I don’t think we become strangers to ourselves overnight.

I think it happens gradually.

It happens every time someone tells us the thing that lights us up isn’t very good.(Question: Who exactly made them the judge of that?)

Every time we’re told we’re too loud.

Too sensitive.

Too earnest.

Too emotional.

Too much.

Every time someone with more perceived authority than we have tells us they know us better than we know ourselves.

The problem isn’t that they say it.

The problem is that we believe them.

Not because we’re weak, but because we’re children. Or students. Or employees. Or people who are desperately trying to find our place in the world.

We assume the people around us know something we don’t. That they’re seeing us more clearly than we’re seeing ourselves.

So we begin making edits.

Tiny ones at first.

Then bigger ones.

Eventually, we stop asking, “What do I want?” and start asking, “What version of me is acceptable?”

I’ve been tracing those edits back through my own life lately, trying to figure out where they began.

For me, one of the earliest was singing.

When I was little, I sang constantly.

Not because I thought I was going to be famous. Not because I wanted attention.

Because singing felt like breathing; It lit me up. It made me feel whole and alive.

I made up songs while I played. I wrote lyrics in notebooks. I sang to myself quietly on the bus while looking out the window. An Ithaca College music major, who came in my elementary school to work with us each week, recorded a few of my little songs because she thought they were sweet, and worth taking to her class to show how music influences young minds.

I wasn’t performing.

I wasn’t looking for attention.

I was simply existing.

Then someone I considered one of my closest friends told me it was embarrassing that I sang to myself on the bus. She told me it was embarrassing that I wrote poetry. She laughed when I said I thought I was good at singing.

So I stopped.

Not forever.

Just enough.

I stopped singing at church.

I stopped writing songs.

I only sang when I had to in music class.

I became aware of myself in a way I hadn’t been before. Suddenly, there was a version of me that existed through other people’s eyes, and she seemed to need a lot of editing.

Years later, in high school, I decided to try again.

I joined choir. I started taking voice lessons because something in me still wanted it.

I still remember exactly what they said.

I remember standing there while my choir teacher explained that I didn’t really have what it took for a solo in front of the entire class.

I remember my voice teacher saying to tell my mom that she couldn’t give me lessons anymore, because I wasn’t getting any better.

I remember my college mentor telling me my voice was too nasal for musical theater unless I was willing to have surgery to correct my (non-existent) deviated septum.

People sometimes say things like this with the best of intentions. They think they’re helping you adjust your expectations.

What I heard was something else entirely.

I heard that loving something wasn’t enough.

I heard that even if I worked as hard as I possibly could, I would still fall short.

I heard that the version of myself I most wanted to become wasn’t available to me.

So I adapted.

Not by giving up completely.

By becoming quieter.

I kept auditioning, but I stopped talking about how much I wanted it.

I kept creating, but I made sure people saw the practical version of me first.

I became very good at jobs that made sense to other people.

I became very good at helping other people pursue their dreams.

I became very good at making myself useful.

Looking back, I don’t think I lacked confidence.

I think I stopped trusting myself.

There’s a difference.

Confidence says, “I believe I can do this.”

Trust says, “Even if no one else believes I can do this, I know what matters to me.”

Somewhere along the way, I started believing other people’s assessments of me more than my own experience of myself.

And once you do that, it doesn’t stay contained to singing.

It follows you into careers you never apply for because someone else seems more qualified.

Into relationships where you’re always the one reaching because earning love feels more familiar than receiving it.

Into creative projects you keep to yourself until they’re perfect, because showing someone an unfinished dream feels unbearable.

Into a life that looks perfectly reasonable from the outside but feels strangely disconnected from the person you remember being.

The strangest part is that I don’t think any of the people who made those comments intended to shape my life.

But they did.

Or maybe a more honest way to say it is this:

I let them.

Not because there was something wrong with me.

Because I was doing what so many of us do.

I was looking outward for permission to become myself.

I’m beginning to wonder what would have happened if I’d spent all those years looking inward instead.

And I’m beginning to wonder how many of us are still living by rules we learned from people we haven’t spoken to in decades.

Maybe that’s what this space is for.

Not to blame the people who handed us those rules.

But to notice them.

To ask whether they’re still serving us.

And maybe, little by little, to decide which ones we’re finally ready to put down.

Welcome to the party.

What always happens is that I wake up and make coffee.

What sometimes happens is that I’ll stretch a little or do a light workout just to get my body going. I also sometimes make breakfast. Oatmeal with fruit and peanut butter. But sometimes even that feels like too much too soon.

