This was shortly after The Craziest Incident of My Childhood and Possibly My Whole Life — the one that flipped our universe on its head and made every room in that house feel like a held breath. My grandmother’s grief had curdled into something volatile, something that swung between silence and eruption with no warning, and I was too small and too soft to survive it in the open. So I disappeared.

I crawled into the dark, pulled the door shut behind me, and sat with a crayon in my hand. Eyes closed. And I built a world. Not this one — a better one, drawn from nothing, held together by sheer will and Crayola. I hadn’t read Narnia yet; boy, was I in for a treat.

My grandmother called people. She called the police. They found me. They scolded me — this five-year-old sitting in the dark with a crayon — for worrying her.

I didn’t say a word.

There was a piece of hope I held in my tiny chest that day, something I couldn’t have named at the time but which I understand now with the clarity of someone who has spent decades circling back to the same truth: I was going to draw my way out of this. Not out of the closet — out of the story I’d been born into. The one where I was the problem. The one where my feelings were an inconvenience. The one where love came with conditions I could never quite meet.

Come to think of it now, I think that was me knowing — before I had language for it — that this story would be written. Not just written. Shared. That the testimony of a girl in a closet was worth more than the silence she was trained to keep.

But of course, I carried immense shame — misplaced shame that wrapped itself around everything I touched for decades. Shame is a shapeshifter. It doesn’t announce itself as shame; it shows up as the conviction that you are too much and not enough in the same breath.

Growing up, I filled an insane number of diaries and journals — the kind of compulsive documentation that, in retrospect, was my nervous system trying to create a witness where none existed. Close friends in school always wanted to peek inside. But those pages held too much pain, and pain without context is just spectacle. So I kept them locked.

And then, in fits of terror that the truth might find its way out, I burned them. I destroyed my own records. I negotiated with the past — traded my history for the illusion of a clean slate. And I spent a lot of my life trying to fit in. I think that’s where the gaps in my memory became semi-permanent. Not because time erased them. Because I did.

Freud would call this Nachträglichkeit — deferred action, the way trauma only becomes traumatic in retrospect, when the mind finally has the architecture to understand what happened. I didn’t have that architecture yet. I just had a match and a diary and the desperate hope that if I destroyed the evidence, maybe it never happened at all.

Nobody taught me how to feel my own feelings. I had to learn that from scratch — am still learning it, if I’m honest, in a therapist’s office at thirty, reverse-engineering the emotional education I should have gotten at three.

What I did learn, early and well, was how to think. I could analyze, dissect, take apart any situation and lay out its components like a mechanic with an engine block. I could read people the way some people read sheet music — every micro-expression, every shift in tone, every unspoken expectation mapped and catalogued before they’d finished their sentence. The why of everything. Because understanding why someone was about to hurt me was the only currency I had. Anticipation was survival.

But expressing what I felt? That got me hit. Or dismissed. Or told I was being dramatic, being difficult, being too much. So I learned to walk on eggshells — which, if you’ve never done it, is not a metaphor for carefulness. It’s a metaphor for making yourself so small that you stop existing as a person and become a function: the peacekeeper, the fixer, the one who absorbs impact so the room stays quiet.

I buried everything. Deep. In the kind of place you bury things when you’re not sure you want to find them again.

I’ll have to tell you about this lovely old couple who took a kid from the projects of Jersey City and spoiled her with books on Christmas at some point.

As recently as my last divorce, I was still doing it — still analyzing instead of feeling, still giving the benefit of the doubt to people who hadn’t earned it, still being generous about my own suffering as though generosity toward those who hurt you is a virtue and not a cage.

It took me a while to stop. To put down the scalpel, stop performing the autopsy, and just sit with the body.

And when I did — when I finally sat still long enough to ask the simplest, most terrifying question a person can ask themselves: What do I actually feel? — here is what I found:

Dismissed. Invalidated. Punished. Robbed. Exhausted. Depleted. Betrayed. Abused.

Eight words.

And then I asked the question that broke everything open: When did I first feel this way?

And it all rushed back. Every closet I’ve ever hidden in.

And I realized those eight words? They held thirty years of evidence behind each one.

Because here is what I need you to understand before we go any further: I hid in my closet during the worst fights of my last marriage.

I am a woman with a career and a dog and a Substack and opinions, and when my nervous system hit a wall it couldn’t climb, it reached for the same solution it found at five. I folded myself into the dark and waited for the danger to pass. Not because I chose it — because trauma doesn’t ask permission. It moves through the body like water through a crack in the foundation. Van der Kolk was right: the body keeps the score. But he left out the part where it keeps playing the same song on repeat, across decades, across marriages, across every version of yourself you’ve tried to become.

I still dream about that closet. The original one. And I think it holds more than I’ve been willing to admit: not just the memory of a frightened girl, but the entire architecture of how I’ve moved through the world — hiding who I am, dimming the fire I come from, burying the past. And the devastating thing I’ve come to understand is that I wasn’t doing it for me. I was doing it to protect the people who harmed me.

That ends here.

I know what it feels like to be a child who deserved unconditional love and got conditions instead. I know what it feels like to be an adult who still flinches at tenderness, who still scans every room for the exit, who still mistakes hyper-vigilance for intuition.

And I have met enough people like me now — forged from fire, rebuilt from rubble — to know that I am not alone. That there is an entire nation of us, walking around with closets in our chests, drawing worlds in the dark.

This book is for us. The scared children and the grown-ups who still reach for the shadows at the first sign of love.

I’m done hiding. And I brought a crayon.

Here’s the thing about building an entire identity around solo travel: eventually, someone shows up and ruins it.

I brought a friend to Puerto Rico. Oneisha Lee, aka. @shapeyourbliss— and if you’re expecting me to apologize for breaking brand, you can stop reading now. This one needed a witness.

But first — I owe you an explanation for the silence. I took a break. Not a cute, curated “I’m on a journey” break. I realized I had a codependent relationship with writing. The pen was my morphine, and trauma therapy doesn’t let you keep your favorite crutches. So I put it down to see who I was without the hit.

Turns out: peaceful. Weird, right? I had to sit with the terrifying possibility that a happy writer might still be a good one.

Anyway. Puerto Rico.

There is a safety in solitude. I’ve built a life on it, and I’m good at it — the endless hobbies, the self-entertainment, the ability to eat alone at a bar in a foreign country and feel like the most interesting person in the room.

But there is something else entirely about the Art of Being Safely Held and Witnessed.

I can’t count how many times I’ve written about loving a person’s idiosyncrasies. Oneisha has plenty, but my favorite is that she chases sunsets. Not photographs them. Chases them. She will reroute an entire evening for the light.

She reminds me of the color blue, and not the sad kind. The sky kind. The medium her sunsets get painted across. The ocean kind, with depths you feel all at once before you can name any of them.

Sharing a bed with someone for a week does something to your defenses. There were flashes of vulnerability I wasn’t planning on. I started sharing bits of my mind, the chapters I don’t usually read aloud, and Oneisha kept unraveling like she was waiting for the next page.

After spending over a year married to someone who made me feel like my emotions were either fundamentally flawed, deeply inconvenient, or amazing — nothing in between, ever — I had braced myself into a smaller shape since 2023. Shrunk the wingspan. Kept the interesting parts filed away where they couldn’t be used against me.

I held my breath, waiting for Oneisha’s judgment.

She just wanted more.

She wrote in her journal that night — about how resilient I was, how fascinating my mind was, how inspired she felt. I know this because she told me, unprompted, like it was obvious.

Reader, I think that took more out of me than any solo trip ever has. Being witnessed is exhausting in a way that loneliness never is.

On one of our walks, she said: “You had every reason to give up. And you just… refused.”

And I found myself laughing. “Yeah, well. I just love life too much to give up on it. This feeling, right here.”

I guess this was supposed to be a love letter to Puerto Rico, but it became one for Oneisha Lee instead. The island will forgive me. It’s generous like that.

One thing I will say: there is a cluster of bars, recommended by a handsome devil running the dumpling stand near our hotel, and I won’t name them here because I want them to stay local as long as possible. But friends — when I tell you it was the most alive block party I have ever walked into, I mean it. Speakers wired to the outside of houses. People dancing around cars that were driving straight through, neither party fazed. The kind of night that doesn’t need a plan because the street is the plan.

I suspect Oneisha and I will travel together again. The solo brand will survive.

There is a sentence I wrote weeks ago that won’t stop circling: “Freedom is available, yet you still bargain with the cage.”

Oneisha left before me, and I spent a day alone with my own thoughts. Exhausted, walking through Old San Juan in heat that felt personal, I nearly collapsed and decided — with the dignity of a woman nursing a mild hangover — to lay on a park bench, read, and sleep.

It reminded me of the days I was homeless, and I sat with that for a minute.

A family of four walked by. The mom leaned down to her kids — a girl and boy who looked like twins — pointed at me, and said in English: “Yes, she’s so cool, isn’t she? With her bracelets, and all of her tattoos, and wow — her hair too!”

The little girl said, “She’s so cool. I want to be like her.”

I think that’s about all I can wish for in this lifetime.

I got back to Austin safely. One of my childhood friends just moved here, and we’re sitting in a bar filled with books, daring each other to be creative, and I’m holding back words so I don’t tell you every beautiful thing that’s happened in the past two weeks, every goal already checked off the list.

In these dark times — what more could I wish for?

Thank you,

Suki

Before I get into Cartagena, a quick note on my Substack—because I have this habit (personally and professionally) of trying to over-explain myself (the remnants of being a neurodivergent traumatized by society). I’m deeply curious, and I love learning about a wide array of topics, which sometimes makes “staying organized” hard. But if there’s one thing life has taught me, it’s that nothing ever goes according to plan—and maybe that’s not a flaw. Maybe that’s the point.

Right now, there are three parallel workstreams moving at once:

One: My memoir. The book I keep saying I’m writing—because I am. It’s the beast in the making, slowly coming together as memories return, sharpen, and rearrange themselves into meaning. Some days, revisiting the past is the only way I can understand the present—or make sense of the future.

Two: the messy middle—what I’ve been calling my “best journals,” The Four C’s. A wild chapter from 2020 (and yes, it was a wild year for everyone), but for me, it marks a very specific middle: the part of the story where everything cracked open.

If you’re new here, feel free to start with my “read_me” post to understand more about that.

Three: my favorite work-stream right now: the one that lives in the present and points toward the future: Bourdainism. Inspired by Anthony Bourdain, obviously. It’s where I am now: traveling, falling wildly in love with myself, the world, and rewriting everything I thought I knew about life.

With that said—this is another Bourdainism post, with a little memoir woven in.

On the plane ride, I published a raw version of this note. I’m keeping it intact here, the way I did on Instagram, because I felt compelled to share it exactly as it came:

“Traveling the world has been my dream for as long as I can remember. I recalled here, not long ago drawing myself in a cape as a child, in my ‘Suki Saves the Day!’ comic—my child consciousness wanting to save others and rewrite my environment as my first negotiation with life, in a largely traumatic upbringing amidst chaos.

However, like many who hadn’t yet faced their shadows and healed; like many who were yet to bring their whole soul to themselves, I served this idea… no; the fantasy and illusion that I would build the family I never had, the family that got to travel, and I did everything I could to continuously abandon myself and repeat a painful pattern: giving all of me to a marriage or a partnership to complete me, to accomplish my dream, which I only thought was possible as a unit.

I didn’t need this enablement. Throughout my World Tour, I found bits and pieces of myself I’d taken and given to others finding their way back into the gaps of my soul; completing me.

It’s allowed me to love more deeply, be more authentic, and individuate. My hope with this newfound confidence is that seeds are being planted for others that perhaps, I may never see bloom—but I still hope to be shifting progress for all and making it just slightly easier for the next person to grow and be a bit braver as well.

I don’t think this World Tour will ever end: there are simply too many corners of the world that I’ve yet to see. Each country, and its peoples’ unexpected kindness softens me, and makes me infinitely more aware of the work to be done. But I’m grateful: to God, the Universe, and the brave heart that I’ve been given.

I’ve become the hero I dreamed of all along.

I am in Cartagena, and I am blessed and infinitely grateful. Heart open, mind clear, I look forward for my time here to come.”

And so—there we are.

In Cartagena, I stayed at Hotel Capellán, genuinely one of the most beautiful hotels I’ve ever seen. I kept to myself most of the time, but I met a couple (pictured here) that I’ll carry with me. They have an adopted Korean son, and we ended up watching the Super Bowl together—of all things.

Ah, the Super Bowl.

Bad Bunny’s performance hit me harder than I expected. As a former illegal immigrant—and now a very concerned American citizen, honestly contemplating whether I’ll expatriate sooner than later (certainly sooner than retirement)—I can’t describe how much it warmed my heart. Not just his performance, but watching the whole bar erupt, strangers turning into a little temporary family for a few minutes. And walking out together once it ended. Love is truly the answer after all, and we must all stay united together.

To be fair, though… that might’ve been one of the most boring Super Bowls I’ve ever seen in my life.

Cartagena is a city with music on every corner. Families traveling together. People taking care of each other. And it made me think about something I haven’t broken much silence about: my second marriage.

We had more logistically in common—closer circles, the same high school, overlapping worlds. But the marriage itself was short. And anyone who’s been through divorce (or a true rupture) knows: there’s a strange amount of time for reflection afterward.

At first, the ego is loud. We point fingers. We narrate our pain like it’s courtroom testimony.

But if you’re lucky—and if you’re willing—you eventually practice metacognition. You get curious about your own mind. You notice the brain’s tricks. You remember you are the narrator of your thoughts… and that thoughts pass by. They are temporary. They are not always truth. And as masters of our own lives, we have to take responsibility for the story we keep repeating.

This is a long-winded way of introducing what I’ve learned about myself—my role, and why this marriage failed.

I believe we were fundamentally incompatible in what we needed and what we could give. But I also believe a major part of my responsibility was choosing someone who valued family above everything—and in Colombia, as admirable as that is, it’s not just a value. It’s cultural DNA. It’s stitched into the identity.

And as you may know… I didn’t grow up that way.

I wanted—so badly—to be chosen first. To be someone’s priority in the way I never was as a child. And I chose someone who was not built to meet that need. I lived a life trying to be “good”, and what’s more noble than being family-oriented?

It cost more heartbreak than necessary. And I believe it could’ve been avoided altogether.

Going forward, I’m making decisions based on one thing: my gut. What feels clean. What feels true. What feels good for me—and nothing else. I’ve spent too much of my life bending and folding, adapting to what I thought was “right,” even when it wasn’t right for me.

Right now, I’m enjoying my own company. I’m not interested in dating. I’m not interested in building a family right now. And I believe that if love is meant for me again, it will be with my best friend—someone capable of meeting me where I am, seeing who I am, and not forcing a future that only hurts.

