquisite and dangerous.

    Jackie does not chase. She selects. And when she lets you in, it ruins you for everyone else.

    The Quiz: No Bullshit, Just Truth

    Answer fast. No overthinking. A = Marilyn, B = Jackie.

    1. Your fantasy Friday night?
      A) Skin-tight dress, no panties, dancing dirty until someone worthy takes you home.
      B) Candlelit dinner where the conversation is foreplay, then slow, deliberate seduction behind closed doors.
    2. Signature “fuck me” accessory?
      A) Blood-red lipstick smeared just enough to look freshly kissed…
      B) A single strand of pearls and oversized sunglasses that hide everything while promising nothing.
    3. How do you handle intense desire or drama?
      A) Feel it between your legs, express it loud and messy, then ride the wave.
      B) Stay ice-cool in public, then unleash it privately like a controlled explosion.
    4. Dream escape?
      A) Bikini, tequila, and a yacht full of beautiful people who all want a taste.
      B) Private island or Paris penthouse where the only one who gets close is the one you choose.
    5. Your seductive superpower?
      A) Making strangers obsessed with one look, one laugh, one deliberate bend.
      B) Leaving them wondering what is underneath the perfection—and making them earn every glimpse.

    Mostly A’s: You are a Marilyn—raw, juicy, addictive trouble. The world needs your heat.
    Mostly B’s: You are Jackie—elegant, lethal, unforgettable. Your restraint is the ultimate tease.


    I am definitely a split    . I am the deadly hybrid: I used to have Marilyn’s body and I definitely sexualized it. I have learned to adore my body. Properly displaying it. That topped with Jackie’s mind. Dangerous as hell. I played the unattainable ice princess for years when I met my love. Telling him (and myself) how I did not feel any emotions. Craving to be a mystery, I would not reveal anything. 

    I try to be purely Jackie- serious but I still speak with the Marilyn “baby voice” and he has definitely made me more bubbly and playful. 

    We were told to be “empowered” by being everything. Bullshit. The real power move is knowing when to unleash your inner slutty goddess and when to wield untouchable queen energy. Marilyn reminds us that desire is holy. Jackie proves that withholding it can be even hotter.

    Some mornings you wake up wanting to be bent over in heels. Others, you want to sip espresso in a trench coat with nothing underneath and make them wait.

  • Reconnecting Through Documentaries: JFK Jr. & Carolyn Bessette

    Reconnecting Through Documentaries: JFK Jr. & Carolyn Bessette

    In the whirlwind of modern life, where days blur between deadlines, workouts, and endless to-do lists, my boyfriend and I have carved out a sacred little sanctuary each afternoon. After powering through afternoon gym sessions—and once the work emails have finally been answered (by him), I take my afternoon shower and settle down with my MacBook…Lights dimmed, blankets/ sweatshirt draped just so and the show waiting for me to delve into (hopefully we will do this with a couple of glasses of wine someday soon!).

    This is our time to disconnect from the chaos and plug into something that feels both entertaining and enriching. This past week, our nightly ritual transported us back to the glittering, tragic world of the Kennedy family with a captivating streaming documentary series focused on John F. Kennedy Jr. and his whirlwind romance with Carolyn Bessette (Love Story on Hulu).

    Our routine is simple but intentional. By the time the sun dips below the horizon, we have earned this pause. Exercise clears the mental fog, work gives him purpose, and then… release. We dim the lights, queue up the show, and for about an hour , the outside world fades. No scrolling social media (well…. Occasionally), no multitasking. Just us, the story unfolding, and the occasional pause to chat about what we are watching. It has become our favorite way to reconnect after busy days—sharing laughs, theories, and those “wait, did that really happen?” moments that make history feel alive.

    This last week’s choice was particularly mesmerizing: a deep-dive documentary chronicling the life of JFK Jr., the golden boy of American royalty, and his intense, fairytale-like love story with Carolyn Bessette. Carolyn was not some “random girl”—she was a stylish, former publicist at Calvin Klein, the kind of woman whose effortless New York cool turned heads in the fashion world long before she stepped into the spotlight as a Kennedy. She plays the hard-to-get game and follows “The Rules”—like I did when I first met him.

    I could not help comparing the two. A man who is simultaneously a boy who needs a woman to rescue him (like Edward in Pretty Woman). He craves for a soulmate to hold his hand through his traumatic past. It was full of dramatic recreations of history to paint a portrait of two people who found each other amid the blinding flash of fame.

