I love when it rains because I love the rhythmic pitter patter on the windows, the deep rolling thunder claps that echo through the city.

There is nothing more perfect on an evening like this than to play Fleetwood Mac. I swayed, listening to nature’s remix of some of my favourite songs. The notes absorbed through my skin and into my bones.

After a bit, I sat down to colour, watching the blue overlap and mix into the pink, seeing the purple bloom into existence.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

JUNE 7, 2026

Ryan invited us over, our small group who had performed last week at our community festival. He made us pizza, stretched into perfect circles, then carefully placed ingredients on top.

The first pizza he made me had onions and pistachios. I never would have considered that combination, but the crunchy green bits worked perfectly with the onions, melting into flavours in my mouth.

His backyard was so whimsical. He had a green faux lawn along the side of his house and under the overhang. There was a brick pizza oven placed along the side in the back with a clay sun hanging on the front above the opening, two bells on either side, and a set of wooden doors down below.

We sat laughing under the patio cover as the rain poured around us, the fairy lights intertwined with the plants that hung from the wooden beams.

The evening meandered on, and we decided to go to his studio in the basement. Stacy sang, her voice rang through the microphone as Daria strummed on her guitar.

I felt so at peace.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

JUNE 8, 2026

This morning I put blue eyeshadow on my eyes. First I put a deep cobalt on my outer corners and in my crease. I took my Urban Decay glitter eyeshadow that was meant to be neutral but somehow ran orange on my inner corners. Each side emphasized the other. I put a different blue glitter eyeshadow under my brow bone and on my cheek bones.

I went to meet up with my friends, we went to the restaurant and I ate fettuccine while they ate ravioli and a sandwich. The food tasted so much better that it would have, had I been there alone, because there was no guilty aftertaste.

We went thrift shopping afterwards, searching for places which were further out from the city. The amount of clothing feels so overwhelming, but I keep looking anyways, my eyes focused on the few items right in front of me.

I found a pair of heels with butterflies on the back. They have a yellow band across the toes and a scarily high stiletto in the back. I can’t wait to wear them.

Another friend of mine came with me to my parents’ house. She is graduating and her parents came to visit our city for the first time. We ate dinner all together, and I put the glass of white wine to my lips. I smiled.

The weekend had passed in a blur, and for the first time in a while, I did not feel alone.

I recently finished White Nights by Dostoevsky and was left speechless once again as to how universal the human experience really is, and in awe at how some people capture its timelessness perfectly.

The story follows a young man, the Dreamer, who falls in love with a lady who says from the very beginning that she is not interested in him as anything more than a purely platonic friend. Despite this, he continues yearning for her, thinking entirely about her, trapped in his limerence.

The story starts the way you might expect a love story to start, with the two of them meeting serendipitously. The Dreamer is walking by the water on his daily walk, passing by a man that he sees every day and almost says hi to. He then sees a beautiful young woman, Nastenka, who appears to be crying. In archetypal fashion, he comes in to save her, to dry her tears, but she appears threatened and starts walking away quickly. Another man begins following her, and so the Dreamer quickly catches up to Nastenka to deter the other man.

The two of them form a close friendship, with Nastenka adamantly telling our main character that they are *just* friends, and with typical male audacity, he does not respect her wishes and continues to meet her daily, hoping that she will fall in love with him. Their friendship blossoms, and Nastenka vents to the narrator, telling him about how she has been waiting for another man for over a year, but she fears he may not come because it has been so long.

The story proceeds, leading us as the readers to believe that she will change her mind and end up with the narrator, but alas, the man she was waiting for shows up and sweeps her away.

Nastenka sends the narrator a letter saying how she wished she could have loved them both, and the story ends with the narrator letting life continue to happen around him, always in some state of idealising the future, missing out on what could have been a beautiful, fulfilling friendship because he could not accept that Nastenka was a person with her own wants and desires.

Both the Dreamer and Nastenka are very isolated, albeit for different reasons, but their friendship clearly filled a need that they both had. There is a fundamental difference between their stories: Nastenka’s circumstances, which were driving her isolation, change when she marries the man, but the Dreamer stays stuck. He romanticises women from afar, and even when they are close, he refuses to listen and see them as they are, instead just focused on his own wants and needs.

We are currently in an era where everyone is convinced that there is something wrong with themselves, and that they are a project to be improved infinitely. Somehow, incel culture has infiltrated its decaying tendrils into podcasts, social media, and everyday life. As technology has blended and enmeshed itself deeper into our society, we have opened ourselves up to new kinds of negative influences.

Of course, it is not bad to want to improve and be better, the issue is the original premise, which is that we are somehow undesirable at baseline, and so we maxx. Some have taken the unrelenting tide and turned it into a more positive idea, such as whimsymaxxing, but the majority of our self-optimisation culture is still linked to low perceived self-worth, amplified by social media.

Maxxing culture creates an environment which drives us to become more self-absorbed, fixating on ourselves, ruminating on our insecurities, and ultimately driving us further into loneliness.

The Dreamer is obsessed with who he could be to Nastenka; he loves the idea of being in love, and he enjoys the idea of being chosen. Everything is actually about him.

In online spaces, people (at first mainly men) began positioning masculinity as something based on superficial ideas, like looks and money, and with it grew their feelings of entitlement, which at some point we started calling the male loneliness epidemic.

Dostoyevsky teaches us that as long as your primary focus is on yourself, you can never step out of your own way to allow for connection, and as such will remain stuck in your isolation and loneliness.

The Dreamer, ironically, cannot see outside of himself long enough to see what Nastenka was providing, what he needed so deeply - connection - because he cannot accept the gift in the form in which it is offered.

To conclude, Dostoyevsky is the GOAT. Let’s all get out of our own heads and start living a little!

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I used to think that caring about was actually caring for someone.

The past few months have left me with a lot of time on my hands, time to think (probably too much). A big theme has been about learning to say ‘no’ both to others and myself; to not offer before I was even asked.

Back in September, the leaves had not yet started to change, and I was talking to my therapist about how I found myself giving to the point of burning out. It is a pattern of behaviour that has repeated throughout my life, in so many aspects of it.

“Not giving is easier than you think”, he said.

Back when I was with my ex, Shawn, my friend Lizzie would tease me about how I try to ‘fix men’. It stung, but also she was spot on. I had a difficult time coming to terms with it because I felt like I had made so much progress since my first serious relationship. Whenever I think I have finished learning a lesson, life hits me with it again, but harder.

One of my close friends Veronica has been such a big lesson in stepping back. Throughout our friendship, I have seen her follow patterns that were hard to watch, and when I was younger I would worry so much. I would try over and over to intervene, to help her set up a solution, and yet she would always either reject it or agree and then not do it. In fact, I had to stop talking to her for a few years because it was too much for me to handle. She has come back into my life more over the past while. Although she still makes decisions that I would not make for myself, I am now able to separate myself from the outcome. I am here when she needs me, I help when she asks, and mostly I enjoy having her in my life again. I care, but I am not responsible for her.

When I first started saying ‘no’ to people, and even myself, I was so scared of being selfish. I used to offer to drive people before they asked, I would make elaborate presents for people, I would give and give to my partners, going above and beyond for everyone that I loved. Unfortunately, once I had started, giving became the expectation. It was depleting my energy.

Ironically, by giving so much, I was actually being more selfish than when I stopped. Instead of letting people breathe, giving them space to grow, I was suffocating them and using the need to give to satisfy my anxiety.

One of my friends, Kelly, has recently been seeing a guy. Although he put in effort for the first few dates, in my opinion he had not been doing so lately. I told her over a plate of baklava,

“If he is going to crack you, he should at least drive”

She shrugged and said: “I just don’t want to cause problems or make things complicated”

In that moment, I felt what she felt because I had been there.

As much as I wish I could shake her and tell her “Girl!! Get up!!”, I had already given my opinion and whatever choice she made was hers. Unless she was in active danger, me saying or doing anything else would only hurt her.

After all, I have also made many decisions that I look back on and cringe, but those experiences also taught me so much about myself and helped me grow into who I am today. I also still slip up, for example, I continued seeing my ex for months after we had broken up. When I snapped back to my senses, I left the situation immediately and have not looked back. I know that during that time my friends were ripping their hair out at how I could possibly be so stupid. The worst part is that I knew! I knew how ridiculous I was being, but what helped me the most was Kelly being there for me and listening, empathizing. Lizzie pulling me out of my slumps and playing drunk Guess Who.

When I was with Shawn, he was battling with addiction, and still is. I did not know how bad the situation was for the first year of us dating, but slowly the cracks started showing. We spent a lot of time together, but he was good at hiding it. Loving an addict is not for the weak.

It was hard to watch him repeatedly say that he wanted help, but then not seek any. He would ask me, and I encouraged him to find a therapist, to get medicated. After we broke up, we stayed in contact and I encouraged him to join NA, but he had so much shame he could not face them.

I understand how difficult it must be to face something like that, but in that moment, I also had to save myself.

When the air masks come down in the plane, the instructions are first to put one on yourself and then anyone else.

If I fell apart, we both would.

Our dynamic was perfectly calibrated so that he could keep taking and taking, and I could keep giving and giving.

When I started no contact, it was so hard. I really did love him with every cell in my body, but there are times you can help and times you can’t. I did my best to set him up with the resources he needed, but at the end of the day, you can’t make a decision for someone else.

More recently, Lizzie and her husband Trevor were at my apartment. The four of us, Lizzie, Trevor, Shawn, and me used to hang out all together. Lizzie and Trevor are still in contact with Shawn, and they were telling me how they had almost stopped speaking with him at one point because he was not putting any effort into getting better.

“It’s so frustrating because even when he comes to us asking for help, we help him set up a plan, and then he doesn’t do any of it”

“Well, guys, you can’t fix him”

Oh, the irony.

I felt sad in that moment, it was a familiar feeling.

It is so hard to not intervene and fix people’s issues when you see a clear solution, but putting out one fire won’t turn off the source.

I have also made many silly decisions and unfortunately the only way out is through. There are so many times when I have wanted to scream “Girl!! Get up!!“ at myself, and realized that I simply could not get up.

As friends, we can just make sure we are nearby with a fire blanket, but we can’t preemptively put the flame out before they even notice.

Perhaps I have had an extra hard time with this because as women we are socialized to help and to give, so self-sacrifice becomes second nature.

A little while ago, I felt myself getting overwhelmed and stressed every time I talked to one particular friend. It was so hard coming to terms with the fact that she was unfortunately starting to drain my energy. My heart would beat harder when I would meet up with her and I would almost dread seeing her. I took some time to create distance, and then it clicked what was bothering me - she was very negative, constantly talking badly about herself and I found myself reassuring her and almost parenting her. She would repeat the same issues about her life over and over again, and would seek advice, but then would never act on it. A few things were happening here - firstly, I was just starting to establish good boundaries, and she still had not started on that journey. As a result, we were blurring them, and it was not healthy for either of us. I sat down to speak to her, and was honestly kind of surprised at how open she was to hearing what was bothering me about our friendship. She admitted that she had stopped taking her SSRIs by herself a month ago, which is about when I noticed the shift in our friendship as well. She had just started taking them again that day. I was so happy that we had sat down to speak about it, and although it was hard, I was able to express what I could and could not handle emotionally. Now, a few months later, we are back to being close friends, but with enough distance that I don’t feel like we are meshing into a single being.

Since learning to let go, I have found a peace that I had never known before. Of course, I still care so much about my friends and I love them a lot. As a friend, my responsibility is to call them out on their BS, to help when help is asked for (or something dangerous is going on), and to enjoy them as people. Boundaries have helped me love more deeply, be able to dedicate my energy to showing up for both others and myself. Boundaries have made me a better friend.

My oxygen-mask is now on.

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White rum splashed onto the base of the metal bowl, coating the sides in glassy droplets. Sonya squeezed the limes, letting each individual membrane burst and pucker back as the juice leaked out and into the bowl. She cut up the mint, tossing it into the mix, and then stirred. She took the ladle and poured me a mojito, passing it with a smile.

The other girls were milling around, talking (loudly), excited, in a way that only the anticipation of a good night can get you going. Body con, short skirts, tall boots, hair slicked back or straightened or in diffused curls bouncing over chiffon, satin, lace tops.

I turned back into Lola’s bedroom, grabbing my eyeliner and sipping on my drink. Lola passed me her mascara.

