A year ago, I was admitted to UCLA hospital for a mysterious ailment that had been plaguing me since October 2024. My parents rushed home from their anniversary dinner and my mom sat by my hospital bed as we rang in the new year. As the clock struck midnight, I received a letter, from me, from March 6, 2020. It read as such:

Sup biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitch

What is poppinnnnn???? Wow you still alive? Disappointed but not surprised. Jk.

Wow I really hope you’re laughing at this- knowing how FUCKED I was at this point in my life, and knowing it gets better. It does right? Please tell me it does. If you are still miserable at this point- GIRL-JUST KILL YOURSELF ALREADY. Jesus Christ. I cannot imagine putting up with this shit for another 5 years. What? Are you like 200 pounds now? Still friendless and alone? Still living in the past or the future but never the present? Still without any hobbies or skills or interests or goals?

Ok sorry. I’m being harsh. I kind of don’t even want to write this because it is honestly horrifying how similar all the things I have to say are to the things I’ve said in similar letters written at age 12. For both our sakes I just hope you’ve figured your shit out more or less. Like I get that life is messy and never stops being so, but I hope you’re not a slave to the horrible cycle that has utterly consumed the past 6 years of my existance.

Ok well…. damn idk. Hope this made you giggle? Or maybe it made you cry. Probably made you cringe.

Oh for a nice lil tbt you are currently sitting in bldg. 44, suite 2250. It is 9:00pm and it is just you and Peter in the office. You are wearing AF1s, that orange polka dotted dress that I hope is long gone, and a greenish waffled sweater. You feel very fat and ugly today, but what is new. I hope you don’t feel ugly and fat where you are. I hope you feel beautiful and strong and content. God I hope so, cuz if not….. good luck charlie.

Well it certainly did make me giggle because for all intents and purposes, I was doing a lot better than I was in March of 2020, but I also was emaciated, scared, and hooked up to many beeping objects in the UCLA emergency room.

There’s a Hayley Williams lyric that goes:

Don’t nobody tell me
That God don’t have a sense of humor
‘Cause now that I want to live
Well, everybody around me is dyin’

And that really summarizes my 2025. The year began in the hospital, then the Palisades burned down, and that seemed to set the tone for much of the current events and general disposition of the population. And yet, it has been the best year of my adult life. I am strong and beautiful and content. I have hobbies and interests and goals. I am certainly not a renaissance woman, my aspirations are not inspirational, or I guess they are to anyone who just wants to feel okay. I am not motivated by legacy or achievement, at least not in the #GirlBoss way. And I also do not want to put all my energy into “protecting my peace” or whatever phrase of commodified self care you choose. I think “community” is getting the same attention that “mindfulness” or ~self-actualization~ did a few years ago. It’s the current signal to being a good and selfless person. But these things embed themselves in the culture because they are, at their core, a reaction to a need and are not without merit or purpose. I am just so skilled at being utterly predictable and unoriginal but acknowledging that fact as to perhaps evade any judgement.

I just think we could all benefit from getting out of ourselves. I used to be pretty proud of how “self aware” I am. And trust me, many people could use some of that too, but I also think it is a place that a lot of people settle and think that being able to psycho analyze oneself is more powerful or noteworthy than it actually is. You can become a very difficult person to know, love, care for, or befriend when you spend more time in your own head than out in the world with others. And I find, both from observing others and myself, that it can be quite addictive being a difficult person. But when you are sitting on the floor, dreading the birthday party or brunch or play of an acquaintance that you agreed to attend a month ago, it has become quite easy to say “I am burnt out and I need to take care of myself and not go.” It is easier to say “I will go because I am not going to be a piece of shit again.” And it is easiest still to say “I will not go because I am a piece of shit and this person should once and for all give up on me.” But lately, I’ve been doing a lot more of “I am going to go because I said I would. ” And nothing more. The task may be fulfilling. It may be draining. But I don’t try and ruminate on all the possible outcomes, and what they say about my character. And of course, there were times when this felt hopeless. It is impossible to say how much of how I am is because my meds are right, because the therapy has caught up, because my frontal lobe has developed, or because I am just stronger. I don’t know if I am more functional because my mental health has improved, or if I am more functional despite my mental health. I am not sure if there is even a difference.

When I first started this blog, I was discouraged by how despondent and redundant my posts sounded. Now, I am self conscious that I am too stable to be interesting. In her song “Bad for Business,” Sabrina Carpenter asks,

If I’m just writin’ happy songs

Will anybody sing along?

And of course, the irony is that she found her breakout stardom when she embraced her happy, silly, horny, pop sound. And of course, she does still offer songs across the emotional scale. So basically, I am just like Sabrina Carpenter, and this is the year of my Espresso.