Even writing that paragraph was difficult because I wanted to delete it or rephrase it and minimize the idea that mornings can be hard on me. I can already hear the shame someone might try to inflict on me.

“What is so hard about just getting up and making breakfast?”

Sometimes nothing.

Sometimes everything.

Some days I want to lie in bed all day and worry about everyone I have ever loved and will ever love and how someday they will die, and it might be before I do.

Or whether walking as much as I do, the thing I genuinely think is keeping me alive, is going to ruin my hips and leave me needing surgery I can’t afford with healthcare that is being taken away from me because apparently fuck me for not being able to stay in a job that made me hate myself and want to disappear.

Or the fact that my sweet four-year-old dog, who still acts like a puppy, won’t be here forever.

But I can’t do that.

Because I have a life to live and dag nabbit, I’m going to live it.

I’m going to live it even though every time I leave my apartment there is a chance I’ll ignore the wrong catcaller, cross in front of the wrong distracted driver, or encounter someone on the subway who decides I looked at them the wrong way.

I have spent years, maybe my whole life, trying to fit into the box that society, my peers, my lovers, my friends, my family, the media, and I, myself, have insisted I should fit into.

And I am exhausted.

I am so exhausted by pretending I want to be that version of me instead of admitting that I only ever thought I had to be.

So maybe this is a good time to introduce myself.

Or reintroduce myself, if we’ve known each other for a while.

Hi. I’m Kathryn.

I like things that break the norm. Things that dare to be different. Things that reveal something about the person who made them other than, “I’m just trying to fit in.”

I am, for lack of a better term, a spooky bitch.

I love spooky decor and atmosphere, but I’m not actually that into Halloween parties or generic sexy costumes. Unless we’re talking about a Halloween-themed wedding. In that case, please invite me immediately.

I love finding out what people are passionate about and watching them light up while talking about it. It doesn’t have to be my thing. Seeing someone fully themselves makes me love humanity a little more.

I communicate through music, stories, and comedy. Sometimes good comedy. Sometimes bad comedy. Usually with commitment.

I like helping the people I care about.

Need a funny meme? Tell me what kind and I’ll think of you every time I come across one.

Need dog pictures? I have an endless supply.

Need someone to remind you that you’re a beautiful, valuable human being and list all the reasons I think you’re wonderful?

I am renowned for writing embarrassingly sincere odes to my friends, and I am proud of it

For a long time, I treated all of these things like evidence that I was failing at being desriable person. Not just romantically but also functionally - at work, in shows, in friendships.

Too sensitive.

Too enthusiastic.

Too weird.

Too earnest.

Too much.

I thought if I could just become a little more disciplined, a little less emotional, a little more practical, a little less myself, eventually I would arrive at the version of adulthood everyone else seemed to understand instinctively.

But I am tired.

I am tired of treating the parts of myself that bring me joy like problems to solve.

I am tired of assuming that practicality is morally superior to delight.

I am tired of acting like caring deeply is embarrassing.

What if these aren’t the things I need to overcome?

What if they are the things that make my life worth living?

What if the goal isn’t becoming the person I thought I was supposed to be?

What if the goal is becoming more myself?

I don’t know exactly what that looks like yet.

I suspect that’s what this Substack is going to be about.

I think it’s going to be about finding joy in a world that constantly asks us to earn it. About building lives that fit us instead of squeezing ourselves into lives that don’t. About grief and dogs and comedy and fear and love and whatever other strange little things make us who we are.

Mostly, though, I think it’s going to be about paying attention.

To what lights us up.

To what drains us.

To what we miss when we’re busy trying to become someone else.

Hi. I’m Kathryn.

I’m really glad you’re here.

About a week ago, he posted asking people who have attended his shows while he’s on tour to send him videos of the performances. Now, I am no event photographer, but if you’ve known me for awhile you know I photographed plenty of events while at Disney, including plenty of engagements and even an adoption announcement that incorporated Mickey Mouse, and pride myself on getting great iPhone photos of my doggy clients.

I had been toying with the idea of going to the show already but knew I would probably talk myself out of it because I am trying not to spend as much money and no one had expressed interest in going with me, etc, etc, etc. But I have been trying lately to get back to doing the things that fill my cup even if I have to do them alone, and attending live shows, especially when I connect with the music, is definitely one of those things.

So. I sent him a message.

and he said,

Well, shit.

