Bourdainism and Paris: Shamelessly Blocking My Entire Family on Social Media, Happy Holidays

Diary of a Fed-Up Romantic.

I did not fall in love with Paris, and I am not falling in love with Paris. I think it’s overrated. Sue me.

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.