After Cartagena, I came to Coralina Island. I have a feeling this will become a pattern—one island, one quiet reset, one chapter at a time. Pierre, the owner of the hotel, kindly let me extend two extra nights. I told him the truth: this is how I travel. I book the bookends—the flight there and the flight back—and then I let life fill in the middle. I talk to locals. I follow intuition.

I think of myself very close to a feral creature in this way, and I certainly attracted all the animals during my stay: chickens, cats, dogs, and even some dangerous ones, but I was ultimately protected by the dogs on the island.

Ah, and while I was on the island, something unexpected happened.

My ex-husband and I were speaking (more like arguing) about logistics, and an unexpected wave of kindness came my way. He took full accountability. He apologized.

They say you don’t need closure to move on—but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t matter. It was nice, even briefly, to be on good terms. To be seen. Heard. Understood. After years of tension and conflict, it unlocked something in me that’s hard to put into words.

It set me free.

My ex is nothing if not a determined, persistent man.

And I have this to say to you, Mr. Cerezo: What’s meant for us, surely cannot miss us. Live every bit of your life to the fullest, as the 5-year old you would be proud of. Keep growing and pushing the limits the world has tried to impose on you. Hold your loved ones close. Be grateful; be happy. I will always love you. But I am not the same person you were married to.

Tonight, I travel back to Cartagena. I’ll get a tattoo—one I think will represent this chapter of my life. And then I look forward to integrating all of this when I’m back home.

Yours always,

Suki

In time, I suspect I’ll be better at it. Like any skill, it probably just takes enough tries.

I’ve been taking some time to pinpoint exactly why El Salvador has been my favorite country I’ve visited so far.

I keep returning to one specific moment.

I was overwhelmed, stuck on something I was trying to learn, unable to tear myself away from it. Frustrated with myself for still being on European time. My body felt wrong. My mind was sprinting ahead of itself.

Then, almost hypnotically, I remembered my therapy.

I took my foot off the gas pedal.

Closed my computer.

Pulled myself out of the chair.

Walked to the ocean.

At first, I just wanted to dip my feet in. Then I remembered something.

When I first arrived in the U.S., there were a few months, maybe weeks, where it was just my dad and me against the world. Impoverished, struggling, but facing life together anyway. I remember being at the beach one of those days. My dad can’t swim well, and neither can I. So we just held onto each other through the waves. We were playing.

I think all of us need more of that.

I hate the haunted, exhausted look I see on my friends’ faces lately.

Before I knew it, I was in the water, floating. I went to my next meeting dripping wet and absolutely loving it.

There was a version of me before that moment, and a version of me after.

Sometimes I wish I could go back in time, maybe around the moment Japan invaded Korea, and love my war torn ancestors the way they should have been loved. But I do believe we are a collective consciousness. And I believe deeply in balance.

Without childhoods and lineages like mine, I don’t think there would be very many adventurers. Or seekers. I don’t think people would understand the value of uniting and healing.

And I don’t think there would be nearly enough stories to tell. Or words to write.

El Salvador welcomed me with open arms, with a warmth it didn’t owe me. People who didn’t have to be so kind to an American like me, but were anyway.

I gave the local Japanese spot in San Salvador a few giggles as I regularly dined there, unofficially certifying them as authentic, being the only East Asian person around for miles.

Near Tamanique, in Surf City, I met Cece, an older version of me. A true Golden Retriever uniting the beach. Her Black Cat husband was usually asleep. She keeps tagging me in photos I’m not in, and I’ve realized it’s because she wants me to see them. I appreciate that more than I can explain. I hope my friends start doing this too.

I met Lou, who dove into the ocean to retrieve my sunglasses, then helped me pack my suitcase so I wouldn’t miss my flight.

I ate enough pupusas to last a lifetime. And somehow found enough energy to start interviews again for The Four C’s.

Thank you.

I remembered who I was before survival taught me to forget.

Leg 1: Mexico 🇲🇽

I pooped my pants in Mexico.

I’m one of those Asians. I need Asian food at least once a week or my body files a formal complaint. So I found a hole-in-the-wall Chinese spot and thought, Surely I will be fine. I am a seasoned traveler. I have seen things.

The next day, I’m leisurely strolling through the city center, high on confidence and poor decisions, when I pass a perfume shop. The salesgirl is wearing BTS merch. I light up. I tell her I’m Korean. Instant kinship.

We’re mid-conversation, and I give her what I now realize was an impossible brief:

“Woody, smoky, a touch of tobacco—but still feminine.”

She nods solemnly. A professional.

Then my stomach speaks.

Not a “you have an hour” situation. Not even a “find a café” situation. This was P0. Code Red. Systems failing. No warning banner.

She’s mixing three bottles like an alchemist while my face goes from charming to haunted. I try to rush her, but she’s in her zone. Her coworkers gather. A symposium forms.

That’s when it happens.

As disaster runs down my leg, I panic and shout:

“I’LL TAKE THEM ALL.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Absolutely convinced.”

I wrap my sweatshirt around my waist and decide that a 16-minute walk of shame back to my hotel is still morally superior to sitting in an Uber and ruining a man’s livelihood.

And here’s the actual text to my poor boss:

(I wasn’t late!)

What a start.

Panama 🇵🇦

Some of you are thinking: She really thinks she’s magical.

Listen. I had a bad feeling the moment I got into the Uber. The driver was visibly stressed, and honestly—driving in Panama is not for the weak.

A few blocks in, an elderly woman in a Mercedes T-bones us.

I don’t have much to laugh about here because it was genuinely scary—except for the part where the replacement driver shows up, and I tip the first guy extra and say:

“I think he needs it more than you, mate.”

The new driver just shrugs and goes:

“Pfft. That’s every day here. Happened to me last week. Nobody tip me.”

Panama stays undefeated.

Greece 🇬🇷

Getting my hair braided in Athens was mostly wholesome—until it became a masterclass in why women run the world.

A husband-and-wife duo ran the stand. Only the husband was there when I arrived. I don’t think he was expecting customers. Definitely not someone with hair as long as mine.

He panics. He calls his wife.

She arrives like a Marvel entrance—on a motorcycle—takes one look at his work, undoes everything, and finishes my hair in record time.

Women are magic. Never forget this.

As a charming woman I met in Panama once said to me:

“Men are just decorations from God.”

These braids are here to stay.

Vienna 🇦🇹

I went to a café to do creative work before my corporate meetings kicked in, and I could not understand why it felt like everyone there hated me.

I tip. I say hello. I’m not feral. What was the problem?

By day two or three, I finally ask the waitress:

“Is… something I’m doing wrong?”

She leans in close and whispers, like she’s telling me a state secret:

“You’re ordering bottled water.”

Apparently Vienna prides itself on having the best tap water on Earth. I forgot. I also like bubbles. I am sorry for my sins.

Please forgive me, Austria.

Budapest / Slovakia 🇭🇺🇸🇰

My tour guide was a solid 6’4”, 230 pounds, and as stoic as an Eastern European philosophy textbook.

He picked me up first. I tried to make him laugh. Nothing. Then we picked up an American family. I turned to him and said:

“Well, you’re stuck with me, so you might as well get used to it.”

He took the tour extremely seriously. The family eventually branched off.

Then he looks at me and says:

“I like your tattoos. I have, too.”

He pulls up his sleeve. Zips down his sweater.

Covered. Like Yakuza-covered.

Turns out he used to own a tattoo shop. As I ask polite follow-up questions, he casually pulls out his phone. One of his open tabs is for purchasing a handgun.

I pretend not to see it. Growth.

He used to do a lot of things.

I eventually tell him I’m overstimulated and need food and a beer. He immediately offers to be my personal tour guide—hooks me up with his people, gives stellar recommendations. A gentleman.

I wander into a punk bar in Slovakia and text him:

“Come join!”

Turns out he had been standing close enough the entire time to keep me in his line of sight.

Good lad.

Rome 🇮🇹

I lost my wallet at the Roman airport and remained shockingly calm.

The airport lady was even calmer.

She said:

“Hey—you’re too beautiful to be worried. We will find it.”

She made a few phone calls. And somehow—miraculously—they did. They delivered it to a very defeated Romantic sitting on her enormous luggage.

Women rock. Again.

Paris 🇫🇷

I did not like Paris.

Happy New Year’s, friends.

I spent most of my time so far mildly offended by the economics of existing. Like when my hotel charged me 166€ for one load of laundry—as if they personally escorted my socks to the Louvre, interviewed them for provenance, and pressed them with philosophical intent.

Also: McDonald’s meals hovering around 20€.

And then there was my crown jewel: a 4-day museum pass that did absolutely nothing because everything was fully booked. Paris said, “Of course you can buy culture. You just can’t access it.”

So no, I didn’t fall in love.

But I will give Paris this: I healed the most here—because I finally integrated what Jung would call my shadow side:

Anger.

I warned you: kindness is not weakness. Love is freely given by me, because I believe that’s what human beings deserve. My family especially. I love them. I forgive them. More than they’ll ever understand.

But my respect?

Earned.

My support?

Earned.

I forgive and love my father. But I do not respect my father. It’s simple: I do not respect any grown man who can’t overcome his demons and lays hands on a little girl (me). I do not respect men who lead with control, domination, silence, withdrawal, punishment, and guilt. I do not respect men who outsource accountability to pride, or “that’s just how I am.” I do not respect men who refuse therapy like it’s a luxury yacht they don’t want to be seen on.

And I certainly don’t take advice from people I do not want to become like.

So. There’s that.

How did we get here?

Well, I realized something. My father has spent years complaining that my Narcissistic Grandmother controlled him with her trauma and victim mindset—and yet he’s managed to successfully pass the same spiritual malware down the family line. My poor brother has been trained to feel guilt and shame so deeply he’ll likely need years of therapy to uninstall it. It’s like he’s a brainwashed North Korean, just endlessly pledging support to my father, Kim Jong Un.

And here’s the punchline:

I can’t do anything about it.

Me being happy—posting on social media, traveling, building a life, going on this World Tour—despite me speaking openly about our immigrant experience, despite me messaging that I can’t wait to take them on a trip once their legal kinks are worked out, despite me sending gifts from wherever I go…

…somehow translated into resentment. Bitterness. Envy. More guilt-tripping, shaming, and vile little bursts of hate disguised as “concern.”

So what did I do?

I pressed my favorite button:

Block.

Because going into 2026, I’m listening to my gut like it’s the only honest man left in the room.

I want people around me who can celebrate my joy without choking on it. People I can text—like Homeboi, or Nug—who get genuinely excited to see me happy. Friends are our chosen family, and I’m choosing deliberately now. I want people motivated by growth, not addicted to grievance. People who respond to bids for connection instead of punishing me with silence, withdrawal, and secret contempt.

Homeboi and I journaling together

We are not in competition with each other. Any of us. Especially family, friends, colleagues, lovers. Connection does not have to be difficult. Safe people lean in with curiosity, love, and patience.

And I thank Paris for teaching me that—by robbing me blind and gifting me a spine.

The architecture is beautiful. I still have a New Year’s party to attend. I’ll try to sneak into galleries and museums like a romantic little criminal with excellent cheekbones and unresolved opinions.

But this—this was my highlight of 2025:

Oh, you done did it now.

I can’t wait to get back to the United States, and I can’t wait for 2026–with nothing dragging me down.

Crazy, right?

Crazy because statistically, spiritually, and according to every auntie who’s ever watched Eat Pray Love—I should’ve at least had one cinematic moment where a man presses me against a centuries-old wall and tells me I’ve “awakened something” in him. Actually, a woman at a perfume shop asked me if this was my ‘Eat Pray Love’ moment. And I said, “We can do better than that, sister.”

I needed some sort of routine. A loose one, but still…a thread to hold the days together.

So I chose a wonderful little restaurant in front of my hotel and dined there basically every day like I was a local woman of importance. Not because I’m predictable, but because I’m learning that consistency is, in fact, a form of self-respect. (Also: I hate packing and unpacking my nervous system.)

My order became a ritual: a bottle of sparkling water with lemon, pasta, and maybe a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. (I’ve defaulted to accepting I’ll drink while traveling—hey, rigidity never served me too well.) Then: my daily walk. Not a “steps” walk. A devotional walk.

And Rome… Rome is flirtation as a civic duty.

The way people flirt here should be studied. Getting hit on at a restaurant isn’t necessarily novel, but get this: one night, I ordered a lobster, and I asked:

“Is there any way I could get this cracked open when served? I’m afraid I’m not great at opening shellfish, not with these nails…”

And he said, “Tell me exactly, what is your dream? What do you want? You want it cut up for you?”

Now. I had no idea if he was being sarcastic, romantic, or simply Italian. But I said, “I mean, yeah, that’d be ideal.”

And guess what.

He did indeed cut the lobster into bite size pieces, then added Parmesan for me as well, and chili oil, and mixed the pasta up and served it to me on a platter.

The whole staff came out to wait on me. I felt mildly uncomfortable and very beet red. Maybe they felt bad because I was a single woman on Christmas week. Maybe they truly thought I was a K-Pop star. I dunno.

But I’ve gotta tell ya: Americans have a thing or two they could learn.

Italians know they’re charming, and they’re used to it working on foreigners. They do not take rejection too well, I’ll tell you that much. I think my block list expanded to double in my time here. I take back whatever I said about men in Central America.

But eh—truth is, a girl was too busy falling in love with rain.

And I mean falling in love. Not in a moody Tumblr way. In a real way: the kind where you stop fighting the weather and let it make a poet out of you. Rome in the rain doesn’t feel like “bad luck.” It feels like permission. Like the city is telling you: Slow down. Write. Watch people. Stop trying to conquer the day like it owes you something.

There are a few things that struck me about Rome:

The weather is perfect. Literally perfect. The air, perfect. The ambiance, perfect, too.

The style—oh, the style. Getting complimented in Texas? Easy. New York? Bit harder, but not far-fetched. In Rome? I felt like calling Vogue and asking, “Do you know me, yet?” It challenged me, and I loved it. Everyone looks like they have a secret life, a cigarette, and a lover who texts in complete sentences.

Food? Come on, now. Food is the one religion I practice without skepticism.

And for every pro, there is a con: the crowds in the city center made me feel like I was in Times Square on New Year’s Day, and that’s not fun. But my local friends made it clear: Roman locals don’t live anywhere near the center. To live like them, I’d need more time, and a car—and the kind of casual confidence that says, “Yes, I will drive through an ancient maze of scooters and near-death experiences, and I will do it in sunglasses.”

I actually spent the better of two days outside of dawn hours in my hotel, and happily so: listening to the rain, writing, working, drawing.

I wrote a lot in Rome.

Here’s one of my favorites:

“I love when every detail is intentional; I love when people remember details. I love being seduced by the depths of one’s mind; I love marveling at ancient wonders that were only possible without all of the distractions forced upon us now. I love knowing that we, as humans are collectively capable of achieving incredible things.

