95 theses — without warning

Who I am and who I’ve been telling myself I am — the immense space between the two; the gaping crevice where lost intentions and warped perspectives have fallen. I look into my own heart and mind to discover I’m not there anymore — worse, I’m not always sure who is. Like a cocktail hour with everyone i’ve crossed paths with. Even the strangers from my dreams. Did you know it’s impossible to see an utter stranger in your dream? The background characters in the filler episodes — it’s impossible to muster them up on our own. The untiring brain of ours registers and remembers faces our eyes glanced upon, even of a second. Imagine what it thinks of someone you’ve loved? Even for a night. It’s an addiction — a complex and powerful urge to uncontrollably repeat a behavior. A strong desire; compulsion, even. And it pays no regard to you. I’m not an addict, I just can’t always control the compulsion. I can delay, but never stop. I’m not an addict, i’m sober. But if I miss a crossed ’t’, or the dot to an ‘I’ I’ll crumble. A sick obsession with routine, but calling myself “go with the flow”. Fixating until I’m sick only to start over, do it again. Perfection, in everything. Numbers, winning, lines, precision. I’m not an addict but I can’t do something — anything, once. Or in a casual fashion. Zero or a million, and I don’t believe in the color gray; which is perplexing considering the world lives in grayscale. Blurred lines and nonchalant expressions. Taking up as little space while I convince myself I have the same needs and desires of someone else to not rock the boat. Questioning what i’ve become while losing sight of who was there first. It feels easy, simpler this way. Until the claws of my unfeigned truth pierce through, severing each and every lie i’ve been fed by myself and every experience I’ve met. I say things don’t alter me. That I’m resilient enough to be constant. Until I see her through the laceration bleeding out of every disappointment, heartbreak, lie, flinch, scare. I’m not chill at all, actually. That obsession, that addiction, that fire and passion locked away like a panther in a shadowbox. Thats the paradox of taming — after the fight comes surrender. After the mania comes fatigue. Giving up and giving in. The panther that’s being released shouldn’t have been tamed. I put her there myself — resilience was a lie I ate up everyday until it made me sick. Another hyper-focus cycle. The problem isn’t me, its the fantasy I’ve been sold. The dramatic soundtrack wrapped in glittering promises. I’ve had enough of romantic love  — its the one addiction that’s failed me repeatedly. The love I lost sight of is what I crave more of. The feeling of stillness I’ve replaced with the chase for the rush, the thrill. To feel something then nothing at all. The color red — where danger lives. A warning without warning. The sunset at 18:32. The mountains and coolness of the air before the sun makes his entrance, ending the performance of the clouds. Songs that hit so hard I get goosebumps. Eyes filled with tears after a hug that lingers or hearing “you were in my dream last night”. Tell me once, I’ll remember it forever. Habitually in love with every second because that’s just who I am. It’s soft because we’re told so. I’m awake before the world and whoever is brave enough to “good morning” hours into my day is who I will think about the rest of the day. Being excited, about everything. Learning every crevice of someone’s soul while they crave and dig to know mine. The look in someone’s eyes when talking about something they feel so strongly about. Obsession. The art of eye contact and how that portal closes out the world around the two. Time stops, hearing muffles. It’s a trance to hold that intentionally, and that’s the thrilling rush I chase. Kissing in the rain because I’ve always wanted to and not following the nonchalant rulebook created by “dark femme” culture on TikTok. I’m not chill, unfortunately. I’m an addict. Addicted to the adrenaline from living through my heart. Addicted to red flags — in myself and others. Without warning. Rough love, tough love. What I crave I’ve never known nor seen — only felt. In the marrow of my bones. When you know, you know? Every sense lighting up. Dopamine centers craving. Oxytocin and vasopressin. Adrenaline. Endorphins. Standing at the edge of the cliff — “I’ll jump if you jump”. But with no hesitation of distrust. An unspoken soul tie that somehow you’ll catch one another. Amygdala calming. Electric tingles and dilated pupils.  Passion is a fire and I almost let mine die. Note to self — keep gasoline and a match as a common household item. Not to burn it down, but light it up. There are things to be done by me that are done better by me than any other human being in the world. Every word, every movement, every gesture of mine preserves my timeless stamp upon life. As long as time has been or ever will be, there is no one who can exactly duplicate me. That’s beautiful. That’s treasured. I appreciate my own company and fall in love with being alone every day; but who am I to lock her away? 