She giggled, and I giggled, something about a dumb new brain-rotted slang term we both adopted. The words spread faster than mono in a pack of college kids. I found myself saying “lowquirkenuinely” and laughing until tears poured down my cheeks, ruining the carefully applied blush I borrowed from my friend.

I love the Plateau in Montreal. Honestly, it hits better than antidepressants. Baby bangs, silver star clips in shaggy bobs, spiky black hair, buzzed heads, breezing past and into the train. Baggy pants, tiny shirts, tiny skirts, and baggy jackets, tall boots, and kitten heels. Avant-garde as a collective, but each unique in their own way.

The crowd gathers, flowing in and out of the metro stations like a well-oiled machine, quietly ignoring the homeless as they live in their own, completely separate, parallel worlds. Sometimes, they try to reach across the chasm, through signs and “excuse me, do you have extra cash, ma’am?”s.

We pass one, two, three thrift stores in 20 meters. Each has large displays of quirky clothing, hanging accessories, and a few small-brand accessory racks containing scarves, rings, hats, and purses. I saw a beautiful red one with silver grommets hanging on the wall next to the window.

I follow the girls to the karaoke bar in Little Italy. As we walk in, three middle-aged men stop mid-conversation to stare at us as we walk through towards the back. They remind me of Nick Portokalos (from My Big Fat Greek Wedding), although of course they aren’t Greek.

We are absorbed into the crowd, a few of my friends leaning over the counter to call over the bartender. I got in line next to the man on the computer (the “DJ”) to write down what we wanted to sing. He types in every request into YouTube, and someone in the crowd takes the mic to start singing along. He makes a lot of typos. I wonder if he’s drinking too.

My Aperol Spritz glistens in the darkened lighting of the bar. We all compliment each other and repeat adamantly how we are now going to do this every week and how this was just the best night ever!

It’s a part of the ritual.

Lola suggests we go to another bar, and around midnight, we call an Uber and make our way over there. Halfway through the ride, someone complains that they want a burger, and everyone starts agreeing. We change our route and walk into Double’s, which apparently has the best burgers in the city.

Lola just went through a breakup and is on a hunt for someone to buy her drinks. She lands on Braydon, a guy in his mid-thirties, sitting alone at the bar. She giggles and jokes, her green eyes fixed on him, and he agrees to buy her a Coke and rum.

I talk to Gisele, a platinum blonde, 5’2 bisexual girl whose words dance out of her mouth. Her relaxed, gentle movements are intentional, an ease that comes from having seen and interacted with the world. She looks effortless in her green silk camisole and low-rise jeans.

My veggie burger is so good, but part of me can’t fully enjoy it because I keep thinking that it is actually meat. I haven’t eaten meat in 10 years; sometimes I really can’t tell. But my gosh, that was delicious.

“We’re leaving”

The other girls made their way out each exchanging a hug and a tearful, “see you soon!”, and then it was just me, Lola, and Braydon. Lola asked for his number, and we left too.

The cool spring air hit us as we left the doors, cold enough that my flimsy sweater was not doing much to keep me warm, but warm enough that I didn’t care.

Datcha, the next club, was a smoky, industrial-looking EDM club. The DJ was actually mixing music right in front of us.

We made our way to the middle of the hazy dance floor, amidst gyrating bodies, feeling the beats echo through my muscles, picking ligaments like guitar strings. The shadowy figures around appeared to be enjoying the music as much as I was.

We walked out and to the shawarma place down the street. Each agonizing step was taken in a weirdly contorted foot position to attempt to relieve some of the discomfort. I have heels that are comfortable and can wear for hours at a time, but these boots were not one of those pairs. Sharing our pain with “ows” and curses between Lola and me almost seemed to alleviate some of it.

In her apartment, a cute one-bedroom decorated in various shades of pink and orange as if Zara Larsson had just exploded inside of it. Her vintage suede chair angled towards her kidney-shaped coffee table. The walls are plastered with postcards, posters, and photos.

Lola passes me her micellar water, and I scrub off as much makeup as I can before dropping onto the couch. We spend about 10 minutes looking through photos, and then we drop off to sleep, knowing that tomorrow we get to dissect every interaction, every picture, every moment of our night out.

The ritual is complete.

A few weeks ago I went on a date... and it was fine? I didn’t feel particularly pulled to him, even though on paper he checked off a lot of the boxes so I thought I would give it another try. I asked him if he wanted to go on a walk a few days later.

I could not for the life of me figure out why I was hesitating, he chose a great restaurant, was considerate of the fact that I was vegetarian, he listened to me and seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say, asked me questions.

I found myself thinking, “What is wrong with me? Have I been so traumatized by my previous experiences that I have actually swung into the territory of not tolerating a stable kindness from a potential partner? Did I crave toxicity?”

I spiralled and kept thinking myself in circles, talking to my friends, trying to make sense of what I was feeling. One of my friends answered with “well that is a good thing to consider, maybe something to think about”

Another friend said “If you don’t feel the connection, it’s not going to work, that’s ok”.

He kept texting me, and I came to the conclusion that I should probably just end it, whatever the reason was, he had been kind and respectful and so it would be unfair to make him wait for me to realize what I was even thinking.

I thought about, consulted with my friend, and then sent him:

“hey i was thinking and im really sorry i just dont think theres a connection here for me, i think youre a great guy but with my schedule its also kinda a lot rn but i wish you nothing but the best”

“Wait really?? Is it something I have done??”

“I thought we had an amazing connection”

“Ik you have a tight schedule and totally fine with it”

“Was I being pushy?”

At this point, I was a bit taken aback, I did not realize that he was so invested, but also I found it weird because we had only gone out twice and did not even kiss. He didn’t initiate, and neither did I.

“im really sorry if i gave that impression, i think that you are a really nice i just didnt really feel that romantic connection, you werent being pushy and you didnt do anything wrong”

“no hard feelings honestly”

I genuinely felt awful. My hesitation had hurt someone, and is the worst part of dating in my opinion. Someone always seemed to get hurt. Best case was when things were mutual, but if we mutually distance ourselves, then what is even the point?

“But was it because I didn’t make a move”

“I honestly thought we connected perfectly”

“I thought you were looking for a partner”

“Like why else would you be on hinge”

“Please don’t tell me you were just using me for attention”

Oh boy.

“genuinely nothing you did, just that i didnt feel romantic connection. i just dont see from my perspective a path to us being together. im really sorry”

“Is there anything I could do?”

“Like I understand I’m off a bit but I’m also still new to this”

I replied to his “using him for attention” message and said:

“this feels kinda disrespectful tbh”

“But that’s what I’m piecing together”

“But that’s what I feel like always happens to me”

“i was trying to be respectful and be honest with you”

“I knew this was going to happen, every time I’m finally happy, something happens”

“dont you want someone who has stuff in common with you? like it is genuinely nothing personal”

“i thought you were nice but your responses have thrown me off even more tbh”

“Well how am I supposed to react rn”

“Like responses now or when we went out??”

“Whatever I’m over this, I have no other choice in the matter”

“Don’t need to explain tbh”

“im not your therapist but your responses right now are very ‘woe is me’ and painting me as some villain, i would have hoped that you would have enough faith in yourself to know that it doesnt mean anything bad about you. anyways, i think i am done with this conversation for now, i am sad that you took it like this”

“Look I mean no disrespect I’m just confused”

“I just wasn’t expecting it to end like this”

“I’m sorry and have a nice day. I just wanted to understand”

Then, I stopped answering. What more could be said? I never meant to hurt him, but leading him on would have been astronomically worse. With the way he handled rejection, who knows how much messier this could have been had I waited any longer.

There have been so many instances where I have doubted myself in circles until I ignored my intuition, simply because I could not put into words why I felt this “off” feeling. Feelings don’t always need justification.

Turns out it was my gut telling me that this was not it. I’m glad I listened.

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Men. Ew. I want to decenter them so badly.

The thing is, I’m getting older.

When I was in my first serious relationship, I brought my ex everywhere. After we broke up, his ghost followed me in pictures; he continued being friends with my friends, and I slowly distanced myself because I did not want to end up in a social context where he happened to be as well.

I learned a really important lesson then: never, EVER, bring a man on trips or activities until you are married, and even then, not always. Anything else and your would-be happy memories will always be slightly tainted by the distasteful presence of an ex.

With my second relationship, I made sure to really separate my friendships from him, although there was still some overlap, namely with another couple we were close to. Luckily, I had already learned my lesson. For example, I was able to collect seashells on the beach for hours with my friend, and I can still look back on the trip fondly, eternally grateful to have gone there alone with her.

The thing is, I find that I still come across people who I was great friends with before they got into a relationship, but unfortunately fell out of contact at least partially the moment they got into a relationship.

For example, one of my friends, Lucy, did just this. Before her (now ex) boyfriend entered the picture, we hung out, she would really make an effort to think of activities, we matched each others’ energies. As soon as she found a guy, though, she slowly started to disappear, both physically and emotionally.

I would see her less and less, and when I would finally drag her away, she would be texting him the entire time. It was completely incongruous with the person she had been Pre-Boyfriend.

Of course, we are all in different stages in life, and I cannot tell her something that was obvious to me, namely that this was probably not the healthiest way to approach a relationship, even though I hinted at it, because she was so in love. Ah love, the ultimate elixir... or the ultimate poison.

Pre-Boyfriend Lucy and With-Boyfriend Lucy represent a pitfall most of us go through, not because we are bad people, or selfish, or insecure, or whatever other words we might lob out in anger, but mainly because we are set up to fail from the start.

Romance is seen as the be-all, end-all.

When we say we need to ‘decenter men’, I find one really big aspect is actually decentering romance (and it applies to my LGBT friends too). Once we stop centering romance, we should theoretically also be able to deconstruct other hierarchies in our lives, such as those that perpetuate misogyny.

The way I see the friendship-relationship dynamic play out in every day life is that friendship is easily framed as a transitional phase (Pre-Boyfriend), or a supplemental part of life, to fill the gaps that your romantic partner cannot. It forms into a hierarchy quickly because we do not see friendship and romantic relationships on the same playing field, but we really should.

Another big issue is that a hierarchy is not made of one person. We can take steps, like making an active effort to continue seeing friends despite of our relationship status, going to therapy to work on ourselves so that we can find validation from within, and any other myriad of small daily rebellions. However, you yourself cannot dismantle the patriarchy because a system is not made of a single entity.

We seem to have swung from the arranged marriage, à la Jane Austen, where Elizabeth Bennet and Charlotte Lucas appear to have a closer relationship than Charlotte and her husband, to doing the opposite. We value a romantic relationship because we value romantic love over platonic love. I think this is where the trouble lies.

It’s hard to maintain friendships with someone who does not text or see you that much because their social need is primarily filled by their partners.

Of course, scientific literature shows that people who are able to value both kinds of love equally are generally happier; it’s just that that tends to come from lived experience. Right now, I’m young, and so are my friends.

We also run into other kinds of issues, namely that my friends are super cool, super successful people who have to fit friends in around family and work. We tend to live in individual family lodgings, you spend most time with your partner, and live too far away to just hop over and knock on your friend’s door for coffee.

We find it more acceptable to fall out of touch with friends than we do with romantic partners.

I’m not saying that deep care does not exist, because I really do believe that my friends care about and love me, as I do them, but rather that the way we are collectively living is not conducive to encouraging a more equal dynamic.

Not to mention that all of my friends (and me :’) ) are suffering financially, fighting just to afford groceries while in school and/or paying off student loans, and most social activities require at least some money to be spent. Hiking or going on walks is probably the only thing that can be done socially completely for free, but if you don’t live in a safe area, or no hiking areas, or if you/your friend is not able-bodied, or the weather is atrocious most of the year, what are you supposed to do?

Currently, I am intentionally single. After my breakup, I went through a series of phases where I went on multiple dates, had casual relationships, but no interest to actually invest in something serious. I realized that it was driving me into this cycle of seeking attention and then feeling starved for it in the moments where those stimuli disappeared. Therefore, I decided that the healthiest thing for me to do was to be single and celibate for a while. I am taking this time to process my past relationships, reflect on the good, the bad, and the ugly. I am also focusing on school, on my own health and habits such as being better about doing chores (actual fight for my life with my ADHD ass), eating healthy, and exercising.