    What struck us most was how the series humanized them. John F. Kennedy Jr.—“John-John” to the world—grew up in the shadow of his father’s assassination, America’s Camelot dream, and relentless media scrutiny. He was the handsome, charming magazine publisher (George magazine) who could have coasted on his name but chose ambition and adventure instead: piloting planes, kayaking dangerous waters, and searching for something real. Enter Carolyn, a Calvin Klein insider known for her icy-blonde elegance, razor-sharp intellect, and quiet confidence. Their meeting in the ‘90s New York scene was electric from the start. The documentary does not shy away from the messiness—the paparazzi chases, the strain of constant public eyes, the pressures of blending her low-key fashion life with his high-profile legacy.  She gave up her job (and seemingly her life) for him. And she was constantly criticized for it by her normie family members. 

    We were glued to the screen as it explored their secret courtship, the whirlwind 1996 wedding on a tiny island off Georgia (Cumberland Island, with its rustic charm and zero media seclusion), and the honeymoon phase that looked picture-perfect from afar. But the show also delves into the harder truths: the tabloid frenzy that followed them everywhere (and how this very frenzy killed Princess Diana), rumors of relationship strains, Carolyn’s discomfort with the spotlight, and the tragic end that still feels surreal decades later—their fatal 1999 plane crash off Martha’s Vineyard.

    The producers did an excellent job balancing the glamour with the grit, showing how love can be both a sanctuary and a casualty of fame.

    Watching it together sparked so many conversations between us. We would pause and debate: How would we handle that level of intrusion? What does it say about privacy in the age of influencers and 24/7 news? My boyfriend, ever the history buff, pointed out parallels to today’s celebrity culture—how little has changed since the ‘90s in terms of media obsession. I loved the fashion details; Carolyn’s minimalist, sleek style (think slip dresses, oversized sunglasses, and that iconic wedding gown by Narciso Rodriguez) still influences runways and Pinterest boards today. It made us reflect on our own relationship—grateful for the quiet normalcy we share, the ability to just be without cameras flashing.

    Beyond the romance, the series touched on broader Kennedy lore: glimpses of Jackie O.‘s influence, the weight of the family name, and John’s quest to forge his own path. It was never just a love story; it was a meditation on legacy, loss, and the price of being “American royalty.” By the final episode, we were both a little misty-eyed, discussing how stories like this remind us to cherish the present.

    Our nightly shows have become more than entertainment—they are little windows into other worlds that make our own feel richer. Whether it is his beloved historical documentaries or something romantic —our exercises crushed, (his) work conquered, and stories that linger long after the credits roll.

    My advice is to pair this show with your own unwind ritual: maybe some cozy socks, a charcuterie board, (or a nut butter snack?!) or just the comfort of someone you love beside you.

  • 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.

  • Redefining Success: Choosing Love Over Grind

    Redefining Success: Choosing Love Over Grind

    I used to be exhausted. Chasing texts that went unanswered. Chasing vibes that felt forced. Chasing friendships that drained more than they gave. Chasing a career ladder that promised fulfillment. Chasing an emaciated body.

    No more.

    If it is real and meant to be, it will never require me to chase it. Not a relationship. Not a friendship. Not even a vibe. I am done bending over backwards for attention. If a man wants me, he will come get me. If a friend values me, she will show up without prompting. If the energy is right, it flows naturally — or it was never mine to force.

    This is not bitterness. This is boundaries. This is clarity. This is the essence of a woman who finally stopped betraying her own nature.

    I have always wanted to be a princess— a woman who is deeply loved, genuinely admired, and sincerely appreciated for the softness, effort, and devotion she brings. I want to be seen. Not for clout. Not for likes. For the way I light up a room, the way I nurture, the way I pour into the right people.

    That desire does not cancel out my life goals — it refines them. I no longer do things to impress the timeline or compete with other women. I do them because they make me happy. Pure, unfiltered joy.

    I work out every single day because I love the feeling of my body moving — the strength, the aliveness. I love this body because I know what it has survived. The nights I cried myself to sleep wondering if I was enough. I treat it with respect: nourishing meals, daily (parralel bar) walks, floor exercises. And yes, I spoil it with yummy treats when it feels right (which is quite often!).

    I also practice discipline. Intermittent fasting. Controlled portions. Not because some fitness influencer shamed me into a thigh gap, but because I respect this temple that is my body. This is not about becoming a magazine cover. It is about honoring what the universe gave me.

    Also, I will not be chasing a carreer as that is not what makes me happy. Society lied to us. It told women that climbing corporate ladders, grinding 60-hour weeks, and being “boss bitches” would make us happy. It did not. It made women stressed, masculine, and disconnected from our essence.

    What truly lights me up is serving my man — as any woman should, if she is honest with herself. Cooking for him. Anticipating his needs. Being soft, available, and devoted. Being at his beck and call when he has earned that trust.

    Modern feminism screams that this is oppression. I call it freedom.