ARCHIVE 001

I’m probably not alone in the sense that while growing up, I was in such a hurry to “grow up”. It was an exciting idea. To be an adult, be independent, make my own rules, do what I want when I want. Have a big girl job, make money, spend it. Adults seemed to have it so easy because they didn’t have homework, reading logs, chores, anyone to say no to them. I find it hard to believe I was the only kid who thought being an adult was when life got easy! If only I knew. 

Adults always seemed so much more “adult” in the same way that high schoolers looked like the big kids in middle school. Then, once you’re in high school, you say “I always thought high schoolers were bigger”. College seems like the real deal until you’re there, thinking “college kids always seemed so much older”. Adults, in that same way, always seemed more adult to me. If you asked me at sixteen, I would’ve told you I’d have it all figured out at twenty two. That’s old! So adult. I’ll have my sh*t together! But here I am, twenty two, thinking “maybe thirty. I’ll have it all figured out by thirty”. 

The common theme that’s been chasing me my whole life is that people know more than I do. From a very small age, I thought the kid next to me in class was a better reader. I thought the boy who beat me running in P.E. was better than me across the board. The girl next to me on the bus had a better iTunes playlist because she knew more songs than me. In middle school, everyone had more friends than me. In high school, everyone’s grades were better than mine. In college, everyone had their future figured out and knew exactly what they wanted. The job I have now I thought was so far fetched. That I’d never be capable of having it. Now that I’m writing this out, maybe some slight imposter syndrome, don’t ya think? I always felt like I was missing something. A piece to the puzzle that everyone had and I was clueless to. Until I came to the realization of a couple things, that feeling hung over my head day in and day out. Year after year, age after age. So let’s talk about what I realized. 

First things first, no two people walk the same journey. Im not even convinced that identical twins growing up in the same household walk the same journey. They’re two separate brains processing events at their own rate and forming their own understanding of life day by day. So, if no two journeys are the same, how is it fair to compare, you ask? I’ll tell you. I even thought everyone’s journey was better than mine. Yeah, this runs deep. Until recently, I really believed that. And it took me experiencing the ugly parts of life to think “hey, I can’t be alone in this. Other people have felt this too.” There you go Alana! You CANT be alone in this, no one is! That very realization was freeing to a pretty good extent. I’m not the only girl who’s cried over a boy she only just met and is convinced she fell in love with. I’m not the only person whose heart has been shattered into a million tiny pieces by grief. I’m not the only one who’s worked a job I hated and felt like as soon as I clocked in, my existence was draining itself. I’m not the only person who has failed a test, wasted money on something that was disappointing, or been given the wrong order only to realize when you sit down at your kitchen table to finally satisfy that relentless craving only to be met with the wrong. order. The incorrect milk in your Starbucks coffee is a different type of pain, and other people have felt that too. I’m not the only human who has experienced guilt, anxiety, depression, or simply that it’s all just “too much”. Say it with me, I AM NOT ALONE. And man does it feel good to know that there are 7.8 billion people experiencing this universe and all its inconveniences with me.

Something less depressing than the realization that I can’t be the only one straight up not having a good time was the counter part. I also can’t be the only one that’s had something good happen to them! This was an even more comforting thought. And this one fills my heart and makes me happy. It does not provide company for my misery. The serotonin release after a hot girl walk on a sunny day and yoga at sunset on a cool evening. The euphoria of dopamine after the smell of In-N-Out, a drunk cig, or broken sexual tension. All in the same night, if you’re lucky. The oxytocin rush of being in love. Endorphins after a good leg day. 7.8 billion other people have also experienced the highs. The good. The happy. And that’s so beautiful. But why am I still missing that puzzle piece?

Well, the missing piece is that there is no one who has it all figured out. Even though I’ve wasted twenty two years thinking that everyone does and it’s just me who doesn’t. And even if there’s someone who does, there’s also those who don’t. Remember, 7.8 billion people. But my missing piece was a piece that doesn’t actually exist, and I exhausted myself everyday for years searching for it! I guess to make a long story short, I had always thought the grass was greener on the other side. But turns out, grass is green where you water it. And if it’s too green to be true, you’re right. It’s probably turf. You install it when you want to look good, but not work to keep it alive or worry about anything killing it. And at the end of the day, it’s fake. It’s not cool on your feet on a warm day, it’s not soothing to your dog’s tummy ache, and it’s not soft and luscious. It’s just fake grass. But it looks good!