Not only am I single, but I also live alone in a one-bedroom apartment. Yes, I know I am so lucky that I am here, however as a (pathologically) extroverted person, the physical loneliness combined with the emotional loneliness of losing baddies to boys has been soul-crushing (not to be dramatic or anything).

So for all of my girlies who are being hard on themselves for ‘not decentering men’, I hope my words offer you a bit of reassurance. Remember to be compassionate to yourself; we are all trying to figure out how to exist in this world.

xoxo

SB

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I got home and started to wash my hands. Each sud-filled motion squished between my palms, around each finger, under my nails, down to my wrists, and then I watched it swirl down the drain.

I glance up at the mirror. My eyes shift from the hairs I didn’t pluck around my eyebrows, to the width of my jaw, down lower to my belly. They would have continued their vicious trek if the mirror were longer.

My body was no longer whole. Each piece was like a puzzle that I was examining, turning in my hand, squinting to see where it fit. With clinical precision, I absorbed, evaluated, and ultimately moved on with a Miranda Priestly disapproval.

Last summer, I switched birth control, and a darker patch of skin bloomed across my forehead. Melasma - pregnancy mask. It happens due to sun damage combined with extra estrogen floating around in my body. At first, I thought it was cute, a few freckles, but slowly it merged and grew, taking over my sizable forehead with its presence. I look in the mirror and it seems to grow even bigger.

When I gain weight, it tends to show pretty quickly in my lower face. My jaw widens, and from the side, there is a gentle slope from the tip of my chin down to my neck. No delicious 90-degree Bella Hadid angle.

I adjusted my leggings and saw my belly jiggle. It wasn’t a real jiggle, not one of those sexy Renaissance-type bellies. It was more like when you slap a water mattress and you see the wave travel in all directions, running away from you.

I sigh in disgust.

Some days, I find that I cannot see myself, cannot absorb myself fully. Instead, I see this unsatisfying amalgamation. And the more access I have to a mirror, the less happy I am.

In tenth grade, I would watch Victoria’s Secret shows, study their walks, and then on my way home from school, I would strut through my neighbourhood, heel in front of toe. I walked on a tightrope, convincing myself that if only I walked better, I would finally be beautiful and be loved.

When I accidentally lost 3kg, going from 62kg to 59kg, simply by travelling through Europe and not really having hunger cues, I was thrilled. Even more so when I got back, and my dad looked at me, horrified, saying I looked sick. I gloated in my success.

But I knew I could not actually try to lose weight; I was only satisfied because it happened accidentally. I could, with a clean conscience, deny that I was sick.

Growing up, my mom was constantly on some sort of crash diet, eating heaping plates for months and then suddenly deciding to eat a maximum of 800 kcal a day. I tried to tell her that it wasn’t healthy, but deep down, I think I was being a hypocrite. “It’s just baby weight, I could never lose it after my third pregnancy”, her and my dad would insist.

I’ve noticed that in my culture, people are a lot more at ease commenting on people’s bodies. Someone they haven’t seen in months, they might look at and say, “Hey! Wow, you’ve lost so much weight!”, or the more dreaded, “Hey! What happened, you’ve gained so much weight!”. No ‘how are you’, no polite indifference.

My cousin had lost a lot of weight a few years ago, her skin was pulled taut over bones that jutted out from every corner of her body. Her long, bleached blonde hair straightened and swishing from side to side over protruding vertebrae as she walked. To me, it was clear that this was more than a diet, and yet my mom, my aunt, my grandma, my grandpa, every single person in her life found it acceptable to tell her she looks unhealthy and she “just needs to put on more weight!”. I wonder if she secretly gloated at those comments, too.

When I was a little kid, no more than 12, I got an invite to my local competitive swimming team. I found out when I overheard my dad talking to his (male) friends about how he didn’t want me to do competitive swimming because then my “shoulders would be too wide”.

Of course, my parents would tell me that I was beautiful, but somehow the abstract concept of beauty falls apart when specific examples of ugliness are pulled easily and without much thought, like dirty laundry being thrown into the washing machine.

Sometimes, I do really think I am beautiful. I love the colour of my eyes, the dark, bouncy waves my hair forms naturally in humidity. I love how tall I am, and often wear heels to be even taller. I really love my “broad shoulders”. I love my boobs, my butt. Even better than physical appearance, I love being able to run, to rock climb, and most importantly to dance!

When I dance, the puzzle pieces come together into one united machine, taking long to tire, bouncing from foot to foot, feeling my heartbeat sync to the music. It starts as a tiny spark somewhere behind my belly button and shoots in every direction, lighting up my fingers, shining out of my eyes. It warms my body, loosening up the joints, expelling the stiffness. My never-ending inner monologue quiets down and harmonises with the melody. For a moment, my soul expands past the boundaries of my body and becomes one with something too ancient to put into words.

When I dance, I could not give a single damn about that apostate mirror that forgets to reflect the divinity that fills me with every movement of my body.

buy me a coffee <3

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Raspberry sorbet

The group of Americans had become my main friend group, that summer in Italy. We were taking the Italian ‘Università per Stranieri’ course that was my first true taste of freedom. For the first time in my life, I only had to answer to myself.

“I feel like we should go practice congjuntivo” Jas said to me, “I heard that’s what the level C students were doing”

We were in the CELI B2 class. We made our way down the 18th century steps and into the main courtyard of Perugia. The steps underneath my feet were worn shiny from thousands of people walking that exact same path. We passed the central fountain, a copper chalice turned blue, elevated above the spiky black fence that enclosed it to stop drunk students from jumping in on the hot summer nights.

Perugia, like so many other medieval Italian cities, was on a hill. It was impossible to get lost, despite the meandering streets, because you always knew that if you walked uphill you would end up back at that fountain.

There were several gelaterias, but the best was one tucked away, halfway down the slope, shaped more like a hallway than a room.

We stopped, and I pulled out a euro.

“Grazie!” I said, smiling widely to the curly haired girl, not much older than I was at the time, standing behind the glass dipping cabinet. She handed me a small cup of raspberry gelato with dark chocolate nibs mixed throughout.

I took my transparent green plastic spoon, dipped it into the icy mix, and put it in my mouth. The cool bite was so refreshing, I couldn’t help but shut my eyes and feel the goosebumps down my arms.

Taffy Batter

Purple is my favourite colour. I love all shades of it, especially Taffy Batter.

Taffy Batter is the colour of the sky when I get up early to go on a run. Each pounding step reverberates through my body, a background rhythm for my thoughts.

I get up to run before I can think of changing my mind, put on my shoes before my brain has even started up yet, and then I take off down the street.

The first ten minutes hurt. My lungs feel like they are stretched to their breaking point, each thirsty breath reminding me that they are there, that I am there. The sky is still dark, the street lamps still shining, and I run.

My legs burn, my arms rub against my body, the windbreaker scratching against itself to the beat of my steps.

I push, keeping up the pace, knowing it will be over soon and that it will be worth it.

The burn runs through every muscle.

For the last hundred metres, I push myself harder. I widen my step, as far as I can, bounding forward now, not just running.

I feel like I can’t keep going, but it motivates me to push harder. Like the girl who passed me in the last ten metres of my race in grade three, I remember that the finish line is not a reason to slow down.

My throat aches, my eyes are tearing up, my arms are pumping, and I pass my imagined finish line.

The sky is lighter, Taffy Batter, the first golden rays of the morning sun are touching my face as I slow down to a cool-down walk, and I smile.

My whole body is flooded with the buttery warm feeling of fresh blueberry muffins that melt in your mouth.

I smile.

Orange Slice

My wallet is the same colour as the orange slices my mom would bring to my room when I was studying, or with friends.

She would peel them, open them up, pull out the pale stringy bits in the middle. Then, she would take an apple, and cut it up in neat wedges, and place them on the plate. Finally, she would take the ripe guava that sits in the fruit bowl, wash them, cut them in half, and put them next to the other slices.

I find it hard to talk to her, she does not really understand my thoughts or emotions all of the time, but she shows me her love through fruit and gifts, like my favourite purse, the Coach bag my mom got me for my birthday a few years ago, or the orange card holder she bought for me in Belgrade.

Most of my friends are immigrants like me, and I find we share the similar need to prove ourselves, to show our gratefulness for everything our parents suffered through and did for us to give us this life.

Their suffering leads to resilience, and hardness that comes from survival.

But I remember the softness when I take a bite of an orange slice.

Quince

“Like quinces on the cabinets” croons the voice of the famous ex-Yugoslavian singer, Zdravko Colic, through the speakers as I drive.

It is part of the song “Pusti, pusti, modu” which roughly translates to ‘forget fashion’. He asks his date to leave her heels at home so that they can go on an adventure together, to go dancing. A bit of a misogynistic tone to it, or perhaps radically anti-consumerist and feminist. He tells her to forget trying to impress him with perfumes. He says it sucks being in love with a lady, a doll who looks like she just stepped out of an Italian fashion centre.

I love 70s and 80s ex-Yugoslavian music. It reminds me of home. I also love fashion, but I get what Colic is saying. Love is the opposite of constraint, the opposite of capitalism, the opposite of oppression.

My friend’s parents planted a quince tree in their backyard in Vancouver. Every time she goes home, she brings back a delicious quince membrillo, sometimes smattered with walnuts, that disappears within a week. The sweet jelly melts in your mouth, begging to be eaten, to be consumed.

In the Balkans, people used to put quinces on their cabinets to fill their homes with a delicious sweet aroma, a DIY air freshener, to cover the perpetual smell of cigarettes. It beckons you in, just like the membrillo, to melt into the worn down couch, and to relax into conversation with your grandma, or nephew, or cousin, or brother.

Sachet Pink

My favourite purse is my special edition Valentine’s day Coach purse. It is a creamy beige that wraps around the bottom and onto the sides. The front and back panels the shade of the travertine scalinatas that flowed organically through Perugia.

The panels have the classic Coach ‘C’s mirrored in a repeating pattern, a few shades darker than the background, almost the same shade as the larks that flew over the medieval Italian town, gliding in the wind above the central fountain. Did you know that a group of larks is called an exaltation?

Translucent sachet pink hearts are overlaid over the entire pattern, the same shade as my dishes at home that sit neatly in my kitchen cabinets next to my heart shaped ceramic bowls that I got from the Dollar store.

I love anything heart themed, it adds whimsy to every outfit, dopamine to any room.

My purse is full of everything I could ever need:

• My orange card holder from Belgrade

• A muji pen

• A pink pen covered in red hearts that exploded when I tried to write with it (the back popped off, the ink tube jumped out, followed by the spring... I put it together and put it back in my purse)

• A thick black hair elastic

• Pink scrunchie

• A pack of peppermint Five gum (the best flavour)

• Three bobby pins

• A pair of silver hoop earrings I took off after a night out, before I even got home, and forgot to put away

• A random single earring

• A sewing kit I got from a hotel I stayed at

• My favourite Rom&nd lip tint (shade FigFig)

• Opaque mauve lip gloss I got for my birthday a few weeks ago

• A clear sparkly lip gloss

• Mauve lip liner

• 2 yarn labels I forgot to throw out

• My favourite crochet hook

• Moisturizing hand sanitizer

• A regular hand sanitizer

• Charging cube

• Taffy batter purple portable charger

• Beer opener I got in first year of uni during frosh

• Earbuds (missing the top half of the case)

• Tissues

• Eye drops

• My old phone wrist strap that snapped

• Salt packets

• Toothpicks

• Loose change

Margarita

I ordered a margarita on Sunday, Women’s day of this year. I was sitting in a beer market with a few of my friends, before we went to the movie theatre.

The margarita was perfect, icy cold that I felt travel down my throat with every sip, and the exact right shade of translucent pale green that wrapped around each ice cube.

We got up to head over to the theatre, and one of my friends ran over to his car, calling back “wait one second!”

He came back, carrying a cardboard box full of a dozen individually wrapped roses, paired with baby breath and ferns. He started handing it out to all of the girls, smiling and saying “Happy March 8!”

I was so pleasantly surprised.

“No one has ever gotten my flowers for women’s day before!” said one of my friends. We headed to the theatre, grinning, my jadedness lifting for a moment.

Maybe there are still caring people, kind men, out here in the world.

Aqua Glass

My friend has a cottage in Quebec, along the St. Lawrence river. She was up there last year with her family, and spent a lot of time by the beach.