When friends of mine travel and they get home, they tell me they lament their lives. They want to keep just traveling, and I can’t help but think, ‘Of course…you spent several days enveloped in luxury, why would you want to escape the bubble?’ I travel a bit differently: I don’t plan anything at all. I don’t want to escape. I want to just be inspired. Usually, I just make conversation with people and they tell me what I should do. I’ve done a few tours here and there, but I usually end up canceling them or leaving prematurely. To me, it feels too packaged and fake.

My trips usually end when I can’t wait to get home and apply my new perspective to my current life. I do not travel to escape.

I met someone in Rome who asked me, “But the way you travel… you are getting biases; no? Surely the restaurant people will recommend their friends, and everything is marketing; everything is sales, don’t you want to research for yourself?”

And before I got into it and explained that by that same logic, research would only be the same, I just said, ‘Well, I’ve never had a bad time.”

And you know what? He smiled, then showed me the most incredible sight I’ve ever seen in my life, right up there with Manchu Piccu: Rome at night. And therein proved my point.”

That’s the thing about Rome: it doesn’t need you to be efficient. It needs you to be receptive.

And as an art-lover, I’m usually a fan of galleries…paintings, primarily. Of course, my father was an architect, as I mentioned before, and I do appreciate that too from time to time.

But in Rome, that was all I could think of. Architecture.

The galleries were beautiful, yes—but the Roman architecture, just out there, non-graffitied and all in the center of the city, blew my mind. It felt indecent. Like walking through a museum where the admission price is simply being awake.

Every building, sculpture, and column seemed to invite me to a rabbit hole:

“How do you think I got here?”

And suddenly I wasn’t just looking at beauty—I was looking at proof. Proof that humans, when not entirely sedated by distraction, are capable of building things that outlive empires… and relationships… and whatever petty little crisis we think is the whole universe this week.

Tonight is my last night in Vienna. I’m stuck in my hotel room with semi–food poisoning (a glamorous ending, as always), and somehow I’m still in love with this city. Vienna did something to me. Of all the places I’ve been so far, this is the one where I healed the most. I suspect it’s the art.

Tomorrow I’m off quite early for a day trip to Budapest. At least the long ride will give me some time to deep work. And hopefully, I don’t shit myself again.

After that—another country, TBD. Unfortunately, I’ve been receiving an influx of creeps on Substack, but that’s okay, because the block feature exists.

But before I keep moving, I needed to take inventory. I needed to re-cap my year.

Because when I look back now… yeah. I’m pretty fucking tired.

But I’m really happy. And I’m really proud of myself.

In 2024, I fell in love with someone who was still figuring out who they were. And I truly gave it my all, to a younger person I wanted to see fly. No matter what happened between the beginning and the end, I know our intent was good at the start. I’d spent years caretaking for others, and I still opened myself up to a second marriage. I’m proud of myself for that.

And when we split—when he had his family, and multiple properties, and a whole infrastructure to fall back on—I’m proud of myself for being brave. For packing up all my things from the ghost of our marital house, grabbing my Big Ass Dog, and taking a chance on myself to go to Austin, Texas… for a job opportunity that wasn’t even guaranteed.

I’m proud of myself for ending that chapter with a final act of forgiveness and kindness.

In Austin, I’m proud of myself for taking that Big Ass Dog on a seven-mile walk/run every day, promising to give her a better life. (And actually doing it.)

I’m proud of myself for going back to Pilates after years of no contact with any human being other than my ex-husband. I’m proud of myself for showing up every day—even on the days I felt like collapsing.

I’m proud of myself for filing that divorce and not missing a single deliverable on the way. I’m proud of myself for taking modeling gigs, working hard at that not-guaranteed job, and still growing at it. What was supposed to be a 3 month contract ended up being a year and a half so far. And I’m still absorbing, learning, and growing.

I’m proud of myself for walking into the doors of trauma therapy and admitting I had a serious sleep problem. I’m proud of myself for telling my story in front of veterans, even as my voice shook. I’m proud of myself for keeping up email relationships with the people I met in both Divorce and Trauma groups—because connection is medicine, and I’m learning how to take it without overdosing.

I’m proud of myself for using myself as a human guinea pig for PTSD healing—trying everything, paying for the expensive modalities, collecting the data, and still staying honest about what worked and what didn’t. I’m proud of myself for starting to write. For sharing what I learned with the people I met in those groups, even on the days I doubted myself. And every time I see one of those vets on Instagram, posting, enjoying their life, I tear: because even when one of those old-heads post 50 photos in a single day I get it, man. It feels real good to enjoy life again.

I’m proud of myself for getting my citizenship.

I’m proud of myself for finishing half of the certifications I set out to do this year. I didn’t do it all—but hey, I did my best. That’s okay. Perfection is just another nervous system habit pretending to be ambition. And I slowed down. I think having over 20 certifications is enough for a little while. Plus, we all have new AI tools to learn every day.

I’m proud of myself for taking the leap into sharing my story, little by little: first on Instagram, and now here—on Substack—where the truth has more room to breathe.

I’m proud of myself for putting myself out there in Austin as my full self. For sitting with stranger after stranger and building friend groups that will last a lifetime. For letting people see me without auditioning.

And I’m proud of myself for breaking up with all the friendships that didn’t work for me. I’m proud of myself for stopping to take so much responsibility for other people’s lives.

I’m proud of myself for all the volunteer work and donations I’ve done this year, even while I was struggling financially. I knew in my heart things would work out, and they did. I refused to let fear make me selfish.

I’m proud of myself for trying to date again—and giving that my all, too. And I’m proud of myself for realizing I deserved better than the people I was choosing. For walking away with kindness.

I’m proud of myself for flying to Greece and meeting Ali. I’m proud of myself for the Substack group I started with and . I’m proud of myself for never missing a day of therapy—even when there were days I physically couldn’t get out of bed.

I’m proud of myself for realizing neurodivergence was nothing to be ashamed of. For realizing I had to start speaking up about it, because me “avoiding the label” meant I was really, actually ashamed. And more people need to know we have so much to offer—under the right environments. For every person who’s ever heard, “But you don’t look neurodivergent,” I want to be the one who says: that’s called masking. And it costs us.

I’m proud of myself for starting this World Tour, because I’m not running from anything. It’s the opposite: I’m running toward myself. I’m proud of myself for crying at the airport when I got Global Entry—hugging the TSA agent that used to scare the shit out of me. Even when I got my green card, traveling was still deeply traumatizing. I never felt safe until I got my citizenship.

I’m proud of myself for going up to strangers in Mexico and Panama, and also, making Travel Friends that will hopefully last a lifetime, just by being as silly as possible.

I’m proud of myself for refusing to collapse when the world bet against me. I look back at this Memoir I’m stitching, I look back at this year—and last—and the years before that—and I see how every time something happened, I said, “Bet.” I picked myself up and went back at it the next morning.

But most of all?

I’m proud of myself for how much I’ve been crying while traveling. Properly grieving it all. My lost childhood. My failed marriages. The years and years of memories coming back to me that I refused to avoid.

Because wherever you go, there you are.

There are two things that are very true about me right now:

I am a work in progress.

I am a fucking masterpiece.

And no matter what happens next, I’m ready.

Depending on who asks on my travels, my answer is usually “yes”.

“Are you an artist?”

“Are you a travel blogger?”

“Are you journaling?”

The answer is really, “I’m a writer.” I’m a writer through and through. I’m a writer in a way that one can identify with their sex, sexuality, heritage, what have you. Not as a vocation. This certainly doesn’t pay the bills. I’m just a writer through and through.

Yesterday at a bar in Oberautal, I found myself writing this:

“I think this is the part of me that I am afraid of people seeing. It’s the…part of me only few people can handle in doses. The part of me that enters creative flow. The part of me that loves my art more than I could ever love a person—the older I get, the more I realize: deconstructing the ‘why’ doesn’t matter. It simply is. I wither if I can’t create.”

I didn’t write that to be dramatic. I wrote it because it’s true, and because sometimes the truth only comes out when I’m alone enough, cold enough, and far enough away from the social expectations of being “normal.”

And I found myself missing drawing for the first time in a while. Today I’ll head off to an art supply shop; the largest in Vienna. Life’s about the simple things, before we were programmed.

A doodle of mine

Let me ask you this: You work so hard, for decades and decades, dreaming of “someday”. Hunkering down for retirement. Focused on the next carrot. It’s a noble feat, and it makes sense, especially if you have children.

Now, when that magic number appears in your bank account, and “someday” strikes, what will you do? Have you given that part much thought, yet?

Because what I’ve noticed is that some people spend their whole life waiting to finally live, and then when they get there, they don’t know what to do with themselves. They don’t know who they are without a schedule, or a role, or a responsibility.

Whether it’s hopping couches, as I once was, or trapped in a golden cage, or in a studio apartment, or in a house, or in the Waldorf, or at Ali’s in Greece, or this cozy little Twin Bed in Vienna, after I make ends meet: I write, I draw, and that’s it.

That’s why my life is so simple.

Halstatt is a small town inhabited a few hundred people, that’s been photographed millions of times for its beauty. My photos won’t do much justice compared to that, but I can tell you the unexpected experience I had there.

The tour guide I had in the morning was quite interesting. He said: “I can give you all a tour, but you have free will. Join if you’d like, or wander off if you’d like. Whatever you want.”

For some reason, I’ve been waking up at 3-4 AM sharp every day here, and got most of my work done. I decided to wander and take a brain break.

And I wandered right into this little piece of history, which spooked me:

The people of Halstatt were, and are quite poor, and they could not afford to bury their people. So their bones sat here. The Soviets invaded and rummaged through this “Bone House”, looking for loot of sorts: guns, material, money, what have you. There was nothing, and so, it ended up in this pile.

It’s strange, isn’t it? How a place can look so stunning on the outside, like something out of a fairytale, and then you walk a few minutes in the wrong direction and life shows you what it really is.

At my age of 30, I’ve experienced a lot of loss. Before therapy this year, I really didn’t know how to cope well with it. At any point, I was just ready for my phone to buzz and let me know that someone else had just died. It granted me perspective.

Down the narrow corridor from this bone house is a church, and while everyone walked in, took photos, and walked out, I sat down, way in the back.

I’m not Catholic, but I do believe in God. I think negotiating with life and loss has brought me to the firm belief of an afterlife. Perhaps one’s mind, no, soul, would shatter otherwise.

What are we all without faith of some kind?

And I wrote:

“I’m scared of loving someone, mainly because I’m scared of them dying. There’s a lot of things I wish I got to say.”

And the unthinkable happened. I just started crying. Trauma therapy tries to connect you back to your body, and it’s been working on every front except one: my relationship with grief and sadness. The lengths I can go to suppress feeling that, and the tension released.

Then I continued:

“Well, getting emotional in a Church and being captured on a Chinese tourist’s Instagram Reel wasn’t part of the plan. Anyways. I think, even though my living family largely say they hate the dead that I still mourn (like my dad hating my dead mother and adoptive father), I don’t think they do.

Because Love and Hate are two sides of the same coin. There’s just complexities in the middle of those two that they can’t stand to feel: disappointment, grief, or the anxiety around the fragility of all of our lives, able to be shattered in an unpredictable instant.

If we distilled it down, there are really only two: Love and Fear, with not much in between.”

And I looked up, and all the tourists had left. One elderly woman remained, carrying a frame of what I presume was her husband. She sat at the front, just staring up at the giant Jesus.

She looked back, and we made eye contact, and there was this silent knowing. We nodded to each other.

I wrapped up with this:

“I haven’t figured much out yet, but I try to treat everyone as if it may be our last interaction. I think that’s “Integrity”, or maybe that’s my Compass. There are no Confessions to make at this Church, today. I think I would just ask the Church to approach God with Love, and not Shame. I think that’s what God would’ve wanted.”

Until they test my gangster.

I’m sorry, reader—but I did promise to be my authentic self, and I fear I have no eloquent way to convey this without just… telling you exactly what happened.

In our first Writer’s Group, I’d mentioned to Ali that I’d never been to Greece, and I’d love to visit someday. She said, “You should come sometime! I’d love for you to stay over. I’ve a spare bedroom.” Bless her heart—I hope she truly meant that, because in less than two minutes, while still on the call, I’d booked the flight.

That’s the thing about “sometime” with me. It has a timestamp.

You see, I’d spent the majority of my youth trapped (for lack of a better word) in one marriage after another. And now I realize something almost comical in its clarity: I am too free to be trapped in yet another one.

Unless my unicorn partner does exist, and they better my life, of course. But truthfully? I’m probably too independent for most, and that’s fine with me. Ali thinks it’s because I’m quite lucky with options now, but I suspect I’ve had enough of partnership (especially men and their impossible egos) for a lifetime. But who knows what happens.

Anyways. Ali lives in Varkiza, which is a quaint “suburbian” area of Greece. Make no mistake, friends: this is still far from the suburbs of the United States. The roads are narrow. The buildings, even the modern ones…look like they’ve had a Romanticism brushstroke painted right over them, like the country can’t help but be poetic even when it’s trying to be practical.

Citrus trees are everywhere, and the white buildings offer this picturesque contrast that makes you feel like you’ve wandered into a film you weren’t invited to, but the universe waved you in anyway.

(Also: I cannot imagine what the HOA meetings are like in Greece. If you think Latin women are fiery, you should see an angry Greek woman. As a matter-of-fact, as I sit here writing this portion at the Athens airport, I was screamed at by a lady working at RyanAir—and I promise you, I never want to be on the receiving end of that again.)

One of the first things I did in Greece was get my wedding dress tailored. Which sounds either devastating or unhinged depending on your mood, but for me it was… both, and also neither. It’s a pretty transformative time for me. Taking back my power.

You see, I grew up in an environment where women are expected to shrink to fit. All the interesting women are labeled “difficult,” and I certainly didn’t want that—not as someone who was an illegal immigrant, and certainly not one who was living in the projects, then bounced around people’s couches. I was taught to be quiet, agreeable, and thankful.

And gratitude has carried me a lot. I’m blessed to have a life filled with opportunities.

But I look back and cringe at the sheer imbalance of it all…the amount of giving versus receiving I’d done. My second marriage is a testament to that.

I will never wish anyone ill, no matter how poorly a relationship ended. But I can say this: it wasn’t equitable. And I also wasn’t about to let my fairy-tale dress, purchased from Woodstock, New York—go to waste.

So now it’s my lovely brunch dress.

And honestly? That felt like the perfect way to kick off my second leg on my “Bourdainism” world tour: Europe.

I met Ali’s twin sons: Twinsanity (please do check them out)—and I have not only been addicted to their music, but genuinely moved by their depth. Because here’s the difference between the world I came from and the world I keep insisting on building: in the States, it’s way too common to go down rabbit holes of “What do you do?” as if your job title is your soul’s LinkedIn headline.

