For years, “dramatic” was one of the quickest ways I dismissed myself. I used it when I cried over something that mattered to me, when anxiety made a small…
For a long time, I confused being needed with being loved. I answered messages when I was exhausted, agreed to plans I dreaded, and made myself available…
For a long time, I thought losing my voice would feel dramatic. I imagined a clean break, some unmistakable moment when fear would arrive and take everything…
For a long time, I thought my bisexuality would become easier to explain once I had a boyfriend. I imagined that being in a committed relationship would settle…
For a long time, I thought journaling meant documenting my day in neat paragraphs: what I ate, who I texted, what went wrong, and whether I had been productive…
Grief rarely arrives as a single feeling. It can be sorrow, disbelief, numbness, irritation, relief, guilt, longing, or a body that feels exhausted by carrying…
For months, I told myself it was harmless. I followed the account because its posts were clever, aesthetically pleasing, and just personal enough to feel…
Before I lived with a rabbit, I thought boundaries were mostly verbal. They were sentences I could rehearse, explain, and defend: “I need space,” “Please don’t…
The songs I listen to when depression tries to win are rarely the brightest or most polished tracks in my library. They are the ones that make space for…
I did not discover feminism in a classroom or through a perfectly written manifesto. I found it in television bedrooms, pop songs, magazine interviews, movie…