“I got you a gift, it might be stupid, I don’t know” she texted me on her way back. She didn’t tell me what it was.

When we met up, she had her hands behind her back. She sheepishly brought them forward, showing me what she was holding.

It was a jar of rocks, filled with bright stones; orange, brown, yellow, and green.

“You just have to fill it up with water” she said hurriedly, searching my face for a reaction.

“I love it!” I exclaimed, hugging her.

It was perfect. I went home, looked up the salt content of the river where her cottage is, and carefully mixed the exact concentrations. I filled up the jar.

The polished aqua glass glistened amongst the other stones, each one with its own unique pattern and sparkle. Each one chosen specifically, thoughtfully. Each one perfect in its imperfection.

I love my jar of rocks.

For a moment, I suspend my cynicism and feel the divinity around me. I wish to capture her with my words, though more often than not, she is too big to contain. The soft murmur of the waves to my right, my belly full, my mind free to wander as I walk, not quite alone, because the ocean and the Big Dipper are always by my side.

The Big Dipper will take you North, but in the meantime, we can flirt with the ocean. I see night-herons quietly standing in the waves, so still that you think they might be sticks poking out of the ground, angled towards the water, until the heron moves and flies into the horizon, joining her love, as I would, if I could fly.

My feet hurt. Hurt from the heels I wore all day, and now free. Free to touch the sand, to morph with the Earth, as I walk with my love, the ocean.

She is Artemis, Aphrodite, Athena. Chaotic, beautiful, and strong.

I feel every rolling emotion, every sigh, every change of wind. She’s unpredictable at times; her emotions rise and ebb like the tide. She’s perfect, exactly like that. Even calm, she’s never boring.

The ocean is terrifying. She houses jellyfish and whales and sharks, amoeba and seaweed, dead animals and shipwrecks and plane skeletons. The ocean has seen so much. And yet, she’s still here. She’s still gorgeous, she still calls. Calls us all back, she whispers, ‘come closer’.

She’s seductive. She’s sexy. The way she curves, the way she gently washes over my feet. She’s like my grandmother as she quietly draws in the sand. She’s like a little girl. When she is excited, she lets you know. She’ll run in circles and sometimes might run too fast and drag you to the bottom. But she doesn’t mean to.

The ocean looks back with bright blue eyes that sparkle in the sun and with the moon. I love everything she was, is, and will be. The ocean, I can never be mad at her - she dances, she sings, and she gives life.

There’s a reason that all the old Russian classics sent their heroines to the seaside when they needed rest. The ocean restores, she invigorates. Her melodic, rhythmic voice easily puts us in a meditation that we try to desperately re-create with our apps.

The ocean refuses to be put in a box; she refuses to bow down. She refuses to be enclosed.

The stars dip down, glowing fingers on my wrist bones, cradling me in the Big Dipper, ready to take me home.

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“I hope you don’t mind, he’s going to be getting up a lot throughout this flight”, said the woman sitting next to the window seat as she reached over her husband’s lap to tap my friend, Betty’s, arm conspiratorially. She appeared to be in her early 60s and had wiry, dyed burgundy hair that rested haphazardly just above her shoulders.

“He will definitely need to go if you know what I mean.” Her louche voice was loud enough to carry over the grumbling of the plane engine as it prepared for takeoff. I had just settled into my seat, across the aisle from Betty.

“I hope you don’t mind, darling”

“No, no, not at all!” replied Betty.

“As in, to go pee“

“It’s not a problem! My dad has high blood pressure, so his medication makes him go to the bathroom often. I completely understand, it’s really not a problem.” Her smile seemed to reassure the woman as she settled back in her seat, only to lean forward again,

“No,” she laughed, “as in the other issue of older men, if you know what I mean”

“It’s not a problem, seriously, don’t worry! I’m actually in med school.”

“Oh, I knew you would be fine with it! You have that look, I told T, she has that look, you know”

Betty just laughed, and was about to turn away to pull out her book.

“I’m Kate by the way. This is Ted, but he goes by T, I guess it’s cool or something. What’s your name, darling?”

“Betty!”

“And yours?” She turned her slightly unfocused gaze on me.

“Betty, too” I chuckled.

“Well, you don’t say! And how do you know each other?”

“We’re actually family friends” replied Betty, smoothing out her brown sweatpants that were the exact same shade as her brown sweatshirt, her glossy brown ponytail threaded through her beige baseball cap.

“What do you two do then? Well, I know Betty here” (she pointed at my friend) “is in the medical field, but you,” she turned her gaze to me, “you, I’m not sure of” she said, gesturing at my outfit.

I was wearing my favourite pink faux-fur leopard print jacket, loosely flowing mahogany yoga pants, and tortoiseshell glasses.

“Show her the boots!”

I lifted my leg, revealing my five-inch, platform heels.

“Oh! Hm... It can’t be something creative, can it?”

“Nope,” I answer,

“Well, it can’t be something in business?”

“No, I’m also in medicine”

We laughed and the conversation drifted off, and I put my earbuds in, queued up my favourite riot girl playlist, and started crocheting. Sometimes, I really am a cliché.

***

As we stood up to get the overhead luggage, I looked at the woman again. She vaguely resembled my grade 9 English teacher, aptly named Ms English. I liked her.

“Turns out we are going to the same resort”, Betty whispered to me.

We followed the gaggle of tourists down the stairs and into the Punta Cana airport with its thatched palapa roofs.

The excitement was as palpable as the warm, humid air we stepped into. We found our way past security and into the minibus we were assigned to.

I was just so happy, so grateful to have a momentary respite from the dull rhythm that had become my life - studying every day, not seeing anyone for hours, then going to the gym and bed. The dull grey clouds that were permanently glued to my city’s sky all winter seemed to sip from my soul.

Betty craned her neck, looking out the front of the vehicle.

“I don’t see our friends!” She said quietly. “I feel like we are in the wrong place.”

As if she spoke them into existence, Kate and T appeared, toppling, giggling, into the bus.

Betty’s eyebrows unfurrowed.

“I guess you’ll have to go to the back”, said Kate to T, but I called out, “There are two spots back here!”

The driver got on the bus, did a quick head count, then got off again. Finally, the last couple climbed up. A young woman with short blonde hair, delicate jewels on each finger except her ring finger. A burly man with piercing blue eyes climbed in behind her, sweat beading above his eyebrows. He put his hand possessively on her shoulder.

“One seat!” called the driver, pointing to a seemingly empty spot right in the doorway.

The young woman let out a silvery laugh, “I guess I’ll sit here, I’m pretty small.”

Kate snorted.

The woman blinked her big doe eyes as the driver unclasped a folded seat perched precariously by the door. Her forehead was smoother than a baby’s bottom. She flipped her hair glancing to see who was watching before delicately sitting down.

“I wish I could say that, that I’m so small”, said Kate, “I am just so big -”

T interrupted her.

“Have you been to the Dominican before?” he inquired, looking at us through his thick black-framed glasses. His bald head gleamed in the streetlights as the bus moved forward.

He had a big smile on his face, and cheerful eyes that turned loving and soppy every time he looked at Kate.

We told him we had both only been to Cuba.

“We were going to go to Cuba, but it was cancelled because of everything going on. Oh well, this should be a great time. Last time, went with the kids.” he continued jovially.

“How many kids do you have?”

“Oh, I’m old, honey, one just turned 40” he replied.

“We’re a mixed family, we’re both divorced”, continued Kate.

“She has two daughters in their late 20s”, added T.

The conversation trailed off. Betty turned to me, “I wonder where the gym is?”

“The gym!” interrupted Kate.

“Yes”, replied Betty, a smile playing across her lips.

“I lift weights”, I added in.

“Well, that is excellent! Did you ladies know, doctors do not know enough about menopause? They say lifting is great for the bones. For menopause, you know what I mean?”

The notes of a merengue drifted through the bus speakers.

“Can’t wait for some drinks, in Cuba they give beer on the bus”, she said winking. T beamed.

She continued on a tangent. I nodded along, half listening, fighting not to fall asleep as images of food flashed through my mind. My stomach started grumbling.

***

The week had passed quickly in a kaleidoscope of the glittering turquoise waves that hit the peaceful white sand beach. The two of us would wake up early each morning, eat an omelette, small salad, and latte, then we would pack some fruit for the day. We would soak in the rays that filtered in through the palm trees that swayed overhead.

When we got bored, we would head out for a walk along the shore, often pausing for impromptu photoshoots.

“Do you ever wonder what the point of all of this is? Who are we even posting for?” Betty asked, pausing mid-squat, camera hovering in front of her face as I draped myself off of a palm tree.

“Well, honestly I post as long as it’s fun, as soon as I start feeling like I need to post, that’s when I know I need to step away.”

She had a point though. I had deleted instagram for over a year, honestly disgusted at how it forced me to engage in self-surveillance. I think I’ve reached a point of balance, but I don’t deny that the loneliness I have been feeling has pushed me back into it. Sometimes superficial relationships are better than none at all.

I finished one of the books I brought and then started another. For lunch, I would pop into the buffet, eat a quick meal of rice, lentils, and more fruit, then we would head back to the beach.

One of the days, as we were wading into the warm waters, Betty exclaimed:

“Look! A turtle!” It peaked out its small scaly green head and quickly dove back down, splashing us with its little flippers.

The balmy weather, salty breeze, and golden rays were a welcome change from the frigid Canadian weather.

Before dinner each day, we would make our way to the gym. We settled into an easy rhythm.

On the last day of the trip, I turned to Betty, shading my eyes from the sun that was still scorching despite slowly starting its descent, “We haven’t seen our friends in a minute!”

“Hmm, I wonder what they are up to.” she said as we headed to the gym.

Our restaurant was booked for 7:30, so we wanted to get dolled up earlier.

Sweat was soaking through my burgundy sports bra. My little pink tennis skirt fluttered as I worked out. Betty had gone for a run on the golf course.

“I think there are more young people here today! Maybe it’s a new group that just arrived,” said Betty when she returned, I looked around hopefully. So far, it had just been young families with babies that toddled along the beach and older couples chain-smoking and slurping rum from their giant travel mugs.

We blasted Bad Bunny as we got dressed. I put on a slinky fuchsia dress with billowy sleeves, and glittery eyeshadow on my eyelids, under my eyebrows, on my nose, my chin, my collarbones. Betty put on a gorgeous, silky black halter top with a black mini-skirt.

After dinner, we found ourselves walking around the resort, not quite sure what to do with ourselves. It was only 9pm, and neither of us wanted to go to bed. Betty had brought her Canon digi, but we were already all photoed out.

In the crowd, I suddenly noticed a familiar frizzy burgundy bob next to a shiny pate.

“Hey!” I called out to Kate and T.

“Oh, you girls! I was just thinking, who are these sexy ladies? Wow, you two clean up good!” She paused, looking at us approvingly, “Come with us! To the adult side”

“We were just wondering where our friends were!” Betty said, gesturing at them, “Were you on the adult side this whole week?”

We had walked in that direction before, but mainly after dinner when it was already dark, and most people were at the buffet.

We looked at each other eagerly, maybe we would end up meeting someone our age on this trip after all.

“Yes, we were! No kids, you know.”

We headed together along the path that led away from where we usually stayed.

“We met a lady celebrating her 40th, you would have loved her, no doubt”

“Oh no, honey, she was... loud. Not sure if they would”

“Well, anywho, she invited us to her birthday.”

“Someone you met here?” I asked

“Yes! We met her over on the adult side, we got to talking, and she invited us!”

“Yea we went on those yachts, you know the ones you see parked off on the other end of the beach”

“Hold on, T, I’m not there yet”

“You went on a yacht?”

“Yeah! With the umph dumph umph“

“Woah was that you?” Betty asked, “For a moment, I thought there was a speaker playing somewhere”

T smiled, flattered.

“Anyways,” continued Kate loudly, “we were supposed to go on this private yacht, she invited us, and we were, you know, we said ‘what the hell, let’s go’”

“That’s Kate for ya”

“And then the captain said to me, ‘the engine broke’, and so I volunteered to tell her, her six girlfriends who came with her on the trip just looked at me, too scared to tell her, so I went up to her, and I put my hands on her shoulders like this, and I said, ‘listen darling, there’s been a slight change in plans, we have to go on another boat, this one’s broken’, and she agreed”

“Oh, she threw a tantrum first”

“Well, maybe so, darlings, but we made it to this other boat, and I have never felt so old, or honestly so white in my life”

“Can you believe it? They were all twerking! I have never seen so many twerks in my life!”