Which meant I went to the show instead of doing what I probably would have done otherwise: staying home and convincing myself that spending money or energy on an experience was irresponsible.

And, yall, it was exactly what I needed. So lets talk about what I learned from going to the David Wimbish show at the Mercury Lounge by myself with an Agatha Christie book, cracked iPhone, and a dream.

Somewhere along the way, I think I started treating joy like a reward I get after I become successful enough, stable enough, productive enough, caught up enough.

But what is life if not experiences?

If I’m going to spend money on anything, shouldn’t some of it be on things that make me feel deeply alive?

When I was younger, I went to live shows constantly. Music was one of the places I felt most awake. I used to sing all the time. Play piano all the time. I didn’t really question whether it was “worth it.” I just knew it mattered to me. In my darkest moments, when I felt most lost, that is where I could find myself. Every time.

But concern over whether I was living up to other’s expectations of me or whether they thought I was worthy slowly turned me into someone who talks herself out of the things she loves in the name of what she’s supposed to be doing.

Not dramatically. Just gradually.

A classmate saying I can’t sing.

A friend making fun of me for making up songs. under my breath

A teacher telling me I don’t have ‘it’ without any explanaition of what ‘it’ is

The wild part is that one night at a show reminded me how much of myself I’ve been missing. I mean, these pieces have been trying to put themselves together for months now, and especially the last few weeks as I have experienced life without SSRI’s for the first time in 5 years, but boy did my cup get filled.

I’ve been singing again since I got home. Not professionally. Not strategically. Just because I remembered how good it feels to use my voice.

And now I keep thinking maybe creativity isn’t something we “lose.” Maybe it’s a relationship we stop participating in becuase we stop trusting ourselves.

One of the unreleased songs David Wimbish played that night at the show has been looping in my brain ever since (and luckily I have a video of it - see how that worked out?). The chorus talks about the fear that after working hard and sacrificing so much in pursuit of something more, what if you wake up still unfulfilled? And what if that fear is what is holding you back from leaning in with your full ass (that eloquent discription is from me not him and I cannot stress enough how hard the actual lyrics hit).

That hit me hard.

Because I think a lot of us are quietly asking the same question right now:

What exactly are we optimizing for?

More money?

More status?

More proof that we matter?

And if getting there costs us every hobby, every creative instinct, every moment of connection, every spontaneous yes… what exactly are we winning?

What moved me most about his performance wasn’t perfection. It was vulnerability. It felt like someone making art because he genuinely needed to connect with people, needed to share these thoughts and feelings with the world so much that he set them to music.

And I realized that’s the kind of artist I want to be too.

Not someone standing above people performing at them.

Someone participating with them.

I want to make things that help people feel less alone.

I want to help other artists.

I want to be part of creative communities where people support each other because they genuinely believe art matters.

I want to make things because they feel honest and alive and worth sharing, not just because they’re marketable.

And honestly, reaching out to film that show reminded me that participating in art doesn’t always start with confidence.

Sometimes it starts with:

“Hey, I have something small I can offer.”

And then suddenly you’re back inside your own life again.

I love it.

I think hot yoga is like voluntary torture that, if done correctly, results in abs. Or, in my case, ab.

Unfortunately, when I moved to New York City, I discovered that one yoga class cost the same as a monthly pass to my studio in Orlando, and I refuse to support that.

Recently, though, I’ve been getting back into yoga after attending some Yoga & Sound Bath events run by the amazing Samantha Martins. She invites you into your practice in such a supportive and encouraging way that I have never experienced with any other teacher along my yoga journey. Modifications are no longer framed as ‘if you can’t do this then you can do that’ but rather, ‘if this feels better, do this’. It takes the soft shame out of the experience and allows me to focus on my body, feeling safe and supported enough to be comfortable sitting inside my mind and feeling good in my body, something that we are not often allowed or at least encouraged to do much these days.

Everywhere we look, it seems to be:

GO GO GO,

BUY BUY BUY,

MAKE SURE YOU ARE DOING SOMETHING, OR YOU ARE A FAILURE

And it’s been lovely to get to take a break from that. So much so I have started practicing at home again at least once a day. I have a very physical job and sometimes find myself walking over 15 miles a day so it’s been lovely to have a rest and reset routine to start and end my day when my schedule allows.

A thing I forgot about yoga is that sometimes a deep stretch feels really, really good while also being undeniably uncomfortable.