A few weeks ago, I was invited to my colleague’s Christmas party, and I remember meeting a CEO of sorts, and I, in a (humorous) way, couldn’t help but ask: “Who are you, outside of your resume? What do you like to do?”

And it was taken quite well, surprisingly. I think we’re all sick of it; truthfully. We want to be more. We want to express ourselves. Why else do people go to these electronic festivals? I’m sorry, but it can’t possibly be just the music.

In Greece, no one asks you this. It’s not because they don’t care. It’s because they assume you’re a human being first. The “what do you do” isn’t a password; it’s just a detail.

I had a lovely dinner conversation with Ray (part of Twinsanity), and I was impressed by his wealth of historical knowledge—even on my own heritage. And I realized quickly in this group of friends: Ah. Creatives were the people I’d been chasing all along, for good reason.

I love what I do in Technology. I do. But I love exercising creative solutions, and I hate being put in a process-cage nightmare. I love being able to unite people. So any chance I get, I try and marry the two worlds—and I’m grateful to keep running into people on both sides of the fence.

Too often, especially in Austin, we’re insulated in a Technology Bubble. As “weird” as Austin is, it’s simply not as self-aware as the rest of the world. Most people I meet with think I’m some sort of alien. They’re simply insulated.

And I’d be remiss not to mention some eerie similarities between Ali and I, and some nice balancing qualities too. Ali is quite “on”, and I’m quite “off”, often.

But most of all: Ali is sexy as fuck. I know—she doesn’t believe me, not at “her age” or whatever society’s brainwashed her into believing.

I won’t embarrass her too much, but she’s a splitting image of Cameron Diaz.

Reader, do you think I was Punk Rock back in the day? (Remember my pixie/buzz cut grown out from: The Backstory: My First Marriage, Osama Bin Laden, A Punk Rock Coming of Age Story?)

Well, I want to end this digestible reflection with a nudge to the most incredible tour guide, Alison Bux, by saying this:

I’m sorry, Ali—but amongst all of the historical lessons you gave me, one memory is etched in my brain:

Ali shared the same air as David Bowie.

Alison, you must write that story—and I’ll keep writing my memoir, just for you. I know I lived a crazy life. And maybe I’ll give you a sneak preview of the Four C’s. And just maybe, we’ll do an in-depth dive into my love affair with souvlaki and Greek history.

That’s what I’m always circling back to with my fellow creatives: just keep going. It doesn’t really matter if you think you’re small. You might be. Most of us are. Eh, we are.

But maybe you’ll make a difference. Maybe not in your lifetime.
Maybe a line you wrote becomes someone’s favorite sentence.
Maybe a photograph you took gets saved on a stranger’s phone.

At the very least, your data will be scraped. You’ll train a model. Some future AI will half-understand your heartbreak and your humor and use it to comfort someone else at 3 a.m. Maybe it’ll be great. Maybe it’ll be derivative and weird. Who knows.

My point is: I’ve always erred on the side of, What’s the best that could happen?

If you run your life on that question long enough, you wake up one day and realize: that’s how I went from poverty to where I am now. Not from manifesting. From repeatedly choosing the slightly braver option.

In Panama, I stayed in three different landscapes:

• The polished “city-city” of Panama City

• Casco Viejo

• And the jungle, with the Embera people

Each one was a mirror. A different facet of myself held up to the light.

This whole Four C’s and memoir project…I’m realizing it’s a lot like trauma therapy.

Going backwards in time feels like EMDR or ayahuasca: a brutal excavation. The kind of healing that rips open the past and asks your nervous system to watch it, frame by frame, until it loses its teeth. Disruptive. Painful. Excruiciating.

Living in the present is more like NARM: tiny titrations of change. Gentle acts of honesty. Micro-movements away from shame and toward self-connection. A slow shedding of the ego instead of a dramatic exorcism.

And future thinking?
That’s usually escapism dangerously disguised as “planning.” Daydreaming dressed up as strategy.

Anywho.

In modern Panama City…the downtown, glass, steel, and “you’re important if you have a lanyard and a quarter-zip” energy, I felt the same nervous system static I do back in the States. So I did what any self-respecting, overstimulated autistic romantic would do: I hid at the spa.

The Waldorf hospitality was the best I’ve ever experienced. Impeccable service, the kind that makes you feel like a person again and not a walking inbox. And yet, I could barely last a day.

It wasn’t just a budget thing. It was the plasticky vibe. The sense that everything was optimized, polished, and airbrushed of any actual soul. Beautiful, but hollow. A lobby designed for LinkedIn profiles and conferences, not love stories.

Then came Casco.

Casco, Casco, Casco.

I fell in over with Casco. Not just in love—over. As in: over my head, over my expectations, over the version of myself I thought I had to be.

The old pirate-era ruins sit right next to romantic hotels, small shops, coffee houses, crumbling balconies, and achingly beautiful architecture. It feels like if Europe, the Caribbean, and a memory you forgot you had all decided to share a cigarette at golden hour.

I wrote constantly in Casco. I danced. I stumbled into live music. I made friends, the kind of brief, bright connections that belong to travel and late nights. Latin culture really is for me. My body understands it before my brain does. I’m working on my Spanish with more intent now, not because I “should,” but because my heart wants in.

A friend and colleague had warned me about Casco: the wealth disparity is stomach-turning if you pay attention. Right next door to a multi-million-dollar renovation, there’s a decaying building barely holding on. A luxury rooftop above what is essentially a trap house.

He was right. The contrast is jarring.

It felt fitting that I was reading Harari while staying there. His cool, macro, historian brain in my hands, while outside my window the future and the past were literally sharing a wall.

I kept thinking: AI is going to make this so much worse.

Then I went to the jungle. And my thought changed.

In the jungle with the Embera people, on Thanksgiving of all days, my nervous system finally went quiet.

No glass towers.
No spa packages named after Greek goddesses.
No loyalty points.

Just water, wood, fire, faces.

I realized how much we live inside the clutter:

We have too many things.
We’re tied down by too many objects.
We overthink everything—business, communication, love, family.
We optimize and oppress ourselves in the same breath.

We are moving too fast to notice we are lonely.

Out there, stripped of all my usual scaffolding—no fancy hotel, no laptop, no signal strong enough to constantly scroll through other people’s lives—I watched something simple and terrifying emerge:

What actually matters if everything else falls away?

And this is where AI came back into the frame for me.

AI is going to automate most of the technical problem-solving skills we have. The cleverness, the efficiency, the “I can do this in three clicks instead of ten” part of being human. That’s the direction of the curve, whether we like it or not.

What’s left, then?

What’s left is the intricate fabric of emotion, interconnection, artistry, and creativity. What’s left is the way we hold each other’s nervous systems. The way we tell stories. The way we still choose to make eye contact, even when we don’t need to for survival.

What’s left, truly, is Love.

Not Disney love. Not marketing love. The quieter thing: presence, accountability, devotion, curiosity. The willingness to let another person exist as they are without trying to turn them into a self-help project.

If we govern this technology well…if we’re courageous instead of complacent—we might actually buy ourselves time. Time to learn how to connect again. Time to make it profitable to be human, not just productive.

Maybe the people rewarded in that world will be the compassionate ones. The ones who can sit with grief without fixing it. The ones who can write, sing, cook, build, code, and love in a way a model can’t quite replicate, no matter how much of our data it’s eaten.

That, to me, is the future of romanticism and AI:

Not AI replacing poets, but AI forcing us to become better ones.
Not AI killing love, but AI stripping away all the performative noise until love is the only thing left that feels real.

Bourdain once roamed the world documenting how people eat, suffer, celebrate, and survive. I don’t know what he’d say about AI, or about my little Four C’s project, or about my time in Panama.

But I like to think that if he were here, watching all of this unfold, he’d raise a glass and say something like:

“Kid, the point was never the technology. The point was always the people. Don’t forget that.”

And I won’t.

He asked me if I was interested in a union. Don’t worry—this time, I said no.

However, I’m afraid all I got was confirmation of what I would call him throughout this recounting of this tale: “44.” It was a number he used for his GitHub moniker, and I thought it appropriate:

Take a look at the building number.

However, I fell in love with the architecture of Mexico City. Long before my father was a chef, he was an architect, and I imagine that bit of my ancestry flows through me as well.

I’ve largely spent my time here immersed in the present moment, absorbing all of the beauty the city and culture have to offer—and reflecting on some critical political tensions that stir a multitude of feelings in me, now that I’m an American. I’ll explore these thoughts at a later time.

Each morning, I did my usual writing, but with a different view and different food to taste. On one of these mornings—Revolution Day, to be specific—I accidentally ended up in the Gran Hotel Ciudad de México. The streets were blocked off by the police, and in Spanglish, I’d meant to ask if I could get a reservation at the hotel’s rooftop restaurant for breakfast. Apparently, I very confidently said that I did have a reservation, and ended up with this presidential view:

Anyway, I took out my notebook, took in one of the most breathtaking views I’d ever experienced in my life, and started writing. The thought that kept arising was, “How do I do this story justice?”

Allow me to provide you a snippet of a conversation between myself and one of the devs, Han (who, with his dark humor, wanted to be referred to as “Suffering” during this interview) that I worked closely with throughout this mind-fuck of an experience, so you can understand:

More than anything, I knew that this was an important story for all the characters of the Four C’s. But as I was pondering the execution and delivery of this story, I started entering flow, and wrote this in my journal:

“Life is masterful, once we accept that it is largely a movie that we are watching unfold. Now, we can control a lot of things. We can choose which movie theater we will watch the film in, the snacks we will or won’t have; the people we decide to sit next to—or, as is the case with me, perhaps you enjoy often watching it alone.

But we are here ultimately to enjoy this movie. And we can be so moved by one part of this movie that we call ‘Life’, and pause and replay this over and over again; enveloped in nostalgia, regret, or both.

But the movie keeps going. We can get up, switch seats and theaters, get company, and whatnot. But we are here to enjoy the film.”

I no longer fear letting down anyone I am interviewing; I encourage them to write their own narrative of the story, because writing your story yourself is the only way you will truly be satisfied (or as a writer may know, very not satisfied).

As I have been replaying the year 2020 in my head and writing down my thoughts and experiences, I realized this:

It was a period of madness. To replay it, and only it, would rob me of the wonder that is the present. And so, this is the way the story will be told: with my heart first, the present woven in, and as slowly as it comes to me. Now, I did have a little failsafe for myself to stay in Mexico City for longer. But I believe I am ready to leave—I will certainly be back soon. I just want to integrate a bit.

As always, thanks for being here.

IT IS. But there’s a parallel workstream humming in the background, and it’ll make sense why this intro lives here.

My North Star is Anthony Bourdain. I even got a tattoo for him—in Peru, naturally—after “accidentally” extending my trip because Barranco, and ceviche flirted with my soul.

I scribble things wherever I go. Here’s one in a notebook, in a museum, in Lima.

This year I did the mirror thing. Faced shadows, slayed a few boss-level demons, and looted the usual: humility, discernment, boundaries. As a reward/penance, I’m choosing the obvious next quest.

The holidays are a historically depressing time for me. Lots of loss, and, well, without close family, I was always super lonely. But usually, I was lucky enough to be around families; they just weren’t mine, and while I appreciated the invitation, it made me feel lonelier than if I was just alone.

Child me will always wish her parents and adoptive parents were all in one room, sipping hot chocolate and unwrapping gifts. It just didn’t pan out for me that way.

Between deep-tissue massages I get tarot reads—not because I need prophecy, but because it’s fun to hear the universe speak in emojis. I guess Austin’s also made me a little magical: my perfumes are now housed in cute little potions.

Last time, the reader said, “You’re the kind of person who takes life in her own hands, and makes things happen.”

I’m trying, and I’m glad the universe gave me some emoji-confidence. This spread taught me that my past was rooted in judgment: To me, it resonated with all of the changes I had to make about my life as I knew it. My present and future, was pointing to more healing and self love.

Other readers and psychics I’ve seen the past few weeks have told me that the love of my life is around the corner. I’d like to not turn that corner yet, please. But I’m open to life unfolding as it should.

I’m the healthiest I’ve been—mentally, emotionally, spiritually. Physically… look, 30 is already side-eyeing me, and my 20s athlete build isn’t returning my texts. We move.

So I’m done watching clips of Bourdain. I’m going to go live.

Over the next few months I’m hitting double-digit countries with a single backpack. Sometimes I’ll work from a hotel. Sometimes I’ll stay with strangers (the vetted kind). Sometimes I’ll sit at a kitchen table and write someone else’s story—my third workstream: I want to share with you, all of my field notes on the incredible people I’ve met as a bartender, and some of the remarkable souls I’ve crossed paths with in my life. Most importantly, I’m excited to meet new people who will inevitably transform me.

First stop: Mexico. Because that’s where the main character of the Four C’s lived. Tentative last stop: Serbia. I’ll ping-pong home between legs because I’ll miss my dog more than I’ll miss any skyline. I’ll miss friends, colleagues, and yes, my plants. Nurturing the life I’m building is part of the trip. Building roots is part of my growth journey.

Why alone? Because coordinating group travel in your 30s is a doctoral dissertation in logistics and disappointment.

Fuck that.

Thank you for your patience. I’ve been integrating—truly sitting with the work—so I can speak from the body, not just the page.

When I started this project, it was the end of summer. I was looping my second divorce and navigating finances, running on survival. I coped with alcohol, a busy schedule, and over-exercise.

Then came the pulled back and the foot surgery. Bed rest. I pushed even harder: finished a certification, met with authors, started writing like mad, and wrote like it was a deadline I owed the world. If my body couldn’t move, then my mind would have to take over.

I borrowed Picasso’s “one piece a day” method, romanticized it and turned it into pressure. I loved every minute of that anxiety-induced flow state and challenge. But I needed balance. I wasn’t kind to myself. It was the survival strategy I defaulted to: If something went wrong in my life, I was 100% at fault. I would punish myself, and it was a way to keep myself from making the same “mistake” that hurt me again. Little did I know, that self-flagellation was the mistake to address all along.

I’m largely out of survival mode now. The air is clearer. It’s crazy how healing works. It truly does get ugly before it gets better. And now, it’s like whatever filter I saw myself and the world has, has seismically shifted. I feel peaceful. Shame has lifted. I have immense hope for the future. There is no more tension. I feel like doing what I set out to do daily is as light as simply reaching for fruit off a tree. I’m not resisting and fighting myself in my mind anymore.

Now, almost everything; existence itself is flow.

I’ve recently gone back to being more involved politically, speaking up again about change in the workplace, and most importantly, being really grateful. I want to take a moment to talk a little bit about that. I’m not trying to advocate toxic positivity. Trust me, I know more than most when it’s appropriate to be disappointed and channel that frustration to advocating for change.