“And then you know, I had to get in, and there was this sandbar, and to get back in we had to get on the rope, and you know we were all drunk, and even some of those younger guys”

“Yeah, you really needed that upper body strength”

“Oh yeah, you know, maybe you two could have, but gosh no, two younger girls had to push me over, I swear my boobs fell out of my bikini!” she chortled.

“And there were at least five birthday parties going on, but Kate had calmed the lady down, so it was all fine”

“Another young lady, one of the other birthday girls, called out, ‘Where you from?’ and we said to her, Canada! And she said, ‘Oh, come, come! Open!’ Then, can you believe it, she poured the tequila she was holding all over us! You would think, since my mouth was open with my tongue out, that she would pour it in my mouth, but she poured it all over us”

“So basically we did body shots!” said T, laughing. He gazed at Kate, his eyes shining almost as bright as his even white teeth.

“Ah! Here it is, here is the adult side!”

I looked in front of me as we rounded the corner, two elderly men were being pushed in their wheelchairs, a sea of white heads bobbing behind them.

“You girls are going to have so much fun!”

The bass was booming, my friend and I were trying to escape the throng in the dark cave found in the middle of the club, bodies writhing, music blaring, the smell of skin, sweat, perfume, mixing in a vapour that clung to our bodies. I held her hand so as to not get lost, and we walked out. We were too sober to fully enjoy the sensory overload of the Cave. As we were leaving, a hand reached out and grabbed, I mean fully palm GRABBED each of our asses. I felt each finger intentionally dig in to cop a feel, and turned in shock to my friend who mirrored my facial expression. By the time I completed my 180, crossing myself and ready to throw the biggest punch of my life, the crowd had melded back into its previous amorphous mass, with us as an island that had budded off.

In my anger, I turned around, searching for a bouncer, someone, anyone, to help us. Although logically, I knew there was nothing to be done, I thought, surely someone would try?

We found the bouncer, I told him what happened,

“Yeah, we have received a lot of complaints about that” he drawled, leaning back on one leg, eyes lazily roaming around the crowd.

“But then don’t you realize you have a systemic issue? If this is something that happens so often?”

“Well, yeah, I guess. Can’t really do anything ‘bout it. I can come dance with you if you want?”

I turned my best slavic mom stare on him, hoping to at *least* make him a bit uncomfortable, but no such luck. I turned and marched back to the outskirts of the Cave, looking for the perpetrators, and found nothing.

Later, my friend said: “I guess I don’t think about it because so many of these scenarios have happened to me. And especially here, at this club, they are known for it, I would go here when I was underage with my fake ID and girls talked about stuff like that all the time. Once, my friend was very drunk, and some guy took her to the bathroom, she came out crying like hell.”

I was fuming. Angry, that this had happened. Angry that I felt so powerless. Angry at men who perhaps wouldn’t think that this was so bad, but to me represented a much bigger issue.

I told another friend what happened, warning her about that place, and she told her boyfriend. Her boyfriend responded with “well I’m sure they were asking for it”.

Yup. Let that sink in.

In the year of our lord 2025, some man said ‘they deserved it’.

Obviously she defended us vehemently, but his opinion did not change.

• . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. •

When I was 18, I was a freshly graduated nerd, on her way to study Italian in Italy. To paint a picture, I still had a lot of internalized misogyny and thought that wearing makeup was a sign of deep insecurity (a topic to unpack another time). I often wore my hair in two french braids, glasses perched on a pimply baby face, leaving the overprotective home I had grown up in.

I walked right out of one controlling scenario and into another.

There were classes that I would attend every day. I had the chance to immerse myself in the Italian language, learning grammar by day and trailing my fingers over the fortress ruins by night.

I was the youngest by far in the class, the next being a 25-year old who was here visiting her boyfriend for the summer from Denmark, and everyone else was 30 and older. One of my classmates was named Daniel.

Daniel was a 32 year old American high school teacher (I cringe at the thought), and one day he pointed at my notebook and said “wow your handwriting is so nice!”. I have doctor’s handwriting.

I gave him a weird look.

He asked if he could see my notebook, so I passed it to him over the centre aisle, and he wrote something in the margin. His number.

Flattered, I texted him as soon as I got home. He suggested we go on a walk.

I was mesmerized by this muscular 6’2 man with piercing blue eyes. We started walking, going further and further, him joking, and gradually reaching out, touching. I thought it was romantic at the time.

I grew up with Rose Hathaway and Dimitri Belikov, Aria Montgomery and Ezra Fitz, Serena van der Woodsen and Ben Donovan, and any number of 150+ year old vampires dating 17 year old girls. I knew it was wrong... but isn’t that what made it so delicious? (no)

“Walk up the stairs in front of me, you have a great butt” he said

“How come you trust me, a random man, you know I could kill you and no one would know” I laughed, uneasily, not really sure what to do.

I would for sure be the first to die in a horror movie.

He took me back to his place, ate me out, then fucked me, taking my virginity.

I went to the bathroom to pee (I knew how to be responsible!) and came back laughing about all the blood, saying “it’s like someone got murdered down there!”.

• . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. •

In October, I had gone on a date with a guy, who used something called the ‘New York Date’ on me, a term I had not known before our unfortunate encounter. We went out for dinner, it was going pretty well, so we decided to bar hop, and then we kept going and at some point the alcohol made me really want to jump into his bed right at that moment. This, my friends, is the New York Date - a way that the other person makes you spend way too much time with them to create a false sense of closeness.

So we went to his place. He was a doctor, so I thought, surely he can’t be a bad guy!

We fucked, it was fun. I left almost 24h later. He even called off of work to stay with me that day.

Before the end of the week, we had already gone on three more dates. He was out at a nearby city for the weekend and came back on Sunday, despite a huge snow storm, to see me. It was nice, we made mulled wine, then drank it cuddled up on the couch. After a few hours, I said that I had to go back to my parents house since I was helping my mom with some housework, and I saw a flash of rage that was gone before I could really tell it was there.

We went on another date a few days later at a shopping mall on the outskirts of town. On our way back, he started digging into me and accusing me, twisting my words, accusing me of doing something I didn’t do, until I started crying, and I am not a person who cries easily (despite what this piece may imply). It was so confusing, and to this day I can’t recount exactly what it was. He then convinced me to go out with him and his roommate and to bring a friend of mine. Initially I did not want to stay, but he had somehow coerced me into not only staying with him for the evening, but into bringing a friend as well.

I drank again to not feel so bad, and then the next day I told him I needed space, over text. He started escalating, implying that I was being cruel to him, that I didn’t care about him. Mind you, this was a week and a half in, but at this point we had spent so much time together, it could have been months. I was so worried, since I had discussed a personal situation that was happening at school, and I was worried he could bring it up to other doctors, ruin my chances of ever landing the specialty I wanted. I was scared.

I should not have told him anything, really. I should not have fallen for any of this, and yet I did. He had spent a lifetime honing his craft, to know what buttons to press. He had practice, I didn’t.

He was so angry, guilting me, he made me cry again. I started fawning, embarrassingly enough, trying to calm the situation, reassuring him, shrinking myself. I even turned to ChatGPT to find neutral things to say because somehow everything I said inflamed him further.

The moment he calmed down, I felt like a veil had lifted. I had the fourth truly spiritual experience of my life. I felt saint, a goddess, burn through my body, igniting every cell with power, and I felt *safe*.

I blocked him on everything but iMessage, then sent him a polite “This is not going to work out”, and then blocked him there too.

• . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. •

A few weeks ago, I had started seeing my situationship again. For all the faults of a situationship, in this case it was wanted on both sides. I trusted him enough, he trusted me, we enjoyed hooking up, end of story. But not really.

I had first started seeing him back in the spring, and we went on several dates, had fun, started hooking up, and then around mid-summer I started getting a bad feeling, I don’t know why but my gut was telling me something. Reluctantly, I listened, and stopped seeing him.

In December, I decided to re-download Hinge (cursed) to talk to people because I was bored out of my mind. I am an extrovert, and boy was I missing some social interaction. I set my location to a nearby big city because I didn’t want to even be tempted to meet up with anyone, I just purely wanted to speak to people. The morality of that may be debatable, but honestly it was mostly out of self-preservation than anything else.

To my surprise, I get a message from him saying he just saw me on the app because he, too, was in that other city. I told him I was already back in my hometown, but at that point we started talking again. I had some hesitation, but it also felt nice to talk to him, to have someone care, or at least seem to. We hooked up, it was all fine and dandy, and then a few weeks go by and we both want to again. This time, I instruct him to bring wine and cookies (and flowers).

I find it fascinating that so many people in Western countries come empty handed. Whenever I go to someone’s place for the first time, I always bring something, and especially if we don’t really know each other, I always at least ask if there’s anything I can help with.

He came over, bringing the wine and cookies only, and we enjoyed ourselves, played music, danced, I licked the crumbs off the corner of his lips in a deliciously steamy makeout session, and we drank, we drank, we drank. We finished off 1.5L bottle of wine, which was inadvisable, I just clearly was not thinking straight. He was a big guy, so it did not affect him nearly as much as it did me.

We found ourselves in bed, I started playing some movie. I was so inebriated that I had to keep one eye shut to keep them from crossing while I tried to open the streaming service.

I then, elegantly, fell right asleep.

I woke up a little bit later to him having sex with me.

I started saying, stop! Stop! and he did.

I started crying.

He hugged and held me until I fell asleep again.

• . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. •

Before I started dating my first boyfriend, I was so scared of sex, of getting pregnant. So scared, in fact, that even though I was on birth control, I still made him wear a condom.

He tried to convince me several times, but my anxiety around pregnancy and it derailing my life was too strong.

One day, he convinced me to just rub his penis around my vulva, without putting it in, and I said “ok”

He then asked next time to do it again, and it became routine, even though I was uncomfortable at first. After, it just became part of the game, part of the enjoyment.

A little while later, he was rubbing it around, and then “accidentally” slipped it in. I recoiled, bursting out angrily, but he immediately reassured me, reminded me how much we loved each other, and then put on a condom, and I forgot about it.

A few weeks later, he did it again. This time, I thought, what the hell, nothing happened the last time, might as well. Despite my deep discomfort with the situation, the anxiety that permeated my bones, I let him do it.

• . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. •

Despite these moments, I have had good experiences too. My second ex-boyfriend, although he was a bad boyfriend, was a good person. He respected me. I have many memories I look back at fondly, even though I know he is not my person.

Another time I went to Italy, for the next part of the course a year after the first one, I met a guy who was wonderfully kind, took me on long drives through the Italian country side, ate gelato with me, and who still checks in once a year to see how I am and vice versa.

There are many lovely memories I keep in my back pocket, but I also think it’s important to reflect and learn from the bad experiences, not just bury them.

So no, not all men. But enough of them.

buy me a coffee <3

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First let me begin by breaking down some of the roles that are traditionally assigned to men: protector and provider. I have heard the desire for a protector be echoed amongst both my friends and online discourse. In my opinion, protection can be logical physically, like if someone were to attack me and my partner was there, of course I would hope that he would try to intervene in some way, however I would do the same if someone attacked him, or any of my friends for that matter. Beyond that, what does being protected really mean? I think usually when people say this, what they really want is a safe, stable space to be themselves. Instead, when the protector role is performed, I believe that the protected role is also performed - if it was inherent, we would see more men have plants and pets (64% of women own pets vs 57% of men (Pet Age Staff, 2013; Ipsos, 2025) - not a huge difference but enough ) because those are actually helpless creatures that require a human to thrive. An adult woman is an adult, and can solve pretty much any issue that may arise by herself.

If we pivot to provider, which is what initially sparked this train of thought for me, I found myself wondering if wanting provision was inherently anti-feminist. Is paying for the date common courtesy or is it benevolent sexism? For me, the desire for a man to pay is about the desire to have a man show his investment and dedication to getting to know me. It is about risk assessment and protecting my energy. In my past relationships, I often subconsciously diminished myself, over-forgave, and invested too much, too quickly. Paying is a sign that this is a partner that can keep up. It’s a mechanism of filtering.