Not “good” in the sense that it’s relaxing. Not “good” like lying in bed under a weighted blanket while your dog rests their head on your legs. I mean good in the sense that your body is being asked to do something difficult, and it knows it and also understands that certain forms of discomfort are just part of the process.

In yoga, we breathe through that discomfort on purpose. We stay in positions that are intense, specifically because we believe staying there will open us up somehow.

And I realized that maybe… that’s always been the point.

A deep stretch feels good because I trust myself and my body enough to tolerate temporary discomfort in service of something I actually want.

More flexibility.

More strength.

More openness.

More range.

Not because pain itself is noble. Not because suffering automatically makes you a better person. But because growth usually requires some amount of sustained discomfort and attention.

I think somewhere along the line, a lot of us started interpreting “listen to your body” as “jump ship the second something feels hard.”

And to be clear, sometimes that *is* the correct move. Sometimes something is not a stretch, it’s a strain. Sometimes your body is telling you ‘no’ in a way that deserves to be listened to immediately and fully. I used to ignore my body’s warning signs all the time, to my detriment.

But I think we’ve simplified discomfort into something inherently and automatically bad.

People say things like:

“If it’s right, it should feel easy.”

“Don’t force it.”

“Go where it feels comfortable.”

And while I understand the spirit of that advice, I think sometimes people end up searching for a position in life that contains absolutely no resistance at all.

No vulnerability.

No uncertainty.

No soreness.

No awkwardness.

No risk of failure.

Which sounds nice in theory, except that’s not really where growth lives.

You cannot become more flexible by only moving your body in the ways it already comfortably moves.

You cannot become stronger by only lifting what is easy to carry.

You cannot become a better artist, partner, friend, communicator, performer, or human by only existing inside of situations where you already know you’ll succeed.

The goal in yoga is not to force yourself into pain. If you push too hard, you hurt yourself. But if you never challenge your edge at all nothing changes.

And I also think sometimes we get so focused on achieving the pose that we completely lose sight of the stretch itself.

You see this in yoga all the time. Someone becomes determined to force themselves into the most advanced version of a pose because they want to *say* they can do it. Meanwhile, their body is compensating evvvvverywhere else. They can’t breathe, they lose their balance, they focus on perfection instead of progression, and they’re skipping over the actual strength and mobility the pose was supposed to help them build in the first place.

And honestly I think we do this constantly in the rest of our lives too.

We become obsessed with arriving.

Finishing.

Achieving.

Being “good enough” already.

I’ve seen friends do this with projects constantly. They want it to be finished, already be great, already exist in its final form so badly that sitting down to actually work on it starts to feel heavy instead of exciting. The process becomes proof that they’re *not there yet* instead of the thing that is actively getting them there.

I do it with my shows too. I want them to be fully formed and sharp and emotionally resonant and impressive *now*, which means sometimes I approach working on them with anxiety instead of curiosity. As if the rehearsing and experimenting and failing are obstacles between me and the real thing, instead of literally being the realization of the real thing.

But the stretch *is* the point.

The wobbling is the point.

The strengthening is the point.

The awkward repetitions are the point.

You do not wake up one day magically capable of a difficult pose because you wanted it badly enough. You build the smaller muscles first. You practice balance. You improve your mobility. You fall out of it fifty times. Your body learns trust and control gradually.

And I think a lot of us skip over that part because admitting we cannot do something yet feels unbearable.

So, instead, we try to force ourselves directly into the final shape.

Which, usually, leaves us frustrated, disconnected, or hurt. Which are key primers to giving up before you’ve even really started.

There’s a huge difference between challenging yourself toward growth and trying to bypass the process entirely because you’re ashamed of being a beginner.

I think that’s also why the distinction between a stretch and a strain matters so much.

A stretch asks something of you but keeps you connected to yourself.

A strain disconnects you from yourself completely.

And honestly, I think a huge portion of adulthood is just trying to learn the difference.

Because there are discomforts that make us smaller:

self abandonment, chronic anxiety, walking on eggshells, forcing ourselves into shapes that were never meant for us.

These are paths I have traveled time and time again on my journey and stayed on for longer than I should have or wish that I had.

But there are also discomforts that make us bigger:

trying again, being vulnerable, making art before you feel ready, asking directly for what you want, showing up consistently, letting yourself be seen, staying present long enough to build something meaningful.

Those things are uncomfortable too. And, even though they sound and feel scarier than the other paths, from personal experience I can say that when you find your way onto them they lead to some of the most liberating, exciting, energizing shit there is to exeperience in this lifetime.

But they feel different.