But I’ve been wrestling with some deep questions as of late:

1. Why am I here?

2. Do I truly forgive my parents?

The first question is something that fundamentally, I believe strikes us all in the quiet moments: existentialism. We need to create hope and meaning. After all, that’s what differentiates us from animals, who can live on auto-pilot.

It’s hard to find the balance of tying our identity, or giving weight to one pillar of our lives over another. For instance, for me, now, as a single woman: My day-job, versus writing, versus other creative endeavors. And holistically, do I have a North Star? Do I truly need one to go on? The dangers of being married to any one of these things is that if I have a bad day at work, I may feel more discouraged about life in totality than I need to be. I never liked living disgruntled, negative, and pessimistic. I attach a lot of meaning into most things I do, work included, because I’m a passionate person.

Thinking of it as just a paycheck just isn’t possible for me, although I’ve said it a bunch of times to try and delude myself and come off as nonchalant as possible.

I also believe that we create routine, structure, and add more responsibilities to manage the anxiety that surfaces for us all (unless you are a sociopath, I guess) when we lack direction.

Perhaps my North Star is to simply continue being curious and learning. I think often, what comforts me is the fact that there is so much unexplored, that I simply don’t know. I’ll never be bored, that’s for sure.

On the second question—

I will be honest: I do forgive my parents. But I hesitate to share that, because I also don’t want to advocate victim-shaming/blaming.

Let’s be very honest, here: They abused me. Mentally, physically, emotionally. That’s not right.

But I do see that in the grand scheme of things, they were in survival mode. My mother is dead now, but my father is still trapped in survival mode. Same with my Grandmother. Narcissism is usually bred from immense trauma. Over 30 years of my life, I’m 100% certain I’ve acted out in narcissistic ways. We all have. I believe that most people do not set out to harm us. It’s a capacity issue.

The solution is turning empathy inward first to heal and radiate it outward, but that requires a safe space.

My father does not have the opportunity to regulate his nervous system, and reflect. He simply does not have the tools to face his demons. How could he? He is an illegal immigrant working 6-7 days a week, with no benefits. As a Greencard holder (Permanent Resident), I was still referred to as an “Alien”. So what is he?

Particularly so in this political climate, he is a Second-Class, if not Third-Class citizen. Reminded of it every day.

I talked about overcoming Shame in my first ever post, which was appropriately for him: A Letter to My Father, and Every Dad Who Still Has Time.

I’d been turning it over in my head loads. Healing has taught me that boundaries are necessary for my well-being. So, I don’t really interact with him as much as I’m sure he’d like. However, there is no resentment left in my heart.

It took me a personal loan, moving away from everyone I know, and all of the expensive, painful and time-consuming solutions I’d detailed as my “Healing Cocktail” to reset my nervous system.

And when I fell into victim-hood, which happens to the best of us from time to time, I realized: I get to have this set of problems.

There will always be a set of problems for us to face and work through. That is life. Existentialism and inner child healing? Where I want to travel to, or live next? What career pivots I may want to make in the latter half of my life? If I want a partner and family, and if so, when? If I would rather bartend, model, or write outside of work? If I want to go back to school with more intent?

These are not things my father, and most illegal immigrants can ponder. He doesn’t have the luxury to.

And as insane as it sounds, I really didn’t know better as I made many life decisions before this year. I ran on empty; on survival mode, because that’s what survival does. It’s why I got married both times.

After writing about Wulf, I paused on purpose. In that space, an important memory resurfaced.

I have a friend back East—Yves (real name), whom I endearingly refer to as Mr. Saint-Laurent. He’s engineering-minded; I’m the emotional free spirit who somehow still lands on her feet. We’ve taught each other a lot over the years: he slowed me down and protected my peace; I asked him to lean toward feeling and spontaneity.

He imparted well-earned wisdom he’d collected over the years about the fragility of peace, and numerous times challenged me to revisit the connections in my life. I convinced him to jump out of a plane with me.

When he first met me, he was moved: How was it, someone living so against the grain ended up living in the same apartment as he? Was his prescriptive way of living truly the way? Or was there another way? What even is success? Were we both in survival mode, but executing different strategies?

Over a year ago now, after he ended a whirlwind relationship, he said something to his ex that has followed me into sleep:
“I know you need a puzzle piece to feel whole. This could work if I gave that to you, but I can’t take a piece of me to complete you.”

I understood it in my head at first. After almost half a year now of intense trauma therapy, I understand it in my bones.

So, reader I care about: I can’t give you a piece of me to complete this Memoir—not right now. I won’t open further the details about Wulf and me. Our pets are tender. The deaths in our families stay private.

I haven’t spoken to Wulf in a while; it may stay that way. I’m not upset with him at all, and I will always be here for Wulf. I just think it’s time to not only process the past, and let it stay there.

I realized I’ve been handing out puzzle pieces from my body my whole life. I’m done. I’m resting, integrating, and planning a softer life that actually belongs to me—travel, goals with my name on them, and picking up old hobbies I put down. Most importantly, more time to simply be.

The cost? Almost my entire previous orbit.

I sat with every connection I had. Some I ended cleanly, because I knew that staying in that connection meant that I would have to be stagnant. Others I tested for repair. If a relationship couldn’t become equitable or emotionally safe, I let it go.

My filter was simple:

1. Is this equitable?

2. Do I feel emotionally safe?

I moved in May to Austin with a promise to myself: nothing comes before my healing. Not money, not momentum. Safety first. Any trauma therapist will tell you cPTSD loosens in safe environments and safe relationships.

Where conversations with people failed, I didn’t. It hurt, but I know what I bring to the table. If roles were reversed, I would meet the other with empathy and a willingness to look at myself. When that wasn’t returned, I chose me—without resentment. I let go with love. I didn’t allow myself to be guilted to stay; to give; to understand. To give so much leniency and space for the other party to be messy, and live in a small corner, accepting scraps.

Some relationships are chapters, and I honor them.

That’s adulthood: as children we needed people (our caregivers) to stay, in order to survive. But as adults, we have the luxury of choosing who stays and goes, and what kind of connections we foster.

We do not own people; we simply experience them.

What’s next: interviews for the Four C’s begin this week. As I weave the complexities together, I may share personal essays when they’re ready to stand on their own.

Peace is fragile. I won’t break off a piece of myself to complete anyone else. I’m going to move slowly, keep what must be kept, and not miss this life. I can’t look in the rear-view mirror and cry for the times I’ve lost; I have so much life left to live. I have so many people I’ve yet to meet, transform, and be transformed by.

I won’t break off a piece of myself to complete the Memoir faster than it can organically materialize. Just as a healthy relationship of any sort can’t happen without me being healthy, the Memoir, the physical, tangible representation of my life, needs space to breathe. It’ll take years and years for me to do my life justice.

I won’t break off a piece of myself to promise you a cadence. Art will bloom as it should. I want to say a post a week is doable. What if I have a bad week? Or even more appropriately, what if I’m too busy living my new life, now?

I’m so grateful that I did this project as 1:1 as I can: When I started, I said I’d bleed on paper if I must, and that truly reflected who I was at that time, even if it was just a month or two ago.

Reader,

I never believed in “finding yourself”—perhaps that’s a symptom of cPTSD: My whole life, was not fully mine. But I do believe in building myself from where I stand today.

Thank you for being here. I’m excited to start telling you the story, for real now, next post.

But I will say, while I dearly love Austin, I think I need a change of scenery soon…

Dear Reader,

I promised to keep this as 1:1 as possible. Until there’s a chip in my skull, this is as close as we get—but yes, I did say I would surrender.

I need to interrupt the book cadence for a minute to breathe. Two reasons.

First: I hate leaving threads hanging. I’ve teased Opal (see: Opal, a Blanket, and My First Real Therapy Session) and the handoff to Rose. It’s been gnawing at me. On my way home from the office this week, it slid into the edge of my mind: Opal deserves a farewell. She and I had a blast. Honestly, she started my healing.

So that story is yours today. Happy Friday.

Second: my last post dug deep into memories I’d never accessed. As I stitch the Four C’s, I see it clearly: the main characters were haunted. It’s made me hesitate before reaching out to some critical characters for interviews. Am I triggering something here I’m not ready for? Am I disturbing their well-earned peace?

Don’t worry, I will not abandon this project—I just need to build myself into a big enough container to carry it. Strategy takes time, and I don’t want to rush this.

We in the Four C’s were all blindly running into spirals the main character gladly shepherded us through. To give us grace, it was during 2020 lockdowns and riots. The world was anxious, depressed, unmoored.

I see now I was running from the pain about Wulf and me. And myself, too.

I escaped into work, video games, studying tech, and first-time dating. Nothing serious came of it. I was so avoidant, I never even went on a second date the majority of the time. Wulf processed everything upfront, while I didn’t.

Trusted people weighed in on my last post. One said it was hot and heavy. Homeboi said it was a lot to process. Others loved the thrill. All acceptable realities. That rapid-fire passion is what happens when I write 1:1—the way my memories jump between those little dividing lines? That’s literally how my brain files them. I’d always wondered as I read books: What was the first draft like, before the editor and the world told them what to say, and who to be?

And even at 19 minutes of reading time, that post barely scratched the surface. Fortunately, I only promised you the snippets; the prelude, not the actual memoir. When I stitch that beast, it won’t be forgiving. It will take years.

It will demand I sit in each pang, silence, and fragile moment. It will remind me we take everything for granted. It will also honor the beauty of survival strategies: how they bury pain until you’re finally equipped to feel it. The body is truly miraculous, isn’t it?

Conclusion for today: I need to sit with the Wulf chapter a little longer. I’m close. I just realized how much love and respect we had—and I didn’t know it then. Not until I lived through a second divorce.

Snakes grip and tighten as they trust you. If they feel safe with you, they may never let go.

My second marriage? Not the same species. A rushed, whirlwind projection. We placed each other on pedestals and worshiped what we needed most. We were tired. We needed escape. We thought we met because we were soulmates, but we only met on the same pain frequency. We did not love ourselves; we only knew how to achieve and perform. When we couldn’t meet the fantasies we invented, we punished each other with the skills we’d already mastered.

Wulf and I didn’t do that. I could sit here today and try to re-write the story over and over, but I won’t. There were ugly parts of it, for sure—and we were ultimately not right for each other, but the love was heart-breakingly real.

I believe you don’t know if you love each other until you face the moment you potentially have to part. It’s easy to love when you’re getting something. Afterward is the test.

Wulf told me to keep writing (see: Marriage 1 Bonus Chapter) even if I called him a groomer, a pedophile, an abuser or the worst thing imaginable, if it set me free. If that was my truth, he would stand by me, proudly (and he’d extort me for money if I ever got famous, ha). That’s love.

I stood by him when he had nothing, when his health cratered, when even his teeth checked out (I recently dreamt of the time I held his hand in the dentist’s office as they pulled the last of his back teeth out), when he dwindled to bones…120 pounds at over six feet—while he poured poison into himself. That’s love. Incorrectly done, and enabling. But it was the only love I knew how to give at that time.

Sometimes the deepest love doesn’t last forever. It makes you become something greater than you were. I won’t rush past that to force the next chapter. I won’t force a daily deliverable.

I admit now: This project demands something of me that I want to rise with serious intent to. It’s demanding patience, deliberation, and a true test of my emotional capacity.

Artists know the feeling: it overwhelms. You marinate, then cook. Time suspends.

It’s love that transcends attachment and possession. I picture Wulf spending Christmas with his new partner this year—recent, but real. It makes me happy. For years I feared he’d end up alone. While I was with company, I gave him secret phone calls wishing him well, only to hear him “just fine” sitting with our two dogs and cat, watching TV. “Just another day”, he’d say. And I’d wipe away tears in the bathroom, and go out to meet my friends, family or whomever my partner was that given year.

Imagining someone else caring for him the way I did brings me comfort. Imagining her bringing him some hot chocolate and putting on a movie makes me tear with joy.

As for me?

I want to be alone. For the first time in my life, I feel safe in my body, and my life feels peaceful. Please, don’t get me wrong—I’m not going back to being lone “aliferous” wolf. The beautiful friendships and community I have built have allowed me to heal, and I need people: My Lotus Girls, Brilliant Coworkers, Divorced Chicago Boys, PTSD mates, Creatives, they all keep me grounded.

But in terms of romance, maybe someday, but not today.

I’m not The Last Romantic pining for it. I’m retiring Lover-Girl, and leaving her in the past. I’m The Last Romantic falling madly in love with life itself, and all its little intricacies.

And now: Opal, and the Best Medicine of All, Humor:

What I loved about Opal is that she let me be funny in therapy. Other therapists labeled the jokes a coping mechanism.

Did I fend off bullies with humor?

Did I crack jokes to diffuse family tension?

Was I dodging feelings with puns?

Maybe sometimes. But they missed something essential:

With all the feelings available, why would we voluntarily sit here and be sad the whole time?

Laughter belongs with the hedonistic greats. The serious, belly-shaking kind. One a day is my apple.

When we started, Opal and I named the work: abandonment and rejection wounds. I’d neglected myself for years to avoid them. I tried every survival strategy: avoidant, anxious, drowning sorrows. I didn’t know how to work through it.

Even Autistic Suki can’t interject here and break the fourth wall to fully explain the hypnosis/IFS session where I met my soul. I told Opal she must be a witch. I don’t know what she did, but something healed.

How do I know?

About two months in, I was loving therapy so much I’d booked twice a week and stretched every session. Opal became solemn toward the end of one of our sessions:

“What’s wrong?” I said. “Business slow? Not enough psychos? Don’t worry Opal, I can refer… me. We haven’t even gone through all of it yet. I have more stories up my sleeve!”

She laughed. Then: “I have news. The timing is awful because you’re making so much progress—you’re a rockstar, really—but… I’m leaving therapy.”

“Leaving?” She looked maybe a few years older than me. “Opal. You won the lottery?”

“No. I’m going to work on a farm. As a beekeeper.”

“What the fuck, Opal?”

She smiled. “I think someone here can carry the work if you want to continue. But honestly, you could also take a break. That’s how much I trust your progress. You don’t need me anymore.”

I cocked my head.

“How do you feel?” she asked gently.

“Like you’re abandoning me,” I smirked. Then I stood, didn’t ask for permission and hugged her, tight. What I felt wasn’t abandonment. It was joy.

“Opal, you just proved witchcraft is real and demonstrated that it’s legal to change your life mid-stream. I want you happy.”

She teared up and thanked me for trying therapy. We can’t keep in touch—laws are laws. Fucking ethics and compliance. Else, we would’ve grabbed a beer. Well, I guess a non-alcoholic one, now (I’m still sober, biddies, and still more fun than most).

