My Life In A Not-So-Nutshell

Crowns. Sashes. Heels. Swimsuit. Butt glue. Batons. Makeup. Hair. Nails. Spray tan. Eyelashes. Curtain call. Jazz shoes. Shiny lights. Photographers. Newspapers. TV. Platform. Interview. Smile. White strips. Perfection. Rinse. Repeat. I spent twelve years of my life competing in pageantry. And today, I'd like to formally resign my title as Miss Pageantry and exchange it for a title I find to be a bit more fitting. Today, I'll assume the title of Miss Fuck It. The following is my telling of why. I gained such invaluable experience from my days in pageantry. I learned (shockingly & ironically) how to be professional in tough situations, how to think on my feet, how to formulate opinions on intense issues at a young age and adjust those opinions as I grew, how to tell people what I needed in a blatantly honest way (this usually applied to the lighting curator at the Adler Theater who organized the lighting placements for baton twirlers at Miss Iowa every year). I learn...

God, what a completely f*cked time, right? Anyway, hi. How are you today? I feel like total shit. I barely left my bed. I ate approximately 456 grams of carbohydrates in the form of Reese’s peanut butter eggs, a burrito, and bread my mom made the other day.  Oh, shit. I'm so sorry.  Not the inspiration you were hoping for?  You know, I'm a recovering pessimist. I grew up having an attitude that made both my baton coach and my parents probably want to murder me. I once threw my baton so hard at the studio wall I got kicked out of baton class. I was 12. I had virtually no confidence growing up. Idiots in middle school made jokes and I believed those jokes and wound up with the self-esteem of what I imagine a literal fucking turtle having. I have a point here, I swear. As my confidence developed and years of traumatic experiences ensued, I told myself I probably had two choices in this life: I could continue to be a pessimistic nightmare and choose to be...

There's this cover of John Denver's "Take Me Home, Country Roads" performed by a female group called Mountain Man. I can't tell you why, maybe it's the way the chords are strung together or how beautiful their voices sound together, but this version, this one in particular, always makes me cry. It's just that good. (And now you know that my scoring system for how great I think a song is includes its ability to make me cry... listen, we've all got our flaws here, folks). This version of this tune makes me feel this sort of sentimental, nostalgic puzzle-like feeling. You ever felt like that? Like you're trying to piece together parts of your past, and figure out just exactly how X and Y met to get you to Z? Or maybe how Q and R met to get you to S which is a whole other fucked up land of its own because no one actually makes it to Z in this lifetime, right? Except when you like, I dunno, die? I didn't recognize I was grieving until I said ...

"Heart break is heart opening." I heard this once. I did not believe it for a long time until I took inventory of all the times my heart had been broken. (Note: this phrase checks out). A week ago, I was on the subway to a SoulCycle class. It was a normal Monday. I had the day off, so I didn't do a whole lot. I went to a dance lesson, I did some laundry, I ate lunch, the usual. On this subway ride, we stop at a station, and a man gets on the train who looks identical, and I mean identical, to my ex-boyfriend. Shortly after that stop, we got stuck underground. Now, if you live in New York City, you are reading this and thinking, "cool, big deal." I get it. It's a normal thing. But, shockingly enough, it's only happened to me twice in the 8 months I've lived here. So, the odds hadn't been great. I was sitting next to this woman, and I feel it. A specific panic sets in, one I am acquainted with, but hadn't felt in some time. I do all the t...

I often want to feel less. Most of the time, actually. I have, generally speaking, been too much my entire life. I feel too much, say too much, do too much, and sometimes, I think I probably love too much. It's the double-edged sword you face when you wear your heart on your sleeve, yet desperately seek to show less emotion, to feel less. It's not that I find this to be an inherently bad quality within myself. I think it results in a little more pain, but also more love. Sadness, but benevolence. I was speaking with a friend the other day about what it's like to begin to date again after a breakup. I'm exactly a year out from my breakup. I was in a relationship for five years, so it took me much longer than I had planned or was prepared for to be in a comfortable place to date again. This friend had asked me how I knew it was time to start dating again after this breakup. I told them it was a feeling, an instinctive notion within me... I just knew. I had done al...

CW: sexual assault Almost two years ago, I wrote about the men of my life. I wrote about how a priest told me I was pretty in a confessional booth at age 11. I wrote about how I was assaulted in a car in my driveway at age 15. I wrote about how I was raped at 21. Later on, I touched on how I was sexually abused by a neighbor at age 7. I wrote about catcalling and slut shaming and how most of my friends & family members have endured the roughness that is the business of being a woman in today's world. (Men, I understand and empathize with the struggles you face... but for all intents & purposes, this post is geared at the women). These stories were meant for various purposes, but mainly to help me heal, and to in turn maybe help someone else heal, too. "The Men of My Life" started as a blog post. And then from there, it became a book idea. And from there, the last two years have consisted of writing and writing about each male who has had a profound...

Hang with me here. My heart has been broken for so long that I think that just became comfortable; it became the norm. It does not, under any circumstance, mean I am not happy. It just means it has been broken. I believe the two -- happiness and heartbreak -- can coexist. My heart is just taking a bit to recover. A friend told me the other day that the last step in healing from heartbreak is by allowing your heart to love again. Actively allowing. Actively giving away your love to someone else -- even with the risk, even with the uncertainty that came with love the first time around, even -- and especially -- when it went poorly the first time around. That’s f*cking terrifying. I can’t think of anything scarier. I can’t think of anything worse than having to do it all again — the possibility of heartbreak happening again alone has been enough to keep me at bay. It has been enough to keep me in misery for far longer than I deserve. It has been enough for me to reject dates, r...