Kat’s Musings

Tag: writing

  • Debunking College Myths: What Really Happened

    Debunking College Myths: What Really Happened

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

  • Discovering Strength Through Pain: A Journey

    Discovering Strength Through Pain: A Journey

    I used to think that my father was the strongest man. I never see him cry and I never see him ask for approval. But when I was at Syracuse University, my mother dismantled us.  I have always been a “daddy’s girl—“ you hurt him, you hurt me. Instead we were made to feel like something was wrong with us. Like we were just broken. 

    I hated to see him waive the white flag. I thought love was to be safe but instead I went into a tailspin. You hurt my father, you hurt me. So I went even deeper into my downward spiral. I kept eating my feelings. One year later I would end up in a coma and I would be disabled. 

    The worst part is that my mother had rewritten the whole story to make her the hero. She made excuses so she could be seen as the victim. I remember calling a good friend of mine (she has too much Ukrainian pride now though) sitting on the ground outside of the county jail in tears. There is no hero in this story. This was the moment when I broke down even more 

    So I turned to the manosphere accounts on Twitter (RIP). The manosphere gave me solace. It taught me about the manipulation that caused my father to fold. It also evidently taught me to hate on women. I know this is not exactly the right way to live. However, you will never catch me screaming about girl power and glass ceilings. I love men. I think that they are the greatest people on the planet. I also felt like I was being broken and betrayed by a woman. And I took it out on her. I took it too far. 

    I was already spiraling (because), but now I went down even further. 

    I learned how strength and weakness are not just physical— but instead strength is spine. Being able to say “no” instead of the quiet surrender I witnessed. I know that I should forgive. Holding onto pain only hurts you. But you cannot forgive when they keep taking. It is not pain and it is not hate— I do not have the energy for that. 

    We were dismantled. I was dismantled. It lead me towards rock bottom— but now I only have energy for progress and achieving my goals and desires. 

  • Americana.

    Americana.

    I have lived in the tiny town of Snohomish, Washington,since I was seven years old. Snohomish is not flashy. It is not Seattle. It is the kind of place where you grow up slow. The biggest drama is who forgot to lock the barn. In Snohomish, “good morning” still means something.

    I used to hate that. I wanted to be a big city girl (ala Samantha Jones in Sex and the City). I even went away from the public school I was supposed to attend. I did this so I could dress and be a little more high class. 

    The girls who live in Snohomish pride themselves for living in a Bodunk town. “Fancy” usually means that you will sink into the muddy fields. It is not the norm.  But I did not like that. I did not want to wear pajamas and slippers to class. I wanted to wear stilettos and I dreamt of living in a penthouse. 

     None of that ended up happening. It became dangerous to even visit a city. Now I have a different perspective of this small town. It feels like living inside a postcard and that postcard smells like rain and fresh-cut grass most days. 

    This town is tiny, maybe ten thousand people. Main Street still looks like it did in the nineteen-twenties. It has brick storefronts, a hardware store that sells everything from nails to fudge, and diners. The river runs right through the middle—Snohomish River, wide and slow. Packed with sunburned locals in July. Around here, summers are for the county fair (something that I do not partake in). It is not the flashy kind with Ferris wheels taller than trees. It’s just a dusty field off Second Street, filled with goats baaa-ing, cotton candy, and sketchy ride operators. Winters are quieter. Fog rolls in off of Puget Sound like a blanket, and school buses crawl through it, headlights glowing. 

    People here do not rush. You wave at strangers because you have seen them before— since the town is so small. Everyone knows everyone’s business. They do not judge, or at least, they do not judge out loud. This was new to this little Russian girl. I left for college, came back since. The river still smells the same. The hardware store still sells fudge. And yes it rains, but it rains softly— as if this place is giving you a hug. 

    I want to share this hug with the love of my life. Convincing my boyfriend to move out to Washington state was like my experience of recognizing my hometown in the past. It is different from the postcard version I see now. 

    While we would not be living in Snohomish, small towns are so much more attractive than the big bad cities. While I do not want to dress like a slob or float down a river in the summer— I would rather that than be raped by an immigrant and encounter needles in the storefronts.  He would rather cheer for the teams that his family has always supported and not be surrounded by “aw shucks” coworkers. 

    So I do not belong in Snohomish, Washington, but I have definitely developed an appreciation for small towns. I might live in a small “Americana” town in Montana or the Carolinas. Wherever I end up, I will always waive “hello” and will not judge (out loud). 

  • Main Character Energy: Embracing Yourself Fully

    Main Character Energy: Embracing Yourself Fully

    I used to think confidence was something you either had—like eye color—or you did not have. Turns out, it’s more like muscle: you build it, you lose it, you flex it, then you flex again.

     The shift started small. I stopped apologizing for existing. No more sorry. No more shrinking when someone walked in. Main character energy. I just… stayed. Took up space. Let my voice land without flinching. That was the main challenge that showed me that I was on the right path. My voice. I started using it. 

    First trick? Fake it till you make it—except I did not have fake it. I borrowed it. Watched people who walked like they owned the sidewalk, copied their posture, their pauses. Turns out, shoulders back is not magic—it’s physics. Shrinking away physically makes you shrink away psychologically. And once you feel taller, your brain starts believing it. 

    Second: I quit collecting opinions. Not every critique needs a reply. Not every stare needs an explanation. I decided my worth was not up for vote. My worth has been at the center of my life and how it has been. 

    That alone cut half my anxiety. The real glow-up? Saying “no”. Not mean “no”, just clear “no”. Nah, I’m good. Not tonight. That is simply not for me. Especially when it comes to someone I regard as a superior. I have to stand up for myself. And I still get nervous. Still second-guess. Now, I talk to that voice in my head like it is a friend. “Hey, we have done this before. Chill.” (Life hack: this is how I know that I will recover!)

    The fear and the lack of confidence does not vanish. I still ask others to confirm that I am doing a good job. I do not just peacock around. But my lack just gets quieter. Confidence is not about never doubting yourself. It is about doubting yourself, shrugging, and moving anyway. Because the most confident person in my life? She is not fearless. She is just done pretending she needs permission. And honestly? That feels better than any spotlight ever could.