Benevolent sexism is the argument that chivalry is incompatible with feminism, inadvertently subjugating women further. Besides paying for dates, another example of a behaviour that could be seen as ‘chivalrous’ or playing into traditional gender roles is buying flowers (Ode à la Rose, 2025; Adrienne’s Flowers, n.d.). I personally love receiving flowers; to me, it is the enjoyment of ritual, a nonverbal way of showing love and gratitude. I know that my definition of romance is heavily influenced by culture, but to me the difference is if the gift is truly given as a gift, and not as a transaction, an expectation for anything else. I do not expect nor want big gifts because this can create a feeling of owing the other person, which can then be used to control through guilt. Giving flowers and other small actions are like when a toddler proudly presents a rock to you, it is re-opening the door to safety for both parties, encouraging that wonder and curiosity that makes life so joyful.

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Truthfully, I am tired of being a man’s therapist, mother, and maid. In the past, I have fallen into the pattern of mothering often, even with friendships sometimes, but the issue isn’t that I attracted that kind of partner - I am an extrovert, I meet and befriend all kinds of people - but rather that I stayed as long as I did. The truth is that once you are in love, it’s game over (this includes platonic love in friendships, by the way). It is so much harder to step back once you reach a higher level of investment, it can feel almost selfish to leave. Through reflection after my previous relationships, I have taken the time to identify what led to me occupying that role, and now I run a much stricter program. I move slowly, don’t invest unless I see investment, and reflect carefully on any red flags - one strike and you’re out. I have reached an inner peace with the idea of being single for a long time, possibly forever; I have cultivated hobbies and meaningful friendships, and although I am not there all the time, I am satisfied enough that I would never settle again.

The same friend from earlier asked me: how can you expect princess treatment but also refuse to “give back”? Femininity is often associated with submission, nurturing, and softness. My issue is that this creates a hierarchy that creates an inherent power imbalance, a prescribed inferiority. When women submit, leadership becomes unilateral, submission becomes moralized, and women’s labour becomes invisible.

It is important to differentiate performing hierarchy and performing femininity - my issue isn’t with gender expression. As a teenager, I went through my ‘not like other girls’ phase; I refused to wear pink, I thought makeup was a sign of insecurity. At some point, I realized that not only was I like other girls, but that I really enjoyed that aspect of myself. I swung the opposite way into hyper-femininity, wearing predominantly pink and purple with a healthy dose of glitter. I realized that my friendships with women tended to be more equal and supportive. They would display a high level of competence, effort, investment, and reciprocity much more readily than any man has thus far. It is powerful choosing who you spend time with. Trying on the different hats of masculine and feminine stereotypes, including exploring traditional gender stereotypes like being soft and nurturing, can be extremely beneficial in discovering who you are. I believe whole-heartedly in cherry picking the pieces that fit you, rather than erasing the parts that bleed outside of the lines. Self-exploration is inherently about you and your aesthetic. It is just important to evaluate where pitfalls may occur, to make sure that if you choose a soft life, you don’t choose soft control.

Within these strict gender roles, women’s labour often becomes invisible. Cleaning, cooking, and childrearing are the three Cs that make the backbone of this labour, and is ultimately a romanticization. Women say that they don’t want to have to work, but staying at home *is* work. It can be difficult to see because it is labeled as “easy”. This conception I believe is mainly the fault of capitalism, where work is only really labeled as “work” if it is being paid - volunteering, running the home, and literally growing and raising a human are not seen the same because there is no monetary value assigned to it. There are many seminal works of fiction, such as Anna Karenina by Tolstoy showing how out of frustration from feeling undervalued and unloved, she went on to have an affair, seeking that love somewhere else. I am also not arguing here that women *shouldn’t* perform these roles. Firstly, it is often not viable to have a single income household, it is often a status symbol, an aspirational lifestyle, rather than a realistic path for the majority of people. Secondly, if both parties are at work, who watches the kids? The duty is often off-loaded to nannies and maids, both of whom are usually lower class women, and often women of colour and immigrants. I don’t believe that is the feminist answer either. The only satisfactory solution in my eyes is returning to community raising, to intergenerational homes. This, of course, is also not often viable, but a girl can dream. My argument overall is that this work *must* be valued, and it is difficult for that to happen if the other party never learned how to cook and clean for themselves. Appreciation comes from experience.

In terms of the role of ‘nurturer’, women are often socialized to fulfill this role from getting baby dolls as little girls to being told to cover up and not tempt men, accepting the responsibility of mediator and ‘guilty party’ early on. There is also likely more to the story since when forced to make a choice between a ‘girl’ and ‘boy’ toy, gender differences do emerge, although interestingly these differences increase with age, demonstrating the apparent role of socialization (Davis & Hines, 2020). Simone de Beauvoir famously wrote that “one is not born, but rather becomes, a woman” (de Beauvoir, 1949/2011). We cannot discuss the role of nurturer without also discussing stay-at-home-moms (SAHM) and the rise of tradwives. By not working, women are more easily controlled, both financially, through an implied devaluation of the previously discussed women’s labour, but also through depending on your partner to satisfy your social needs. Going to work provides daily, built-in social interaction and as a SAHM you don’t have that - you have to go out of your way. For example, you can join a book club, but even then you will meet usually once a week, the rest of the time your main company is children. As much as I love kids (I really do), it sounds like an under-stimulating way to live. Additionally, I am a person who thrives with structure, and the SAHM life does not provide a set schedule the way that work does. Being a SAHM is a risk, and my fear is that people make that choice passively, which is why it is so important to have these discussions. By stepping out of the workforce in the capitalistic society that we live in, you are also losing years of potential experience; it is already difficult for freshly graduated university students to find jobs, let alone a middle aged woman who has an empty resume. Choosing to be a SAHM becomes dangerous if you feel like that is your gendered obligation or you do it to satisfy a partner. Accepting the benevolent sexism discussed earlier could be the water that slowly boils. Even when it works for individual couples, I can’t unsee the structural implications, but perhaps I am just more risk-averse than others. I wish the world was full of good people, but unfortunately, according to UN statistics, almost 1 in every 3 women have experienced some form of physical and/or sexual intimate partner violence, non-partner sexual violence, or both at least once in their life (World Health Organization, 2025). This does not even include sexual harassment. Being in a financially dependent situation if something like this happened would make escape all the more difficult. Add to that possible children and it sounds like a nightmare scenario.

Second wave feminism argued for the importance of financial freedom. As a result, many gen Zers such as myself grew up with a mother who worked full time, but also was the one who cooked, cleaned, and was responsible for organizing the schedules for her kids. My dad helped a lot, but mainly when he was told by my mom what to do. For them, this dynamic worked, but for me, all I can see is how much more effort is required to do everything she did and still does. Many of the men that I have had the misfortune of going on dates with grew up with this same mentality, and now *expect* the same from women, which is a large contributor of why the dating landscape is the way that it is. I know that my parents dynamic is not unique, and so the girls and women of my generation grew up modelling this high level of productivity, whereas the men had fewer roles to model and also came to expect to be told what to do instead of taking initiative, all while being treated as if they were better than girls (ahem, looking at you boy moms). It is unfortunately very prevalent in many cultures, especially those that adhere more strongly to gender roles such as in slavic countries (YANA-California dba Side by Side, 2018; Jagielnicka, 2022). Apparently the stereotype for slavic women is that they are submissive and nurturing (although in my experience every Serbian I have ever met has been stubborn to a fault). Anecdotally, despite this stubbornness, I see a bigger performance in general of gender roles when I visit the motherland than here in Canada. A quick perusal through r/thepassportbros yields gems such as “Poland is interesting because it’s become economically developed like some of the more robust Western nations, but for the time being at least, feminism hasn’t totally destroyed their female population.”

I think that the definition of the gender roles that I have presented comes from abrahamic religions, specifically Christianity, which is one of the biggest influences on Western civilization. In the bible, there is a popular verse that says “wives submit to your husbands” (Ephesians 5:22). Even though there has been an overall decrease in organized religion, there has been a simultaneous rise in spirituality. Religion can be helpful for many people because it gives them that same sense of peace and purpose, however new age spirituality, particularly that in the social media sphere, just takes the same damaging concepts that initially turned people away from religion and repackages them in prettier terms like “divine feminine” and “being in your feminine energy”. Hierarchy is once again being moralized, and people are leaning into it whether consciously or subconsciously.

If we return to the initial premise of this essay, is expecting a man to pay for a date common courtesy or benevolent sexism? Having expectations for your partner is not bad, in fact it is quite healthy when you can name and communicate them. Paying for a date, buying flowers, is a romantic gesture in my eyes, and I do not expect that behaviour from all men in my life, just the ones who wish to pursue a romantic relationship. I know what I bring to the table, I know that I am funny, smart, and pretty, I neither need nor want to be in a man’s shadow. With my Serbian friends, we often fight, borderline tackling each other to tap our credit card first when we go out. The other day, my friend was driving me and another friend home from an event. As she was leaving the garage, both me and the other friend pulled out our cards and were trying to reach past her at the same time as she trying to pay herself. The other friend ended up succeeding by literally reaching between the front to seats, past the friend driving, and leaning out the window to pay. I am willing and want to give, support, and help my friends whenever needed, and they do the same for me. I have reached a point where I know my value, and my forgiveness for selfish and un-empathetic behaviour is limited. Through accepting these little rituals without the subjugation, I am practicing courteous feminism - an ideology that values every person for simply being a person, and not for fulfilling a role or having a place in a hierarchy. Being a “good” or “bad” person is entirely independent of how well you adhere to societal norms.

In my eyes, the benefit of a partnership IS to split roles and responsibilities, but I wish for intentionality, not gender role passivity. I don’t need a man to match me in every domain, but I do need someone who is ready to reciprocate and who puts love above all else. When a friend is continuously asking for favours, for time, for money, we cut them off. When we are in love, it is easier to overlook these behaviours. Ideal partnerships negotiate roles and responsibilities. I believe that looking at relationships through the lens of gender essentialism, of men and women having pre-destined roles, is just as naive and reductive as the girl boss feminism that believes in splitting the bill 50/50 and expecting complete equality of roles. Instead, I believe that courteous feminism encourages equivalence. Accepting classically romantic gestures while being cognizant of not minimizing yourself is what differentiates courteous feminism from benevolent sexism, it’s what differentiates expressions of love from princess treatment.

Romance is inherently asymmetrical in its behaviours and is shaped by culture. If the culture is patriarchal, then it follows that what we consider romance is also patriarchal. So how can we get past this cognitive dissonance? I see chivalry as compatible with feminism if we consider a performance, choosing to reenact it feels more impactful than feeling like you have to. It is symbolism and politeness. It stops being feminist when it moves from preference to requirement. Chivalry is not compatible with feminism if it is used to control or to trap. I asked my dad what he thought, and he said that my grandpa used to say that the reason chivalry exists, that men go to war is because women give birth. Although this is a reductive and transactional way of viewing relationships, I think it can be useful as a rule of thumb, and only really useful early on in the relationship. Once trust is established, and you begin seeing each other as people instead of idealized versions, you also have room to stabilize in structure and achieve the equal status between the two. Overall, feminism is about ensuring freedom, not denying difference.

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I think that ultimately, the person who invited the other should be the one that pays. In my experience, men often initiate so it still stands that if I am invited out on a date, letting them pay does not necessarily contradict my worldview. For romantic gestures, even though there are more classic ones like buying flowers or paying for the date, they generally refer to actions a man takes towards a woman. The romantic gestures from a woman are less easy to pinpoint, but could include making a meal for the other person. Neutral romantic gestures could be writing a love letter, or drawing for the other person. As someone who often takes care of others, I find it romantic to be taken care of. Romance is asymmetrical, but it does not have to be hierarchical, and so it is inherently compatible with feminism. Even though romance is culturally determined, it does not invalidate these desires, but it does require us to consider these actions and to ensure that we are actively choosing.

In conclusion, I believe that it is ok to let my partner pay because I want romance, I want reciprocity! Competency is not gendered. Gender roles, like gender expression stereotypes, can give a starting point for people to decide what works for them. The roles can be a rough guideline of the duties that exist within a partnership, but they should not be accepted passively. Gender essentialism harms everyone because if there is no critical thinking involved, then the roles assigned may not play to each person’s strength, and you end up not functioning optimally as a team. I am an enjoyer of the ritual of romance, but I will not be complacent in the hierarchy and moralization of submission. Chivalry is compatible with feminism if practiced at a micro level, but not if practiced at a macro, structural level. You have the choice, so whatever you choose, choose actively.

