Hot-fudge sundaes & thick-crust pizzas.

Adjectives mean more than most people know. They aren’t just compliments—they're confirmations. They feel like tiny windows where someone sees beyond the surface, past the shell of the hair, the clothes, and the curated expressions, and into the marrow of who we are. But those words rarely come for some. Not the deep ones. Not the ones that touch the soul rather than skim the skin. The ones that capture one's essence. The way someone anchors a room without trying. The kindness in their timing. The magic of how their laughter lands in your chest. Those are the things that truly glow. So when someone tells me I’m beautiful, I cry. Because it feels like being seen for real, and that is rare.​

Maybe we need to hear it more often. Or maybe we need to start saying it to ourselves. People toss around the phrases “beauty comes from within” or “confidence is an inside job,” but let’s be honest—reassurance matters. Words of affirmation have become one of my love languages, one I didn’t speak fluently until recently. I used to chase connection in all the wrong ways—relationships that were more about being wanted than being loved. Good morning texts that fueled the ego, not the heart. People whose feelings ran deeper than mine, and I reveled in that imbalance. The thrill of being desired. The high of attention. The chaos of late nights and blurry mornings.

That chaos. That adrenaline. The messy lust that made for better stories than outcomes. The rollercoaster of drinking and dopamine. I realize now, in sobriety, that what I truly needed wasn't another night out—it was tending to the pieces of myself I had ignored for so long. Without substances, the silence grows louder. There’s no more numbing, no more forgetting. Just me and my feelings. And so the pendulum swings. Where I once lost count of Moscow mules and dirty martinis, I now indulge in hot fudge sundaes and thick-crust pizzas. 

Binge-watching, binge-eating, binge-everything. A search for stimulation, for texture, for variety. If it's not bouncing from classy speakeasies to skeezy dives, it's toggling between artsy cinema and trashy TV. It’s not about the consumption. It’s about the feeling. The novelty. The validation. The stories to be told.

Maybe that’s what I’ve been chasing all along—in nightlife, in substances, in food. A story. A sensation. A mirror to show me I exist and my existence matters. But the truth is, I’ve always existed. I've always mattered. I just forgot to look inward for proof.

And now, I’m learning again. I’m peeling back the layers, letting my soul's reflection speak. Even when it stings, it also soothes. This—this honesty, this depth, this vulnerability—is beautiful. And so am I.