And before I left, I told her something I’d never said out loud to a therapist: that in dating, I often felt either objectified or quietly dimmed. Like certain people didn’t actually want me to shine in my own skin. My gut knew it, even if they didn’t overtly express it. It knew it in every text or affection withheld when I went out in a nice dress or socialized. In one session I blurted, “Fuck it—I want to do it anyway. I just want to be me.” Shine, that is. Be fully seen. Allow myself to feel sexy and confident. At least for myself. Opal didn’t flinch. She smiled like a coach who knows you just crossed a line you can’t uncross.

It warms me to imagine her now, with her mushroom tattoos, a halo of curls, humming among bees on a farm somewhere. A break from the looneys like me. Focusing on herself. As she should.

Therapy taught me to love myself. Only then could I love others without clinging.

On my way out she said, “Don’t forget you’re a badass.”

And I told her, “Yeah. A real sexy one.”

There’s sexy me getting that sexy apple. Don’t forget to laugh today.

Friendly Reminder: If you are here to follow the full experience of my free book unfolding, please start with this read_me post.

In my last post, Marriage 1: Nuclear Family, “How to Be a Teenage Wife”, Donald Trump, One Million Dollars, I highlighted the good times between Wulf and I. I also foreshadowed the things I worried about but ignored. If this helps one person trust their gut sooner, good.

I’ve been reflecting on what did and didn’t work, and I’ll go first: I was emotionally immature. I spent a lot of time blaming Wulf because he “should have known better, as an older man”. Wulf was also previously engaged, and I thought that I was along for the ride. That posture kept me in perpetual victimhood. I’ve reclaimed my agency, and I know that I was in no place to be a teenage wife. Simple. I should have removed myself; I didn’t. I handed full control of my life and the responsibility for my happiness to Wulf, which never works.

Long-term, strategic thinking? I didn’t have it. When I heard we’d be getting a significant lump sum, I drifted into a Zillow-fueled trance. This was also when Wulf started tempering my expectations, which confused me. Why weren’t we dreaming big? A quarter million can be a lot if you steward it. Investments, down payments, helping family—what didn’t I know?

Wulf became severely depressed and anxious. Not only did he have to worry about work and our tiny would-be family, but his family in Iran was under stress. Although I’d said no to kids, mainly because of my internal state and fear that I’d give some sort of mental illness to my children, I know Wulf was still thinking about it in the back of his mind.

Wulf also started chain-smoking more than ever, and the cigarettes became another wedge between us.

I felt helpless. All I wanted was to solve his pain, but I didn’t understand mine, his, or the tidal wave we were standing under.

Enter Grizzly, the conservator. And suddenly everything clicked. This was why Wulf was antsy, and trying to sustain somewhat of a better connection with his brother. Well, I watched one of the rougher sibling betrayals imaginable: he’d taken our share to open an expensive private practice in Orange County and essentially cut us out, without notice. He fucked us. There was nothing Wulf nor his father could do.

Papa Wulf delivered the edge: At least your brother is building a legacy. What have you built for our family except stories? Maybe now you’ll wake up and light the fire.

Here’s a doodle I made of Wulf and I. It was largely a subconscious bleeding.

So I did the thing I know how to do. The fire was already sparking. I hyper-focused: find work, hustle. I wasn’t leaving Wulf’s side. He collapsed many nights, apologizing, muttering that he’d understand if I had to marry someone else. I was so young, why would I stick by him? And while I’m more protective of my resources now, I still believe people are more than their worst days. Failure visits everyone. I wasn’t abandoning my husband over money. Also—think of me like a redemption crackhead: this arc was ours.

I tried everything and kept steady employment in luxury retail, where I picked up most of the corporate skills I still use. I’m a solid people-person and sales manager. The thing is, I do grow exhausted socially and need space to unmask. This was tough before I entered Tech. Sales is one of the most emotionally demanding work one can do.

And so, to ease my anxiety, I searched for creative work and I had a short ( <1 year) jewelry-design era: sketching, mapping bead placements on software that I liken to Tetris meets Minesweeper, then weaving pieces across mediums. I even got a magazine feature. But my gut got loud: I was making minimum wage while the owners—an ex-couple forever mid-argument—gave designers zero commission. And they were demanding. I could’ve spoken up; I quit instead. I spite-deleted them from my resume and kept the good memories.

Should I have started my own thing? Probably. But I was chasing the next paycheck. Luxury sales kept the lights on, and I threw myself back into management. I made it to Porsche, and found pride wearing an all-black suit every day. It gave me a sense of control over the life that was imploding around me.

Meanwhile, Wulf also worked luxury retail, but his self-esteem took hits: English wasn’t his first language, references were weak, Wulf doesn’t do well with constructve criticism, and he stagnated. I climbed; he struggled. It’s sad because Wulf is the best salesperson I’ve ever met. He sells you the experience; not the product. He is the experience.

I grew disappointed in Wulf. I wasn’t supportive, and I have a lot of regrets about that. The critical Asian parent in me came out, and I should have acted more from a place of love. He wasn’t great at understanding my quirks and needs. We fought and avoided each other. Both of us were dancing with addiction. What started as years of fun and exploration turned to survival, then coping. We’d work, come home, bond over hating work, drink, numb, repeat. Hell-loop. And I suspect many couples are stuck in this cycle, too. I saw recently that we now are in a generation where we advocate breaking up now more than ever (Most days, this makes me wonder if monogamy is even feasible in our current construct. Deep down, I still believe in a solid partnership, but I think it’s going out-of-style, and that’s one of the reasons I call myself the Last Romantic. I’m flailing in this dopamine-driven day and age).

Weekends? I wanted dates. He wanted to get high and play video games. So I reluctantly joined, smiling while secretly dying inside.

This is when I started therapy, and unfortunately met the wrong clinicians—see Opal, a Blanket, and My First Real Therapy Session.

In Glendale, a psychiatrist gave me boxes of sample meds from pharma reps. I didn’t refuse because well, he was a psychiatrist, and the medication was free at a time I was in need. At the same time, I took Psych classes at community college to try and understand my brain fog, anxiety and nightmares (cPTSD wasn’t widely known then, and while therapists suggested I could be co-morbidly suffering from PTSD, my inability to name a single event kept them from diagnosing me correctly. This is why I’m so passionate about vocalizing my experience—I know I am not the only one, now). I befriended my Psych professor. I told her about my childhood Autism diagnosis, the ADHD meds, the marriage stress, the lack of support and community, and the crippling anxiety attacks. I even admitted I was struggling with addiction. She gently asked me to bring in my current meds.

Reader, she was furious. She looked up my psychiatrist—malpractice suits, one-star reviews. I hadn’t checked. Survival mode doesn’t shop for doctors; it just obeys. He’d put me on antipsychotics and meds that ballooned my weight.

“You are not psychotic, bipolar, schizophrenic, or whatever they are saying. You are also not stupid, like you keep saying. You are incredibly intelligent and high-functioning. You are just going through a lot of stress, which would give anyone, including me brain fog. This man needs to be behind bars, immediately. Take the week off. I’m furious for you.” She began making phone calls.

I never followed up on what happened to that Doctor, and for the life of me I can’t remember his name. I bet Wulf does. What I do remember is that he “retired”, and I suspect my professor may have had a hand in that.

I will never forget that fiery Indian lady. Wherever you are, bless you.

That realization helped me taper off all the meds—but not before the crash.

From a shoot where the photographer cued, “Show me a woman who’s just hit rock bottom, and she’s just plain sick of this shit. But you know, she hasn’t lost yet.”

I fell into the worst depression of my life. Couldn’t get out of bed. This is what a shame spiral looks like: “Why didn’t I Google the doctor first? Why would I just take the meds without thinking? Am I stupid?”

I overdosed on thirteen Klonopin, weed, and a bottle of Jack while Wulf was at work. He came home early, and called 911. He was freaking out. After they pumped my stomach, I stayed in the hospital for weeks and relearned how to walk. I had to use a bedpan. When I turned to adjust my pillow the first night, I found a razor blade that cut my hand open—remnants from people who wanted their lives to end, that laid in this exact spot, right before me.

What would I decide? Was this the end for me?

My left leg swelled to twice the size of my right. I was 188 pounds, and 5’3 asking, “Why is this happening to me? What have I done to deserve this life?”*

And here, a pause—because the real answer is not a plot twist, it’s agency.

*If you are struggling with these thoughts, please reach out to someone safe, or call reach this 988-hotline.

Agency Interlude: NARM, Trauma Therapy, and Why Agency Is Oxygen — Autistic Suki Time!

Historically, my brain liked systems. Largely, I guess even after healing, it still does. If not, I wouldn’t be working in the field I am (I’m currently a PM in Big Tech, and I’m looking forward to taking you on the journey of how I got here). If you give me a problem labeled “feelings”, I’ll rewrite it as an architectural diagram: inputs, constraints, throughput, bottlenecks. This is how I survived a childhood shaped by chaos: I systematized the storm.

NARM (NeuroAffective Relational Model) gave me a blueprint for that storm. NARM says: early on, we make brilliant, body-level adaptations to get attachment and survive. Those adaptations are not “bad”; they’re successful prototypes deployed under hostile conditions. The problem is versioning…we keep running old software: Childhood v1.0 in Adult v12.7, and the interface crashes. I know this sounds crazy, but I actually journal my former selves in version history form every so often. It helps me see the progress.

• Symptom is strategy. Dissociation, people-pleasing, over control, rage, collapse—these were once agency. They were me steering the ship with the only wheel available.

• Agency isn’t “try harder.” It’s the moment I notice the old code executing and say, Oh, this script kept me alive. Thank you. And it’s not needed here. That micro-second of noticing is the hinge of the door.

• NARM sequence in plain code:

  1. Orient to connection (with self, then other).

  2. Track what’s happening now (sensations > stories).

  3. Name the survival style showing up (e.g., fawning, fight, shut-down).

  4. Ask what I want now (not what I feared then).

  5. Take a small, doable action that honors today’s capacity.

Trauma therapy doesn’t delete history; it updates permissions. I stop outsourcing my thermostat to other people’s weather. Agency is not sexy—it’s granular: drink water, put feet on the floor, tell the truth in one sentence, leave the room before I escalate, choose the boring supportive habit again. Stack these micro-choices and a life reappears. NARM taught me that my “maladaptive” behaviors were once adaptive. Respect the ancestor pattern, then retire it with honors.

That is healing. That is adult sovereignty. And I thank every version of me that brought me here today.

Back to the plot. Around then my grandmother—yes, the one I’ve told you truly has Narcissistic Personality Disorder—arrived to “take care of me.” I could never say no to her. She moved in. It was a nightmare. I was caring for the person who swore she was caring for me. Enmeshment rebooted: critique, neediness, control. Her problems always superseded mine. It is sad, but she wanted to keep me sick to keep me near. This was a mind-fuck to untangle.

When she left, something in me snapped—cleanly. I went sober. I started walking daily. No gym, just miles.

I kept seeing my therapist, Mary. She was a middle-aged free spirit with a daughter a few years younger than me. She cried whenever she imagined I was her kid. Neurotic? Sure. But most psychologists are. Why else would they go into therapy? She was “woo woo” in a crystal-forward way, and as an Armenian Buddhist, we had common ground—I was born Buddhist.

One day, I showed up in a dress falling off my smaller frame.

“Suki, you look amazing. Do you realize how much weight you’ve lost?”

“I guess. Lots of loose skin to figure out what to do with. Clothes don’t fit.”

“Give yourself credit. You’re doing this without medication. Maybe the meds were the problem.”

Something cracked. I still wasn’t happy. I broke down about Wulf in a way I hadn’t allowed myself to before. I’d been focused on my shame and my work; Wulf wasn’t changing. The elephant in the room had become too big to ignore.

A marriage PSA I wish someone had given us:
Person A brings Problem Set 1.
Person B brings Problem Set 2.
Together they create Problem Set 3.

Most couples obsess over Set 3. The real work is A owning Set 1 and B owning Set 2. When that happens, Set 3 usually shrinks on its own.

Mary said, “Invite Wulf to couples. Or encourage him to see someone. This will never work with just you contorting.”

I asked over dinner that night. He laughed. In his story, I was the sick one; he was fine. Wulf does not talk about feelings. Never did. I learned to read the air, walk on eggshells, mind-read. There wasn’t much depth, and it wore me down. After several attempts, he said he’d come. He didn’t.

I’ve dated a lot of men like this over the years, and I can never do this emotional labor and over-functioning again. I’ve seen too much of how this goes.

In my next 1:1 therapy session I told Mary, “I think I’m going to divorce Wulf.”

As a trauma survivor who never felt fully safe with Mary, I braced for pushback. I hid my face. “I can’t live like this. I can’t believe he’s fine with it. I give up.”

Mary stood up and clapped. Not textbook, but certainly memorable, and validating.

“Lover girl Suki, you should’ve left three years ago! I couldn’t tell you what to do verbatim, but boy, did I want to. I’ve been waiting patiently for this moment.”

Three years. The last three years of our marriage were rubble and we sold the facade.

I’m skipping some grief here because I’ll give it the space it deserves later: the death of my adoptive dad John, my mother’s death, death in the family for Wulf, health crises for Wulf and his parents. Wave after wave. We held each other through it until we couldn’t.

When I told Wulf I wanted a divorce, he didn’t believe me. In his world, Wulf + Lovergirl was non-negotiable. We could love or hate each other, but divorce? Absolutely unthinkable.

I didn’t have the heart to enact it all at once; I stayed for months, and died slowly.

By 2019, the Four C’s story kicks off. I took a CX (Customer Experience) role at a furniture company and got promoted quickly. I’ll save the details for the official start of the story (I estimate in maybe 2 posts or so), because they matter.

I mention the job because I was gaining power. I also met someone virtually at work who became a best friend and travel buddy for years. It hurts to say I had to cut him out this year—his attachment patterns weren’t safe for my nervous system. I still hold him in my memories with affection. Let’s call him Fisher.

Fisher was Assyrian Iranian. We clicked. I had very few male friends, if any I kept in contact with outside Homeboi, mainly out of respect for my marriage and tradition.

I’ll admit: I developed a small crush. And it turned out he did too. He had a girlfriend at the time, and so it felt wrong and shameful for both of us. We didn’t tell each other until years later, but we felt it. We could be ourselves, and we could talk about interests. It kind of felt nice to not be in constant survival mode around him, and feel free again. We talked about books, music, and mainly—philosophy. Things that Wulf and I no longer had the time or energy to discuss.

It became a routine therapy topic. Mary said it was understandable and a sign the marriage might be beyond repair if Wulf refused change. At what point would I actually set down a consequence? While I never had romantic conversations with Fisher, the attraction alone made me feel like I was having an emotional affair. The guilt was thick.

One night stands out in particular. I was talking about Fisher and work more at home, and Wulf finally took notice. He took me to a nice dinner and a rooftop bar. In the elevator, a group of guys complimented my outfit (happens; I look unique). Wulf stiffened. I walked ahead. He grabbed my wrist in a way he’d never done before: “Don’t walk ahead of me like that.”