A deep stretch in yoga only works if I stay connected to my breath. The second I panic and clench and try to force my body somewhere it’s not ready to go, everything locks up.

Which feels important somehow.

Because maybe growth was never supposed to feel effortless. Maybe it’s supposed to feel intentional.

Maybe the question isn’t:

“Does this feel easy?”

Maybe the question is:

“Does this feel like a stretch I want to grow into?”

And maybe the real skill is learning how to stay with ourselves and trust the process long enough to find out.

Especially if she doesn’t know them.
Especially if they don’t come with a dog, which in her mind is the only reasonable explanation for why someone would exist.

Her default setting is:
MUST LET EVERYONE KNOW I HAVE A FEELING

She barks and cowers and lets everyone know that something has changed, and she does not know how to feel about it.

My go-to greeting to people meeting her for the first time in this arena is, “She’s harmless, just loud,” which is true. I always joke that she is basically just an alarm system, not a guard dog.

Basically all she does if someone arrives and she doesn’t understand why is scream at the top of her lungs:

MOM, SOMEONE IS HERE! MOM! MOM! MOM! ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME? A PERSON IS HERE! MOM!

The problem is that she does not speak English, so we get treated to the nonstop song of her people.

For a long time, I didn’t really know what to do with that.

Anything we tried didn’t seem to help. When we tried having people give her cheese treats, they would either hand her an entire slice without breaking it apart like I said to, or she’d figure out the system and bark, then stop to get a treat.

It’s also very hard to ask your friends to come over and socialize when your dog is going to scream at them the whole time. Makes playing Overcooked All You Can Eat even more chaotic.

So I started using “go to bed.”

She knows what it means.
She knows where her bed is.
So instead of staying fixated on the ‘intruder’, escalating, I give her something else to do.

Go to bed.

Not as punishment.
More like… a reset.

A break from the one thought her brain is stuck on.

MUST TELL MOM

And sometimes it works.

She’ll go, land there for a second, and you can almost feel the shift.
Like, okay, we’re doing something different now.

Other times, she pops right back up.
Back to the intruder.
Back to the feeling.
Back to: I alone must handle this.

But even when it doesn’t “work,” I think it does something.

It creates a moment where another option exists.

Watching her in that loop feels… familiar.

That locked-in, hyper-focused energy.
That sense that something needs to be addressed immediately.
That if you just stay alert enough, active enough, on enough, you can manage the discomfort.

I do that all the time.

Just less loudly.

I think a lot of us do.

We don’t bark at the door.
But we will absolutely grab my phone the second we feel even a flicker of restlessness.

Or find a task.
Or start mentally reorganizing our life.

Anything to avoid sitting in the feeling of: “something is off, and I don’t like it”

“Go to bed” isn’t really about the bed.

It’s just a place she already knows how to go.

A small, familiar action that interrupts the spiral long enough for her nervous system to maybe catch up.

I think we all have versions of that.

Or we could.

Not a perfect fix.
Not a personality overhaul.
Just a cue.

Something that gently says:

hey
you don’t have to stay in that loop right now

For Luna, sometimes that turns into actual rest.

Sometimes her body softens.
She stops tracking every movement.
She’s still aware, but she’s not trying to control the room anymore.

She’s just… there.

For me, I’m still figuring out what my version of “go to bed” even is.

Because left to my own devices, I don’t really give myself that break.

I stay at the metaphorical door.

Refreshing, checking, reacting, looking for the next thing to fix or do or respond to.

MUST LET EVERYONE KNOW I HAVE A FEELING
just… internally

But I’m starting to notice the moments where another option exists.

Where I could step away from the loop, even briefly.

Not solve it.
Not optimize it.
Just… interrupt it.

I’m not very consistent with it.

Luna isn’t either.

But every once in a while, she actually settles.

And every time she does, it feels like a small reminder that:

the feeling can pass
without you doing anything about it

I’m still anxiously at the door more often than not.

But I’m learning where the bed is.

And then he died.

And nobody thought to tell me.

But let me back up.

I fell for Jeff over AOL Instant Messenger. We spent hours talking about everything and nothing after long afternoons together doing stage crew. He was tall, funny, and gave the kind of hugs that made you feel steadier afterward.

When I finally told him I liked him over IM, I immediately set an away message, slammed my laptop shut, and walked away in terror. When I came back, there were message after message from him saying he felt the same way.

I don’t remember what movie we saw on our first date, but I remember everything after it.