    Being a high-powered “boss bitch” or trying to serve randoms (bosses) who have never proven themselves drains a woman of her femininity. We are not built like men. We are not the same. Our nervous systems, our hormones, we innately crave polarity — his strength meeting my softness. His direction meeting my surrender. When we fight that, we fight ourselves.

    The stories are everywhere: burnt-out women in their +30s wondering why they are successful on paper but miserable in private. Why their relationships feel like negotiations. Why their bodies feel foreign to them. Why sex feels transactional. Because we abandoned our nature for a lie.

    Women are happiest when we embrace what we were designed for: beauty, nurturing, devotion, and yes — submission to a worthy man. Not every man. The man. The one who leads, protects, provides, and cherishes. The one who makes chasing unnecessary because he pursues.

    Stop shaming women who choose the home, the bedroom, and the kitchen as their kingdoms.

    Feminine energy is magnetic when it is allowed to flow — radiant and playful. When we chase like men, we repel what we actually want. The right man does not want a competitor. He wants a safe haven. A woman who makes him feel like a king so he can treat her like his queen.

    I am done performing independence for applause. I want interdependence with a strong man. I want to be led. I want to be spoiled with love, attention, and provision because I have earned it through my devotion — not because I manipulated or demanded it.

    So here I am: working out for the love of movement. Fasting for discipline and clarity. Dressing in ways that make me feel beautiful and soft. Opening my heart only to those who match my effort. And waiting — without chasing — for my man— a man who sees my value and claims it without hesitation.

    If it is meant to be, it will be effortless. The friendship. The love. The vibe. The life.

    I am the prize that stays in the box until the right person proves they deserve to open it.

    I choose peace. I choose femininity. I choose devotion.

  • 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.

  • Binge-Watching: Seeking Depth Over Distraction

    Binge-Watching: Seeking Depth Over Distraction

    Most people binge-watch television like addicts chasing a cheap high. They want easy laughs. They seek mindless escape (admittedly I sometimes do that too). They desire to stay culturally relevant so they can make small-talk at the water cooler. I am not one of those people.

    I am not looking for comfort food for the brain when I watch a show. I want it to stir something deeply human inside me. I want to feel desire, rage, longing, betrayal, and triumph. I want to experience the full spectrum of what it actually means to be alive in this broken, beautiful world. Shallow sitcoms and trendy Netflix garbage? Hard pass. They leave me colder than before I started (and I am always cold). 

    My man and I are the same in this. We do not use screens to numb out. We use them to ignite.

    I only caved and watched Game of Thrones recently because he practically dragged me to it. Yes, I held out for years while the rest of the world lost their minds over it. I am stubborn like that. But once I finally gave in, the dragons or monsters did not hook me. I actually hated those parts. I was hooked by the power plays, the savage loyalty, the raw masculine and feminine energies clashing on screen (especially the incest part— hot!). 

    Still, it took his insistence to get me there. When left to my own devices, I prefer stories that resonate with real life. I am drawn to themes of love and legacy. And wealth. No poors for this girl.

    That is why Mad Men is sacred to us. That show does not just entertain. It dissects the soul of mid-century Americana. It explores the seduction of ambition. The show reveals beautiful women trapped in pretty cages. It portrays the unapologetic masculinity of men who built empires while quietly falling apart. We watch Don Draper pour another drink and we feel it. We see the cost of desire, status, and self-destruction (cost is not always about the money!)

    And then there is anything in the Yellowstone universe. God, yes. I know it is quite culturally popular, but popularity does not make it less true for me. I am unapologetically obsessed with that world. I am all about the Trad Life. I particularly admire the woman’s role in the 1923 spin-off. The rugged land. The fierce protection of her man. The clear lines between men and women. The willingness to bleed for what is yours. That hits me on a primal level. In a culture that mocks tradition, it celebrates weakness. It tells women that submission is oppression and strength is “toxic.” Yellowstone feels like rebellion. It reminds me what men and women were built for. They were meant to fight for something. They were meant to claim it and to pass it down.

    We do not just watch and scroll to the next thing like zombies. After every episode, we pause. We talk. We dissect how what just happened mirrors our own relationship, our values, our (potential) struggles, and our future. We ask the dangerous questions: How would we handle that betrayal? What does that kind of loyalty look like to us? Are we too soft? Where do we need to be harder, sharper, more ruthless?

    This is what real intimacy looks like in 2026. It is not just sharing a bed. It involves sharing a worldview so deep that even fiction becomes foreplay for deeper conversation.

    So no, I am not watching to laugh. I am not watching because “everyone else is.” I watch to feel alive. To be reminded of the kind of woman I want to be and the kind of man I chose. And doing it beside him, then tearing it apart together afterward? That is not entertainment.

    That is devotion. I binge because I am devoted.

  • 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.