Thank you for reading, I hope that everyone has a lovely Valentine’s day filled with love and care from your partners, pets, friends, and family.

References:

1. Adrienne’s Flowers. (n.d.). Why sending flowers remains the ultimate romantic gesture. https://www.adriennesflowers.co.uk/news-15/why-sending-flowers-remains-the-ultimate-romantic-gesture.htm

2. Davis, J. T. M., & Hines, M. (2020). How large are gender differences in toy preferences? A systematic review and meta-analysis of toy preference research. Archives of Sexual Behavior, 49(2), 373–394. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10508-019-01624-7

3. de Beauvoir, S. (2011). The second sex (C. Borde & S. Malovany-Chevallier, Trans.). Vintage. (Original work published 1949)

4. Ipsos. (2025, September 22). Despite 84% of Canadians aged 55+ recognizing mental health benefits of pets, just 44% have a furry friend. https://www.ipsos.com/en-ca/despite-84-canadians-aged-55-recognizing-mental-health-benefits-pets-just-44-have-furry-friend

5. Jagielnicka, K. (2022, December 7). I’m sick and tired of the submissive Slavic woman myth. The Noösphere. https://medium.com/the-no%C3%B6sphere/im-sick-and-tired-of-the-submissive-slavic-woman-myth-148b4bd724f7

6. Ode à la Rose. (2025, May 30). Why do women love flowers? https://www.odealarose.com/blog/why-do-women-like-flowers/

7. Pet Age Staff. (2013, April 16). Pet ownership rises among singles. Pet Age. https://www.petage.com/pet-ownership-rises-among-singles/

8. Reddit user. (n.d.). Can someone be a feminist and also expect… Reddit. https://www.reddit.com/r/AskFeminists/comments/1n4yvir/can_someone_be_a_feminist_and_also_expect/

9. World Health Organization. (2025, November 19). Lifetime toll: 840 million women faced partner or sexual violence[News release]. https://www.who.int/news/item/19-11-2025-lifetime-toll–840-million-women-faced-partner-or-sexual-violence

10. YANA-California dba Side by Side. (2018, October). Cultural differences: Slavic culture [PDF]. Alta Regional Center. https://www.altaregional.org/sites/main/files/file-attachments/cultural_differences10.18_slavic_culture_0.pdf

I find myself reflecting on what I have learned, about both the bigger hardships in life and the smaller, everyday disappointments. I’ve been thinking about you and grandpa and what resilience means to me.

There are many people who aren’t in my life anymore, including you. I hope that if there is a heaven, that’s where you are.

When you passed, Mila was about to be born. You had prepared a pattern, a fine wool yarn, and your crochet hook with the orange grip. You were out in the gardens picking linden flowers when your heart squeezed out its last beat, an attack out of nowhere. The weather had been slightly warmer and more humid that day, I think that’s what did it.

It was hard growing up overseas. I used to call when I could, but it wasn’t the same. I am so grateful that I came to see you the moment I landed, the day before you went to pick the linden flowers.

You know, when grandpa passed away, only 6 months earlier, it was just two days before my 22nd birthday. Before the 40 days were up, I was walking down the stairs to the basement when I felt a strong scent that instantly stopped me in my tracks, I was teleported across the Atlantic and into your home. I felt his presence there for a moment, I knew he was checking in on us, checking to make sure we were ok.

When you passed, I met up with my aunt who had been not been on speaking terms with my dad for years, as you knew. Something about her was familiar though, she seemed to understand what I felt before I did. Even years later, she patiently listens to me when I’m excited, when I’m sobbing, when I’m ranting, interjecting with a perfectly timed “no way!” and “well of course you did!”. They send each other good morning messages now every day, just like you used to.

I was standing with her, in the cemetery office, when I looked up to see two little honey bees. They were settled close to each other, quietly watching over me, like they knew my heart was fragile in that moment, like they knew me.

I remember grandpa getting up each morning, walking through the little garden you tended to, checking on each of his bee hives. There, of course, the honey bee is a native, and they flourished along with the hydrangeas and roses. You had so many roses, pink, red, white, yellow, each perfectly coiffed, interspersed with a variety of smaller flowering shrubs. Grapevines wove their way up towards the heavens between the garden and the apiary.

As a kid, when I would wake up, I would go outside into the bright sunshine, head past the gently buzzing garden, and further behind the house where grandpa would be relaxing in a lounge chair, or in his inflatable pool, watching his pigeons. He had so many, hundreds of them, that he would carefully tag, track, and take care of, making sure they stayed healthy and happy. He would sit out there all day, watching them, occasionally taking a break to come play chess with me. For breakfast, he would pick some blackberries from the very back of the yard, or some figs from the big tree that hung lazily over his pool, and I would take it back inside where you would pour honey over the fruit. You would always say to only use a wooden spoon, otherwise it would not taste the same. To this day, I don’t think I have ever had something that was closer to pure sunlight.

A year later, it was All Soul’s Day, I didn’t even know. I was so stressed, med school was kicking my ass like nothing had before. I was having nightmares every night. That night, the nightmare started off as usual. I was running through the halls of the hospital, and there was a patient screaming in agony. I ran in, awaiting orders from the staff physician, already reciting in my mind treatment plans and differential diagnoses, when in a moment, the machines went quiet, the screaming stopped, and the patient looked at me, directly in the eyes and said “everything will be ok”. She looked nothing like you, but I know it was you. I woke up with a deep peace in my soul.

Things have been hard over the past year and a half, but I have a cat now, a little black fur ball with traffic light green eyes. She weaves a path between my legs when I’m standing and curls up half a meter away from me on the couch, or if I’m sitting at the island, she walks back and forth in front of my legs, rubbing her little snout on my ankles. You would love her.

I also have wonderful friends, girls who have my back. Tonight, I was decorating my apartment, two of my lovely friends came to help me glue cotton balls to poster boards to make these big cloud designs for my ceiling. I made disco balls and mirrored raindrops to go with it. I know you would have loved it; I remember you showing me your drawings and new knit pieces every time you finished one. We were driving home, me in one car, them in the other, and at the traffic lights, they would pull up next to me, make silly faces and be overall ridiculous, trying to draw a laugh out of me (in which they were successful).

I remember going through your letters to grandpa, after he passed, full of loneliness but also hope.

That’s what I carry with me the most, your hope and love despite it all.

Thank you, I am grateful for every moment I have had you in my life. I still hear you every time my dad laughs. I see you in the shape of my face, my lips, the way my eyes are slightly hooded. I still feel your love every time I pick up a crochet hook.

Volim te ❤️

buy me a coffee

“You’ve helped me on my hero’s journey, but now it’s time for me to continue alone”

I stared at you, blinking slowly, my brain at a standstill.

I thought we were going to be ok. I loved you so much. So much that I would have fought by your side, defended your back, died for you.

You turned and stared off into the distance, posing like you’re some kind of profound thinker, a self-proclaimed hero, a gift from God herself.

The light seemed to bend around you as everything else disappeared and I saw my image of you shatter into a million pieces.

“I want to be fuck buddies” you said a month later.

The tears could not stop. They kept going, kept pouring, like my soul was a river.

The months that followed are composed of memories like polaroids, blue-tinged and hazy. I remember not being able to breathe.

‘The hero’s journey’ you had said.

Who did you think you were?

I had unknowingly been placed in the position of the Manic Pixie Dream Girl™️. You didn’t even know me.

Was I just some quirky whimsical fairy creature that floated into your life? Your sidekick? That’s how you saw me?

I started vaping. The sweet toxic smoke that filled my lungs and constricted my blood vessels kept me going. It was my pacifier. It was how I calmed the panic that was always a drop away from overflowing.

I also got help. They started me on anti-depressants. It helped, but every day after work I spent in bed watching “Bones” and eating palak paneer.

Most days that’s all I managed to eat.

Yesterday, I was watching a video by Shanspeare on YouTube about the Manic Pixie Dream Girl™️ and it reminded me of you, of how you treated me.

I was a white girl that you wanted to save your loser ass.

There is a lot of discourse on reddit in women’s neurodivergent subreddits about how we are seen as the Manic Pixie Dream Girl™️. Sometimes it is seen as a positive, but more often than not, users lament over the fact that that is all that they are seen as. A simple search on r/ADHDwomen reveals hundreds of posts about our unescapable label.

Why can’t I love art and be whimsical and be fun and everything else, but also be a human?

One user said “they love when you’re off chasing butterflies or soap bubbles, not so much when you can’t empty the dishwasher”

He used to get annoyed when in the middle of making out I would suddenly remember something, breaking the embrace to tell him excitedly.

The thing is, I never stop chasing butterflies.

But also I struggle to clean my car. It’s usually covered in old tissues, wrappers, random shoes and bags, the carpet in the back seats isn’t quite adjusted and I always forget to fix it.

My room has a mound of clothes in the middle that I jump over every day. My desk has piles, it looks like chaos, but it makes sense to me.

I can’t be on time for the life of me. I try so hard, yet I either end up way earlier or way later, I can never just be ‘on time’.

My emotions are hard to regulate, I feel every emotion deeply, dare I say melodramatically. I both love it and hate it. I think it is part of what makes me love life and art so much, but it also makes it hard to stay stoic when I feel bad.

Sometimes my mind is such a mess that I need to shut myself in a dark room for a few hours and scroll on my phone in total peace.

Vyvanse helps, but I still am who I am. I do my best to work on my flaws, but we all still have them. It’s the beauty of being human.

By March, I had stopped vaping. I was excelling at school again. But I was still talking to you. We were still playing house in secret.

After half a year of hooking up, after months of saying you’ve never felt like this about anyone, I asked you:

“Do you love me?”

“No, I don’t love you.”

I haven’t spoken to him since.

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My dearest Italia,

I was wondering if you happened to stumble across my beating heart, pumping away on a cobblestone street. I think I forgot it at your place last summer. Maybe it was a lark which flew down and plucked my heart out before flying off. Larks were always flying, following the leader in their practiced choreographies, hundreds of them weaving between each other. Or I might have dropped it when I was walking by Giolitti, licking raspberry gelato, or possibly between the peonies in Spello, or perhaps you told me you were just borrowing it, but instead you kept it safe in your gentle hands.

Maybe I dropped it that first summer, when I first stepped my foot on your land and began searching for my train. My shaky breath passed my lips, eyes wide and skittish like a fawn. I couldn’t speak the language and there were no signs, people just knew where to go. A woman in a business suit passed by, announcing her presence with the determined click of her heels on the cement train platform. A man rushed by in the other direction, speaking into his Bluetooth and walking so fast that my hair blew upwards, caught in the wind of his hurry. A young couple in their 20s, dressed in chic, perfectly tailored outfits passed, leaving a cloud of Gucci perfume like breadcrumbs.

I remember pathetically wishing my mama was there to figure everything out for me. But no! I must not have dropped my heart then. I remembered it swelled with pride when I realized I could figure it out on my own. Looking down at my incomprehensible ticket, and then going to a train conductor. He must have immediately realized I didn’t understand a single word firing like bullets out of his mouth, so he pointed his wrinkled hand at the train beside me. I got on, hoping that I was going where I was supposed to. Honestly, regardless what train I took, I was going exactly where I was needed to. But, mio amore, to return to the subject at hand, my heart did not fall out of my chest then, as I searched for my train. When I got on that train, however, a hand might have slipped by and pickpocketed it as I watched vineyards rolling over scattered hills. Of course, I learned pretty quickly where to hide the things I loved.

You asked me what I thought of Roma, and I thought she was gorgeous, in that Victoria Secret model sort of way. Each street flowing into the other, so tiny I had to suck my tummy in just to squeeze through. Her buildings were tall and majestic. Chiseled structures, defined like her cheekbones and jaw, jutting out of the baked, dry ground. Her long legs of traffic tanning in the hot summer sun. Do you mind asking her if I left my heart there? Perhaps I forgot to pack it when I was leaving the hostel, you know, the one with the hot pink room? It had no A/C, but then again none of the buildings did. Tell her to check behind the chiffon curtains, the ones I kept closed the whole time I was there because they looked into the building next door. Maybe ask Roma to check her crown, the one where the gladiators used to fight, although we didn’t spend much time there at all.