We walked around the Pittsburgh Waterfront holding hands. We sat on a bench and talked about the kinds of things teenagers think are urgent and profound. When we kissed for the first time, his lips hit my teeth. He laughed. Not cruelly. Not even awkwardly. Just in a way that said, It’s okay. I get you.

Jeff was a great boyfriend. He never pressured me to be more physical than I was ready for. He happily hung around with my friends and me, despite the fact that we were not exactly the most glamorous high schoolers. I was first chair of the chess club, and most of my friends were members too.

My mom loved him.

So naturally, I messed it up.

I was young, unsure of myself, and got distracted by another boy who lived closer and was around more often. When I broke up with Jeff for him, Jeff didn’t yell or try to punish me. Instead, he texted the new boyfriend to say he better treat me right.

That was Jeff

Eventually we became friends again. I would go out to the parking lot of my all-girls Catholic high school, where he’d be waiting in his red Mustang to pick up his new girlfriend from the neighboring boys’ school. Other girls thought I was awful for still saying hello to him.

We didn’t care.

Some nights we talked on the phone for hours. He would hang up to call his girlfriend and say goodnight, then call me right back and pick up where we left off. We joked that someday we’d end up together after all. Leave everything behind, move to the country, have ten or twenty kids.

It was ridiculous.

It was also nice

When I took a semester off from college to do the Disney College Program, I decided not to meet up with him before I left. My boyfriend at the time, the same one I had left Jeff for years earlier, was uncomfortable with it, and I didn’t want to upset anyone.

I’ll see you when I get back, I said.

A few months after I left, Jeff and I were still talking regularly. But he sounded worn down. He was struggling with some life business. He told me he had strep throat and mono at the same time and couldn’t afford the medication he needed.

He didn’t know what he was going to do.

I remember worrying. I remember telling him not to do anything drastic until I got home and that we’d figure it out together.

The next week I called him.

No answer.

I texted.

Nothing.

It wasn’t unusual for him to disappear for a little while, so I told myself I’d hear from him eventually.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I found out during a shift at Disney’s Hollywood Studios, where I was stationed near the Cars display, spending six hours in the Florida heat making sure tourists didn’t climb on things.

On a fifteen-minute break, I used my LG Chocolate, my first phone that could access the internet, to check Facebook.

That’s when I realized it was the day of Jeff’s funeral.

The posts were already pouring in. RIP. We miss you. Gone too soon.

I called my mom, who confirmed it through a friend of a friend back home.

Then I put my phone away, walked back out to the Cars set, told my coworker what had happened, and finished my shift.

Because shock is strange like that.

I finished my shift, then wandered around in a fog until a friend came to pick me up. I couldn’t imagine getting on the bus back to the apartments with everyone else.

When I got home, I sat down on the floor outside my bedroom.

And I think part of me never really got up.

A strange thing happens when someone dies before they were supposed to.

I had experienced grief before. My grandmother had died a few years earlier, and Jeff had been one of the people who helped me through it. He picked me up from the hospital when I needed a ride home and a distraction from what was coming.

But who do you turn to when the person you turn to is gone?

And who do you talk to when no one even knew they were your person enough to tell you they had died?

Since Jeff’s death, I’ve tried to live fully. If not for me, then for him. Anyone who knew him would tell you he was full of love, light, and adventure. And all of that was extinguished far too soon.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about what made me into who I am. Why does closeness, romantic or platonic, sometimes feel so unsafe to me? Why does intimacy so quickly become anxiety?

I think it has a lot to do with this.

I never really let myself process what it meant that someone so important to me died, and I had to find out on social media. I never wanted to examine what it did to me that our connection was real and meaningful, yet apparently invisible to everyone around us.

It planted questions that still echo.

Were my experiences real?

Can I trust my own understanding of what people mean to me?

If someone disappears, is it because they chose to leave, or because they’re gone?

Living with that subtext is exhausting.

But I’m trying to understand it now. I’m trying to name what happened, so maybe it stops running the show from the shadows.

I love you, Jeff.

And I will miss you forever

.

I want her to know that the answer to the question she asks herself while staring at her crying reflection in the mirror is simple:

You are enough.

You are beautiful.

You are strong.

You are interesting, and funny, and complex.

There are people out there who will light up when they see you and want to hear what you have to say, instead of trying to make you believe your opinions don’t matter.

He is just not one of those people.

And that is ok.

It has taken me quite a long time to get back to a place where I can say that I believe my feelings matter. My dreams matter. My boundaries matter.

And so do yours

.