I wanted to cry. I do walk fast—NYC legs—and sometimes forget who’s with me. He used to love this spunk. He used to joke about it; admire it, even. What shifted?

We sat, I ordered cocktails to calm my nervous system, and asked, “What was that?”

“What was what? You flirt with those guys, ignore me, then leave the elevator like you’re not with me.”

I apologized to keep the peace, then talked about my upcoming promotion panel Fisher was on. I liked the other women on the panel, too, and maybe this could be our big break!

Wulf interrupted: “You keep mentioning Fisher. He’s Iranian? Where’s his family from?”

“I’m not sure—Assyrian Iranian. I didn’t even know—”

He cut me off. I’m warning you: this is the ugliest Wulf moment and not the whole of him. Have forgiveness in your heart.

“Assyrian? Ha. Fucking peasants. Of course I’d never know them. They’re probably homeless. You see the street we walk by, with all the tents here? That’s them in Iran. They’re not real Persians.”

I was mortified. “Is that how you see people below you? Is that how you saw me? Is that why you think I’ll never leave? I’m done.”

I walked out. He apologized all night, but the damage was done. I wanted more world, not less. More love, not judgment. If Wulf wouldn’t rise, I had to. I began planning. I had a job. I was up for promotion in just 60 days of employment.

And the question kept circling: Who would I be if I were free?

Here, the photographer asked me to show a side of me that my usual photoshoots don’t capture. “Give me soul; give me sad. You’re a serious model, an actress—not just boudoir.”

The final crack: my birthday. I wanted Universal Studios like the child I am. We didn’t get VIP. Both banks froze our cards (we never went anywhere, so it probably raised a flag). Miserable. Wulf spent 45 minutes on hold while I wandered shops, avoiding conversation with strangers after the elevator incident, considering buying a toy shark.

We finally got Butterbeer, and it was the highlight of my day. I’m a huge Potterhead (Gryffindor, baby!). It was hot (I’m also an August baby). Wulf complained nonstop, especially about the aquarium I asked for after. He didn’t want to go, and wouldn’t we be having so much more fun Playing Games in Air Conditioning in the Comfort of Our Home? Why Are We Here?

I exploded. Many people with cPTSD will nod—after folding and folding, the spring snaps. I exploded all at once: I demanded we leave. In the car, I raged: I’m done, done, done. No more optimism cosplay. No more carrying the mood. You had chances—therapy, shadow work—and you passed. It was my ugliest moment; it was nothing short of abusive. I broke Wulf’s heart into a million pieces all at once, because he was content cracking mine slowly.

Wulf ugly-sobbed driving home. It landed: Lovergirl Suki was truly done.

I started apartment hunting in front of him, immediately.

He warned me off the 275-square-foot unit in DTLA—cockroaches, rats, shared showers, danger. You’ll get hurt. My mind was made. He cried. Told his family. They turned on me. I don’t blame them; he was shattered. All except his dad, who saw something in me, as I mentioned in Marriage 1: Alright, I Swear Good Times Are Coming Soon! Meet the In Laws, Rescuing People, Palm Trees, Cocaine, and Babies?

Wulf didn’t fully appreciate me until I was gone. In the years to come, Wulf and I, while single would have a few dates to see if it was worth resurrecting. And Wulf vulnerably has told me he regrets taking me for granted. Unfortunately, it was too late—and we both ended up agreeing I needed to move on.

Four C’s Sidebar—Prelude in the Prelude

Meanwhile at the startup, the Co-Founder loved me because I was first in, last out. I dressed up, took the job seriously, remembered customers’ cats and kids. They invited me over. They’d always ask for either him, or me—and it fit his brand. He furnished my studio and told me I had a serious future. He was a software guy and suspected I’d break into tech. I had an Alienware setup and took Steam a little too seriously—he clocked it. Foreshadowing, indeed.

I will call him Bird. Bird and his beautiful family now reside in Woodstock, NY, after selling his share of the company. His tenant actually works at the Big Tech company I work at now. The world is small.

Woodstock is one of my dream areas to buy a home in one day, and I hope we can all reflect on this journey together in the coming years. Writing the Four C’s is cathartic for me, because there’s a lot of my side of the story that no one knows from that company.

Back in Mary’s office, she worried. Wulf had no money to give me. His parents were paranoid—no prenup, and they feared I’d pursue alimony.

This cut the deepest. Wulf said if I sued for anything, he and his parents would bury me in lawyers. He retained someone who worked on the Depp–Heard team.

It was survival and hurt, but the intensity scorched me. I grew up with nothing but my word, and I couldn’t believe that he thought so low of my character, and what we meant to each other.

I told him: “I don’t want a penny. Nothing. But you’ve lost me for good.”

He did, and he spiraled. His father sent me $1,000 in sorrow for where my life had landed post-Wulf. He still respected me and believed I’d do great things. I feel like he took a gamble on me that day, and wanted to see what I’d make of myself.

Wulf became suicidal. I reluctantly took space. Mary told me that I couldn’t be roped back in.

She asked, “How are you? Twin bed, worst part of the city, big transition. I was scared you might relapse.”

Perhaps the most confusing moment to many, but the clearest part of my life: “Mary, I’ve never slept so well in my life.”

That studio, and my bed, was my safe space. My nervous system began cooling off and relaxing again.

In the next post, I want to honor the pets we raised together (I purposely left them out, as they deserve their own feature), and how we eventually kept a friendship. Then we begin the Four C’s in earnest. The furniture company arc includes COVID, me learning Tech, conspiracy rabbit holes, Scientology, brain-washing, smart people losing their minds, and yes—the cartel, crypto and a murder.

Thank you for making it this far.

When I first told friends and family, I climbed on my high horse: “I’m marrying an older man. He’s got his ducks in a row. You think my life is spiraling? Watch.” Teenage me even googled “How to be a Wife” and asked my grandmother (who survived the world’s Most Toxic Relationship, separated by a world war, until my No-Good Cheating Grandfather Finally Dropped Dead) what to do. I was building the “Nuclear Family” out of my AP U.S. History textbook. And considering she imagined I was off to Hollywood with Osama bin Laden, maybe it was predetermined to be nuclear; sans family.

(For the record: I’m fine with a partner who can lead, but leadership needs humility, emotional and physical safety, financial steadiness, and devotion to growth. And I should challenge him—and be challenged back. Unfortunately, at the time my only “manual” was grandma.)

Practical me surfaced one night over cocktails: “What’s our plan? A budget?” Wulf grinned: “Budget? Plan? We live like everyone else. And we drink like fish.”

Oh reader, this was foreshadowing in neon.

Our stay with his brother was brief. My gut twitched early, and I didn’t yet know how to hear it. I lived in my head.

Here’s the line that found me:

Grizzly and the rest of Wulf’s family slipped into Farsi even when we were speaking English. Wulf tried to loop me in, but the message was clear: you are not one of us. At night I would google Farsi phrases to fit in. Truthfully, I swallowed the shame and contorted—my long-term survival strategy, now under renovation. Most of the time, I was just hanging out with his baby niece, Nana, who loved me. I remember playing with her beautiful hair and spending time with her, locked in a room while the adults discussed adult things. I wanted to join, badly—but I didn’t have a seat at the table.

Our first big fight grew from that dynamic and my rising anxiety. Survival mode spiked. I missed my old Saturn and Homeboi—the version of me who was goofy and unguarded. In that house I felt watched, hushed, alone. No Homeboi, no scumbag high school friends, no music, no grandmother. No pets, no job, no classmates. I was isolated and looked to Wulf to fix it. Nightmares multiplied. He told his family I had social anxiety. Like many immigrant parents, they didn’t quite understand. The shame spiral tightened. I kept looking in the mirror, saying, “Get it together.”

One night he took us to a hotel to get away from it all. I broke down emotionally and told him everything. He said that if it came down to it—standing up for me or aligning with his family—he would reluctantly choose his family, set me up with an apartment and a care package, and send me off. Brutal clarity. If I’d been sovereign then, I would have taken that exit. I wasn’t.

Elder Autistic Suki’s Brief Public Service Announcement to Coming-of-Age Girlypops!

Reader, especially if you’re a young woman: think hard about your future. Your life, femininity, essence, and dreams are precious. I kept trading myself for harmony and calling it love. Rethink that trade.

If you grew up in chaos, you probably learned survival over intimacy. Brené Brown would call it armor. Mine looked like competence and charm—excellent at work, brutal on a nervous system that wants safety. Your body isn’t “woo”; interoception is data. When your chest tightens before family dinners, that’s your autonomic nervous system (hi, Stephen Porges) asking for safety. Real partnership is two adults turning toward each other (Gottman), not an adult and a committee. Different isn’t disloyal; it’s differentiation (David Schnarch): staying connected without shrinking yourself. Attachment styles aren’t aesthetics; if you feel like a beggar at the door of love, that pattern needs therapy, not a playlist. Healthy couples repair early and often; if every rupture becomes a trial, you’re tending a bonfire, not building a bowl. Shame will keep hiring your partners until you fire it. Once you start healing, it’s less theatrical than you fear and more practical than you think.

If you want to chat, and you feel alone, I’m here.

I never doubted Wulf loved me. He just didn’t love me enough to face his shame, loosen the family tether, and build something new with me. That, to me, is partnership. He split the difference: keep the family close, keep me too. But the crack had already formed. I buried it and stayed for years. The fracture widened without tools. In survival mode, I convinced myself I needed Wulf like air. I didn’t trust that an apartment and some cash could carry me onto my own path, the way Homeboi said it would, in Marriage 1 Bonus Chapter: Wulf Still Has My Respect, Homeboi, Self-Love and Tomorrow We Honor Our Good Times.

We didn’t know it yet. We chose denial, avoidance, and a little chaos.

And yes, the chaos was fun.

Me, Beverly Hills, taken by Wulf

A monthly stipend appeared like magic and we lived like fools. Wulf introduced me to the finer things. I grew up where Michael Kors counted as “designer.” He upgraded my taxonomy: Cartier vs. Chanel, YSL vs. Gucci, and the poetry of watch movements. Most of my nicest pieces are stamped from that era. Well, what’s remaining, anyway.

Wulf was loving a wild spirit. I didn’t worship objects. He once gifted me Gucci’s entire bamboo collection, along with Roberto Coin earrings for all 10 ear piercings I have (I still do not wear earrings) I wore it to Venice Beach, downed a bottle of Maker’s Mark with Homeboi, and lost half of it to the Pacific.

Wulf’s face cycled from tan to emergency-red. This became a pattern.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “The water was so nice.”

“It’s fine, little one,” he sighed. His patience—accepting what he couldn’t change, like my feral wonder—kept us together far longer than probability suggested.

We ate at the best places. At home he DJ’d obscure histories, art, and music. I lay there watching cigarette smoke in spirals and tried to absorb a world I hadn’t been allowed to notice while surviving. I had little travel, limited media; my life was mostly interior.

Wulf, Beverly Hills, taken by me

A typical night indoors:

“…and that’s why Japanese denim is the best. Same principle as the way the Germans perfected—” He’s on the couch, smoking. I’m starfished on the floor. I pull at his pant-leg. He looks down, completely unfazed that I’m on the floor.

“Wulf, you ever want to run barefoot across grass at night?”

“What?”

“Let’s go. Right now.”

That was the world I brought him: imagination and child-like spontaneity. We painted together, splattering white clothes he somehow pulled off. Wulf consistently got stopped in the street for his style, and to model. We photographed each other. With what felt like an unlimited budget, all I wanted were toys: comics (I’ve always been a Spider-Man girl), video games, LEGO. Things I wanted but couldn’t afford growing up. He hadn’t touched that part of himself either; both of us, immigrant kids who grew up too fast.

He couldn’t cook. To this day he seems powered by chips, bacon, and breakfast burritos. I cooked at home, and I can still hear him calling his mother to announce it was better than any restaurant. That’s when I realized I love cooking: the alchemy of making someone I love that happy. He did show me one childhood favorite (Chef Suki Time!):

Baby Wulf’s Persian(ish) Hot Dogs with Peppers & Onions
My weeknight sosis bandari shortcut—fast, cheap, wildly cozy. Slightly upgraded since our era.

Ingredients (serves 3–4)
1 pack hot dogs, thinly sliced on the bias
1 small yellow onion, thinly sliced
2 green bell peppers, thinly sliced
2 tbsp tomato paste
2–3 tbsp neutral oil
½ tsp turmeric (optional but very Persian)
½ tsp paprika (smoked or sweet)
Pinch cayenne or red pepper flakes (I’ve used gochugaru before)
½ tsp sugar
Salt and black pepper
2–3 tbsp water
Squeeze of lemon or 1 tsp vinegar

Method
Heat a wide skillet over medium-high. Add oil and onions; cook 3–4 minutes until glossy. Add peppers; sauté 4–5 minutes until softened. Push to the sides; sear hot dogs 2–3 minutes. Clear a spot; fry tomato paste with a touch of oil 60–90 seconds until brick-red and fragrant. Season with turmeric, paprika, cayenne, sugar, salt, and pepper. Splash in water to glaze. Simmer 1–2 minutes until saucy. Finish with lemon or vinegar.

Serve like Wulf likes, over steamed white rice (rinse until the water runs clear), or pile into toasted buns or lavash with pickles. Bonus: parsley, jalapeños, sumac, or a dollop of yogurt. As for me? I like having it as a side dish—Korean friends have approved!

Another bond that kept Wulf and I together: Wulf believed in my art; so much more than I did. He sent me to art school. The problem was the ecosystem. It fed the work and starved the person. Like many tortured artists, I made pieces I still love while quietly dying. I needed reprieve.

Here’s a doodle I made during some of these times. I think it shows just how messy my mind was.

Life got real, pretty quick: money issues, health scares, family deaths. We stayed when most couples would have tapped out. Fun, love, and respect carried us past logic. But so did my self-abandonment—shrinking while a fire in my chest whispered, You’re meant for more. I tried to talk Wulf toward that fire; he wanted family and was fine with how things were. Maybe contentment is wisdom; maybe it’s a lid. The fire kept growing. Over time, my heat annoyed him.

Age-gap relationships are lovely until the accelerant of one person’s becoming singes the other’s equilibrium.

Then politics raised the stakes. Trump blazing onto the scene; Iran–U.S. tensions worsened. Our dependence on Wulf’s family hummed with new anxiety. One evening he got off a long call with his father and said quietly:

“My parents are concerned. They’re coming to give us the last bit of money we’ll get for a while, maybe ever.”

“How much? What do we do?”

“A final million to split among us. I think we should buy a house and settle down.”

And that, dear reader, is where the next fault line opens.

Wulf, like many of us, had a dark past.