I wasn’t alone in Roma; I had gone with my two friends, Solene and Polina, who I met because of you carissima. We had to go hide in that hostel room all afternoon just to avoid the heat wave. The hostel, by the way, was not nice at all. It had a rickety elevator that we were too scared to go in because the chain which dragged the rusted box up looked like it was seconds from snapping. We were sharing the hostel with at least nine other people, but luckily the three of us had a room to ourselves. That was where we had that makeshift feast, because we didn’t want to spend more money by going to a restaurant. We tried to make wraps but the pita bread kept falling apart so it turned into more of a salad. Oh, actually, I couldn’t have left it there. It must be by the Trevi fountain. The sun had barely started to open its golden eye to admire the rosy clouds when Polina dragged us out of bed to go take pictures by the fountain before the crowd gathered. I must have dropped my heart into the water as I gazed up at its marble curves, but was too tired to notice. It must still be pumping wishes from the vena cava into the aorta.

Perhaps I left it with Perugia. My friends and I would hang out in her centre, in her heart. We would sit drinking beers and laughing as the night twinkled away, almost until sunrise, almost every day. Maybe I was tired and accidentally left my heart pumping those late-night laughs and silly stories. Or possibly I left her pounding on the 30 ft wall where I would sit with my sandal-clad feet hanging over the edge and gaze at the lights twinkling in brick houses. There was nothing like seeing the sunset change from golden to pink, to my favourite shade of blue. The blue was somewhere between baby blue and purple, never turning out quite right when I tried to take a picture. After a few failed photos, I realized that there was no better medium than memory for capturing your beauty. The golden streams of light would reflect from the windows of the churches and old houses down below. Buildings so old I couldn’t help but imagine what life was there once upon a time. Women parading their famous Perugian embroidery, a hub for travelers and merchants. The smell of hay in the air, the sound of church bells which still resound through the narrow Perugian streets. Chickens running between purposeful feet. And maybe someone like me, only centuries earlier, sitting on that same wall and watching the golden light change to pink and then to that beautiful blue that only lasted a heartbeat. If you looked out at night, you could see a cluster of fallen stars between the hills: Assisi. They would shimmer and glow, as if listening carefully to my deepest wishes and sorrows, winking, as if they were nodding, at just the right moments.

Maybe, mio amore, my heart slipped from my chest when I dove off of that paddle board into the Lago. The Lago was muddy and when walking in, my toes would slip and squelch as I stepped into the thick layer of algae which covered the lake’s bed. It was gross but nothing was funnier than seeing someone step in it the first time. Their hair would rise on the back of their necks and they’d throw themselves to the side to try to swim away from the slimy ground to no avail. Once that rough beginning was passed, the water was incredible, magical. It was wonderfully cooling, calming, a silky bed enveloping my sunburnt skin. The lake was a collection of diamonds, reflecting, shining, sparkling and ever-changing. The sun would beat down on my back, but the water would reassuringly wipe away the heat. Sitting on that paddle board, legs over the edge and in the water’s cool embrace, I watched as the surface rippled and created a kaleidoscope of reflections, each more entrancing than the last. Then Solene and I began diving off of the paddle boards. I lost my sunglasses there, they fell off into the cloudy, sunny water. Perhaps my heart fell with it too, sank to the bottom, forever lost in that summer day diving off of a paddle board.

Mio amore, truth is, my heart is still here with me, but now it is filled with you. When I think of you, I smile and my step feels lighter. With you, falling in love is as easy as lying in the soft grass gazing up at the umbrella pines. After you, my walk is steadier, my chin is held up higher. You stole my heart, but I didn’t and still don’t mind. You can keep it forevermore, just keep it safe and whole. Send my heart down the cobblestone roads. Watch my heart melt into that blue sky. Let my heart live in those lazy summer days.

Ti amo,

█████

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The other day my friend whom I had not seen in a little while asked me if I had any new hobbies. I, as a person who is constantly trying new things, could not think of a single new skill I had learned… and then it clicked. The same way I threw myself into crochet and obsessively did it until I was satisfied by my skill level (at which point I slowed down), I had thrown myself with the same enthusiasm into dating. This story starts in December, over a year since my last big breakup, and a few months after I had officially stopped talking to him for good.

I have always been the kind of person who will give myself 100% to those around me without a second thought, whether that be a relationship or a friendship, I am ready to be there for you. However, over the past few years, I have come to wonder, was this really a good quality to have? Am I generous, or am I simply spending my energy anywhere and everywhere?

The issue is that I have always been an ambitious and organized person, and I do what I need to do so efficiently that I don’t think twice about helping people. Although it was easy, it became an expectation and I found myself being drained. I know that I am not alone, and as women we are held to a higher standard from an early age. My generation grew up with mothers who both worked and ran the household, a behaviour that we then modelled and that men in my generation came to expect from women. Our moms are superstars, but that doesn’t mean that everyone around us is entitled to that same level of star power.

One big reason that my last relationship ended was because my ex was very much the type that would take as long as you were giving, in all areas of life. For example, one time I was at the store with him and my friend Lizzie. We were buying chocolates for someone we were visiting, and Lizzie offered to buy both. I immediately protested and insisted that I pay for half (I will fight you with my dying breath to pay), but my then-boyfriend just said “No, let her pay! She is offering”... and he kept insisting that I let her. I had honestly forgotten that incident until Lizzie reminded me of it the other day since it happened so often with him I barely even noticed.

Unfortunately, I have seen this kind of passive entitlement in many people, not just in men, but especially in men. The reason this works especially against women like you and I is that we love to give, it is how we show that we care, and unless someone else stops us, we will continue to give until we are in energy-debt.

As a girlie with more than enough energy to give to one person, I have decided that unless they have proven themselves, they don’t deserve that much access to me; they don’t deserve that level of love from me. Additionally, it takes me time to decide how I feel about a person, to process everything - is there genuine affection or is it simply attention?

I feel my emotions intensely. This can be both good and bad, good in the sense that I can see how rich my life is with this level of feeling but bad because when I feel the negative emotions they are just as salient. With men, I find myself hyper-fixating and anticipating every text with no space in my mind for anything else (boy-CRAZY). Unfortunately, this can and has landed me in situations where I was willing to forgive things I shouldn’t and led me to keep things going longer than they should.

Enter the concept of the roster. Back in December, I found myself with far too much time on my hands. I downloaded Hinge (blegh) and started flirting with people. Quite honestly, I was feeling pretty lonely. As a result, I decided to go on some dates. Since my early 20s, several attitudes had shifted in my mind and I find them very helpful when thinking about engaging with a roster.

1. I stopped hoping that they would like me and instead started wondering if I would like them.

2. I stopped believing that we should be 50/50, and instead began expecting effort up front (I will unpack this in a future post).

3. I am straight up with them.

   If I enjoy our time together but don’t see it becoming anything serious, I let them know. The ones that stick around become part of your roster.

4. I began dating to date, not dating to marry.

   I am open to pursuing a deeper connection, but ONLY if they fit all of my criteria.

5. Singleness is ok, and even desirable.

   I am ok with being single for the rest of my life - anything I would need a man for I can do myself. Even starting a family.

My friend asked me recently, isn’t it exhausting? Quite honestly, I think having a roster is protective. When I feel lonely and need attention, I know I have someone to turn to and talk to; I don’t get so emotionally invested that I am now dealing with their problems as well. Perhaps it seems callous, but really what I see is myself developing boundaries that allow me to leave at the first sign of disrespect. If I had become too emotionally invested, it is quite possible I would have ignored the little things and continued pursuing something deeper with the wrong person. Again, until they prove themselves, there is no point going deeper. On one hand, the superficial engagement (do NOT overshare) can be a loneliness in and of itself, but it also helps me keep that boundary in my head. I am still getting to know them; there’s no reason to rush things.

I have learned some fascinating things throughout my little experiment. By going on several dates, I learned that the nicest men are the ones who are conventionally attractive, but not very intelligent. It must be someone who is conventionally attractive and not just attractive to you (my taste in men differs wildly from that of my friends). My theory is that these are the ones who generally get whatever they want in life, but are also not intelligent enough to be conniving and in constant competition with others. They get what they want and move on.

When I was on vacation, I met one such man through Hinge, let’s call him Chewy. I was staying on the periphery of the city, so it was hard to go anywhere without a car in the evenings. My friend, Kelly, and I were actively looking for parties, but nothing was coming up. While I was in the bathroom, Kelly took my phone and texted all of the matches in the area where the parties were at. Chewy responded pretty quickly, and we began talking.

Within a few hours, we had plans for the next evening to go to a flip cup league that happened every Tuesday. With no prompting on our end, he offered to come pick us both up and drop us off at home so that we didn’t have to pay for an Uber (which, as two broke students, is a dream), and he did not try to pressure me into doing anything with him as a repayment. Of course, that should be the bare minimum, however I have found that it is not, and I will get into those categories next. The party was so much fun and honestly one of the highlights of the trip - I got to meet so many people I never would have otherwise. He restored my faith in men through his kindness.

The issue with men who are both above average attractiveness and above average intelligence is that most of the time, they are pure evil. I have had the misfortune to meet many such men. These are your biggest manipulators, since manipulation takes at least some level of intelligence. Especially once you start clocking the simple stuff like love bombing and future planning, it takes a different brand of person to expand beyond that and find new flavours of ways to mess with your brain.

In my first real relationship, I was dating one such man. He would tell two different stories, one to me and one to his mom, and used that as a way to pit the two of us against each other all while allowing him to do whatever he wanted to do in the first place. He would use his mental health as an excuse, had no issue using me, and also just could not be bothered to really put effort into doing anything for me (like forgetting to call me for my birthday - it was COVID lockdowns). I was 19, naive, and too forgiving because my mindset was that this was someone I was going to marry. All I can say is thank goodness that did not work out. At the time, I thought that he was a unicorn; I thought he was perfect. He checked off all of my boxes on paper (and love is a hell of a drug).

Another man I went on a date with more recently checked off all of the boxes as well: he was tall, handsome, a doctor, buuuut what I did not realize until I was on the date was how self-centred he was, how misogynistic, and just generally how he created an image of me that he liked but as soon as that illusion shattered, he became mean and tried to put me down.

Unicorns are rare, ladies. If you think you found one, you probably haven’t. The good news is that it doesn’t usually take long to start seeing the cracks if you are ready for them.

Moving on to the less conventionally attractive groups. If they are unattractive and unintelligent, you probably won’t even run into them. If you do, they often act entitled to your time, but also often develop a hatred of the world which makes being around them unpleasant. Life doesn’t come easy to them, but they don’t know why or how to manipulate those more intelligent. However, if you are a man reading this, do not despair; both attractiveness and intelligence are subject to change, and if you are ready and willing, you can move categories (hint: start therapy).

The next two categories are once again two sides of the same coin; if they are not the most conventionally attractive but are above average intelligence, then they either fall into the “mean and bitter” camp or the “dateable” camp. The ones that are mean and bitter are that way because they might not have as much luck as the “evil” category. They only get a chance once they have proven themselves, rather than getting a chance simply for good looks. If they have too many negative experiences, they end up in the mean & bitter camp, but otherwise, they can quite easily end up in the dateable camp. The difference really is their attitude towards life and especially towards women. This is the kind of guy who might be in the dateable category, but if you friend-zone him (even if it’s for reasons like you aren’t ready right now, or something else that is not a lack of attraction), they disappear, sometimes after levying horrible insults at you first.

I had all of these thoughts swirling around in my brain, but then I remembered a video I was shown a while ago (obviously by a man) called the Crazy-Hot Matrix:

This gave me the wonderful idea to summarise my own experiences into a little graph of my own, which you saw at the top of the article.

I highly recommend keeping this matrix in mind when building up a roster, so that you know what you are getting into before you get into it (also, great for convincing friends to ditch their selfish boyfriends already!)

Building a roster is a way for my brain to remember that there are good men out there, and also that receiving a compliment is not the same as being loved by someone.

Attention is not affection.

Just because they are kind does not mean we need to date them! It’s the combination of everything that should tell us what our next steps are, not just our hearts.

Yes, I am a lover girl, and yes, I have officially developed a roster. No, I don’t think it’s unethical (although it can be) because having a roster is a boundary setting tool for us girlies who love too much.

Ladies, 2026 is all about keeping our energy close, reflecting, loving life, and absolutely NOT getting played by a man.

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