From the start, a few things were off. On the East Coast he didn’t have a phone. For a man who projected polish and confidence and picked up every check without blinking, it didn’t track. I can’t recall the reason he gave me, but I can tell you it wasn’t true. What I picked up was shame, sadness, and a thin ribbon of embarrassment. I recognized it. I related to it. Whatever the real reason was, I wasn’t very curious about it, to be honest with you.

I decided I didn’t need the why. I saw someone I cared about struggling and thought, I should fix it.

So I worked overtime, kicked ass at that Board Game Start Up I’d referenced in Psychedelics, Ulysses (Mr. Psychedelic), and Which Pen, Exactly?, saved a few paychecks, and bought him a phone. He cried. That was my first real glimpse of Wulf’s inner child. Reader, you’ll learn that while I couldn’t yet comfort my own inner child, I have a spooky talent for spotting everyone else’s. Combine that with a deep rescue streak and here comes the plot twist: who is saving whom?

(Here’s a photo of Wulf and I during our courtship in NYC. I love this one, because this is where you can see the goofiest Wulf; the inner child Wulf. And me, with all the hopes and dreams and heart eyes, at a bar I shouldn’t have been allowed in. Wulf is going to kill me if he ever sees this. He would never be caught dead without his insane beard, that I am not a fan of.)

Gift-giving is still my favorite love language. I promised I’d surrender the truth to you, though. I’ve learned that big gifts I can’t afford were my survival strategy and a form of self-abandonment. I regulated my anxiety by helping. I’d been programmed—most notably by my grandmother, since I wasn’t speaking to my dad then—to feel guilty for existing at all. Her “sacrifice” for the abandoned granddaughter became my cue to buy her things. That didn’t stop until this year when I went full excommunicado in April. That’s right. My whole life, I felt like I was paying a debt to anyone who housed me. Whether through gifts, money, solving problems or emotional labor, there was always an expensive tax involved.

Wulf had an older brother—let’s call him Grizzly. Grizzly was a doctor, soon to be important, thank you very much. He believed he looked like George Clooney. Personally, I saw Jimmy Kimmel on a goofy day, but sure. The whole family was good looking, I won’t deny that. But one’s heart shines through. He was the family prize in their father’s eyes. Wulf and their sister, Dove, were their mother’s favorites. Mama Wulf, sentimental and neurotic. Papa Wulf, practical and gentle.

Wulf despised Grizzly. Family Wulf had done well back in Iran. Papa Wulf was brilliant and lucky—won the immigration lottery while studying at a prestigious university here in the states, then built a construction business, government contracts and all. Money came in, wife seventeen years his junior, three kids, life set. When I’d seen photos of their house in Iran, I was amazed: everything was gold. And the stories! Of bribing police, political tales and open-mindedness of the Persians, robbed by the new regime… I could hear Wulf and his family go on for days. Rumi was already my favorite poet.

Wulf, the youngest, was the trouble-maker. He developed a cocaine habit, racked up debt, and partied like a rock star. Whatever mischief Lovergirl Suki was up to did not touch the rainbow-line, women, and penthouse nonsense I heard about from Wulf. If I were as I am, healing and all today, I would have walked. But I was still a teenager in both body and mind, and I thought it was kind of cool.

After enough mayhem and debt, Papa Wulf cut him off except through a guardian arrangement. Grizzly became the cash gatekeeper. Wulf hated it. I listened, nodded, and got mad with him and for him. I never liked bears, anyways!

I met his parents in New York before we moved. One of my mall jobs was shipping and handling with Homeboi at an international upscale clothing brand. I’d been hired front-of-house as a “stylist” and model, then the panic attacks rolled in. If I could time-travel, I’d hug teenage me. It wasn’t just exhaustion from masking; it was cPTSD flares I couldn’t name yet. Plus, I was simply overwhelmed. A preview of the chaos to come on my mental-health quest.

Wulf’s mom thought I was beautiful and was already picking out baby names in her head. His dad pulled me aside. “You are too good for my son. You married the wrong son. You’re smart and you work hard. I’m sorry.” I kept that to myself for a long time, but it never left me.

Los Angeles. I don’t think I’d ever seen palm trees up close. I sprinted to one and hugged it. Wulf thought it was adorable.

Sometimes I feel like Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt. I’m a bubbly cartoon most days. There’s rage and flashbacks, sure, but the world is still shiny and interesting to me. I can find joy in a parking meter if you let me.

I believe in inner children and I love children in general. Next chapter I’ll tell you more happiness, I swear, but it kind of hurts to linger here, and I want to feel that fully. Wulf wanted kids. He daydreamed constantly. I kept backing out. Eventually I told him I couldn’t. He gave up that dream for me. He still doesn’t have kids.

Then came Marriage 2. We agreed on children eventually, at least fostering, and later he said he’d only agreed because he thought it’s what I wanted. The boomerang has a sense of humor.

(Here’s a doodle I made around that time, in Los Angeles).

I know I promised good times are coming, and they are. For now, let’s sit with this part—the very human piece where love meets history, and intentions meet programming, and a palm tree gets a hug because sometimes that’s all a girl can do.

I love film as well, and the ones with the somewhat unreliable, disorganized narrators always stuck to my neurodivergent brain (think: Memento, The Usual Suspects, Fight Club). One thing I’ve always consistently struggled with is memory, because of the powerful ability I have to compress, compartmentalize, detach, and disassociate. This tight ball of yarn is loosening daily through my healing journey. But in a way, I wanted to capture the passion and obsession I have into my work as 1:1 as I could.

More than a traditionally disciplined artist, I am an obsessive one. This work is not finished yet, and so every waking moment is spent thinking about this problem to solve. It cannot escape me, and I’m grateful I have friends and other responsibilities that force me to touch grass every once in a while. If not, this would be all that I do. If I could, I would forego sleep. That’s just how my brain works.

My big picture goal is to finish a memoir as I heal, stitch together all the memories I’ve filed away in my life in therapy, and release that as an actual publication. I’ve always dreamt of having a physical book I’ve written on my own shelves.

However, there’s a part of my life that I realized was just too fucking strange not to talk about as a standalone. This is where this Substack comes in, and what I’m calling the story of the “Four C’s: COVID, the Cartel, Conspiracy Theories, and Cryptocurrency” (Featuring: the Riots, and the Time I Was Kind of A Scientologist… oh, and Did I Mention There’s a Murder?). While the rest of my life is certainly unconventional, rowdy, and entertaining, this is just weird enough that it had to be written for the world.

The synopsis:

Back in 2020, I was a Tech PM at a startup, where we hired a consultant to optimize our codebase. Lockdowns and riots happened and my ex boss (the CTO/CISO) and I became his right hand people as he gained essentially pseudo control of the company.

I can’t even explain what kind of charismatic, brilliant devil (he taught at MIT) he was, and the insane rabbit hole we fell down in while the world was adjusting to remote work.

As for me? I’m your friendly neighborhood PM, still in Tech, creating across many mediums: writing, modeling, drawing and guitar (until my therapist subscribes so we can have more efficient meetings). I’ve been diagnosed with AuDHD and cPTSD, and these things make my voice a bit spicy. I lived a weird life, with a fucked childhood, became an illegal immigrant in the projects, became a homeless punk rock pickpocket, got married and divorced twice, and now I’m a nerd and creative in big tech trying to heal the world.

Hope you like the heat!

I couldn’t sit by the fact that for years, my friend and former boss (he wanted to be called “Matteo”, but let’s be honest here, it wasn’t my style. I’m calling him “Britman”. In long form, “Funk Master Brit/Australian Tech Guy”) have been talking about how insane it is, and how it needed to be a book; a movie; a documentary, but never got around to it. I realized: much like there is no one coming to save you, there is no one else that can write this story but me. And when he suggested selling the story, I did think about the fork in the road. Short term, Britman was right. I could use the cash, and it would be easier for sure. But in long term, I think I’d regret it if I didn’t tell it myself.

So here we are. I’ll be releasing it in pieces. I will write daily anyways, but maybe some days I’ll be deep in research or thinking of what to say. Some days I might weave in some personal stories, because I think it’s important for you, reader, to deeply understand the narrator. This isn’t an objective investigation into what occurred. This is me telling you everything from my lens.

I’ve also been browsing Substack loads on my “off” time, and I haven’t found anything like this concept.

So, with all of that said, if you’re just starting out, here’s how to navigate my Substack:

Four C’s: Read in this order:

The Backstory: My First Marriage, Osama Bin Laden, A Punk Rock Coming of Age Story

Marriage1: NYC Intros, When the Rich and Poor Mate, and “Babe, Don’t You Know? No One Fucks With the Persian Cats.”

Marriage1 Bonus Chapter: Wulf Still Has My Respect, Homeboi, Self-Love, and Tomorrow We Honor Our Good Times

Marriage1’s Good Times Are Coming, but First, Stop Saying Narcissists, My Therapy Session is The Shoot I’m Most Proud Of, I’m Finally Safe in My Own Body, and Why I Destroy My Body

Everything else I post going forward will be a continuous flow for the book. Everything posted before, you can treat as side quests: look at them to grab some context clues, learn more about me, and maybe be moved. Who knows. What else are we really living for?

Oh, and here’s the tattoo I got to commemorate this whole experience. Above all, I started writing and I continue living to heal the world through art: whether it’s story-telling, or any other medium I create with. This palm tattoo represents me being branded by “touching the fabric of reality”. 2020 taught me that loneliness, isolation, and the collapse of community are eating us alive. The smartest people you know can skid into psychosis faster than you’d think in the internet age. Many characters in the Four C’s did. I’m going to try and interview as many of them as I can, and revisit my past. I don’t know where this will all take me. I don’t know how long this will all take to piece together. But I’m glad you’re here with me.

To the free readers and subscribers, thank you for taking a moment of your busy lives to disconnect with me. To my paid subscribers, thank you for helping me chase my dreams (and buy blueberries).

I take your experience seriously, dear reader. If I’d started with the glitter—the rock-n-roll and glamorous Los Angeles scenes—you’d be stuck with obvious questions. Why would a woman with a decent head on her shoulders choose that? And why is Wulf acting twenty-one when he is very much not?

The answer has been the same from the start: I must surrender.

You know how else I know? My stripper therapist (I’m just kidding, her name’s not really Rose) asked me if we could record our next session so she could show her trainees how cPTSD could in fact, be healed. And I’ve gotta tell ya, I was over the moon.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Stripper Therapist Rose? You think I’m better?” And she smiled her adorable smile, and asked me, “Well, that’s what I think, but what do you think?”

I realized that she was right. Friends, I am a brand new bitch. I feel safe in my own body, for the first time in my life.

(This was taken the last night I had a sip of alcohol. But look at that face. And you think this girl’s missed out on dancing any weekend because she didn’t have alcohol? No, sir.)

Early on, I tied everything with a bow on Instagram. “Childhood was wonky, but love is the answer.” True, and also incomplete. You need to meet a few shadows to understand why kindness is not weakness dressed up for brunch.

So, gently, we slide into Jung. Autistic Suki time!

Jung maps empaths and narcissists like weather fronts moving over the same wound. Early injuries seed complexes that make some of us exquisitely attuned to other people’s storms. We become “wounded healers,” reading rooms because pain trained the antennae. The very same wound can also harden a persona and inflate an ego, a way to avoid dependency by worshiping one’s own reflection and refusing to meet the shadow. Push any extreme long enough and it flips into its opposite: self-sacrifice and self-aggrandizement circling the same unmet need for recognition and safety. One dissolves into the Other to stay loved; the other devours the Other to stay intact. Individuation asks both to face the wound beneath the style.

Why does the internet discourse on narcissists annoy me? Because, my loves, take your power back. In street terms: a narcissist is often an empath who chose armor and applause over intimacy.

Okay. In real, New York street terms, now:

A narcissist is a pussy empath.

I’ve been handed all the books guiding me to “Suki, your ex is a Narcissist” and I have read them, and I hear you. But I told you—I see and understand too much, now. Now, I can protect my peace but I can still release with love. I can see how others alchemize their pain: but a chip on my shoulder and walls upon walls are just not the way I groove. But whatever works for them is fine with me. Love is still the answer.

How did I get forged into an empath, and how am I becoming a sovereign one? Back to origin story. Some of you might be like, “Get ADHD Suki back, Autistic Suki is too hyper focused right now. What the fuck is a Carl Jung?”

(Like the book is upside down, get back to the program!)

In Love Song: Why I Write, I hinted at what that little girl went through. I am not detailing it to protect my peace and your day, but here is the headline: years of emotional, physical, and sexual abuse. When she finally asked for help, she was blamed. That is the moment self-abandonment took the wheel. The child brain concluded, “If my parents could give me up, the defect must be me.” Heartbreaking, yes. Also true. I didn’t start metabolizing it until this year. I knew performance. I knew survival. I’m damned proud of that.

At one point in my life, I went home after being beat and sexually assaulted, kept the peace with Dad, folded perfect paper cranes, had the ones folded wrong chucked in the trash, copied dictionary pages to earn dinner, and the next morning disassociated my way through more chaos with a smile. Editing myself to keep fragile egos intact was not a personality trait. It was a lockpick. And again, damned proud of myself. There is no more shame, friends—and I am FREE.

Why share this now? Because it’s my Substack, my social media and my life, so I do what I want. The victim doesn’t have to hide. Why should we? Stand the fuck up and own your story.

One more tunnel, then daylight. In my first session with Opal I blurted that I once punched a man in the face while holding a Harvard gig. Context: he threatened me with sexual assault, and the switch flipped. Bottled rage, meet target. If you know me, this creates cognitive dissonance. I’m usually a whimsical menace who brings snacks. The channel for that rage is therapy, somatics, and a gym that knows my name.

I know some of you (I can see my boss’s face right now) are thinking, “Should we be worried? Will Suki ever go back to Rock n Roll Suki? Is she going to run meetings still?” And rest assured, Stripper Therapist Rose would never let me spiral. But most importantly, I wouldn’t. I’ve got shit to do now that I’m free. I’m a free single lady, folks—and I’m not settling until I meet the guy or gal that can step toe to toe with my fire and build with me. Don’t you worry your cute little noggins. The bar has been picked up from the floor, and no more editing will be done, here.

And the last few weeks were lighter on training; next week I’m back. I need to work out: that little girl’s rage needs muscles! Very cool modeling shoots are booked. A small body cut is coming. I’m excited to grind.

Now, back to our regularly scheduled chaos: Wulf and Lovergirl, peak rock-n-roll. You needed the dark preface to understand the chemistry. A brooding, politically haunted, wildly creative Wulf collides with me, a reformed survivor with antennae sharpened by fire. Of course New York and Los Angeles got weird. Of course we did too.

Sometimes I wish we could’ve ridden it out. We loved each other like Joker and Harley. Fuck, we were Joker and Harley.

In the end, I had to set myself free.