So, the killer? Comparison. Comparing two people, on two different paths with two different lives. It’s like cross checking two different homework assignments, of course it’s not adding up! Life started once i stopped comparing myself and my story to someone else’s. Life started once I realized there’s no “answer”. There’s no milestone that means you’ve made it. No age, no amount of money, no job, no accomplishment that means someone completed the life game. Adulthood has felt much more child like once i understood that everyday, each of us is working towards something different and experiencing different trials while doing so. 

In rushing to grow up, I was rushing to get to where i thought everyone was, only to find out no one was actually there. Those child problems i swore would go away, only morphed into real, bigger ones. Life doesn’t get easier as an adult, it challenges you in ways you’d never think you needed to be challenged. Watching past versions of yourself die to welcome a new one. Finding God’s love in the Devil’s work. Grieving. Heartbreak that gets worse every time until he comes along — catching you off guard with everything you’ve dreamed of when you least expect it. Money, budgeting — your third grocery list of the WEEK because adulting, in reality, is just buying food, doing the dishes and washing the sheets. We’re all doing it. Everything. Together. All the time. Just seperately. The same, but different. And wow is it a relief that no one has the puzzle piece I swore was missing. 

F.E.A.R.

The saying “you attract what you fear” — and what is it that I fear? The truthful answer almost pathetic. Being such a perfectionist I don’t even recognize ‘perfect’ when it falls into my lap. The weight equivalent to the world and then some that sits on my chest when I mess up, reinforcing the narrative that  I’m not good enough. I serve grace to strangers and the complete opposite on a silver platter and have none left at the end of the party. Something good can’t be true because everything ends. Dies. Wilts. Spoils. The good is for others in reality and me in the dreams I have as I zone out, leaving my body — living in my mind. There’s a couch for two in there and I prefer to lay length wise across it. Shattering, giving my heart to all the wrong people and calling it a lesson — only to never learn the material being taught. Never jumping off the cliff and lying to myself that I would survive without something I’ve dreamed of since I could conceptualize it. Shrinking myself to fit in a space not equipped for me. Or worse — changing the contents of my packaging when I was sent to the wrong address. Holding my value on the surface because what lies underneath is overwhelming. The darkness, though I find the most stillness there — both the absence of light and the kind I see in the eyes of someone everyone pulls away from. 

I think about a blue car and see 20 on my way home— I fear a million things and live them all the time. And I have yet to be taken out by what I would swear could kill me. I lay across the couch, preventing company being welcomed next to me. The one spot I refuse to make room — to shrink. Taking up my space. Until someone brave enough to not ask me to move, but lay across it with me. Even better, head on my chest, entangled between me. A couch for two goes either way — seating and width. Facing a fear and falling in love with doing so in every breath you take. Before, it was just bad company that pushed me to keep my couch, my house, in my own possession. The softest, gentle touch where it used to sting. Quiet, direct words roll off the lips that kiss, smile, laugh; while I anticipate scolding mind twists. Admiration in areas that have lost feeling. Numb is the only way to feel nothing. Feeling as warm as the color orange and the sun in April. This house is a home, a place you default coming back to. Where there’s coffee, t shirts, a toothbrush, food. Saved log ins and sides of the bed. Plants you nurture, and you’re the art I admire.

The fears I’ve attracted for 20 something years but changed the narrative. Re-structured and regulated. Reparented and renovated a house to a home. Separated two truths from a lie. Perfect is subjective, not the same for any two people. Except us. You and me — we. Are perfect. A mistake inequivalent to my value. Still serving grace on a silver platter, but in smaller portions — I no longer starve when the party’s over. An expiration date as encouragement to enjoy. Inspiration to indulge as opposed to waste, or worse, miss out. Learning to mindfully, intentionally and selectively reveal my bleeding heart; not leaving it everywhere in hopes someone will return it if lost. Risking getting burned for a chance at warmth. No longer numbing a heart that yearns to feel recklessly, consequences be damned because the alternative? Frozen solitude. Appreciating the value in all 86,400 seconds in a day and yearning to be present for each of them. No longer escaping time; smudging it out and blurring it in a layer of smoke. Touching art in a museum forbidden to avoid damage, depreciation — alteration. Look, admire — only few understand the message it delivers, and they’re hungry for more.

 To think all that, yet I’ve never feared myself. Face Everything And Rise. The truth of the matter is maybe I’m not afraid of anything. Just losing my creativity and humility, dying with dreams, and missing out on you and me. 

KNOWLEDGE KILLS

The universe is devious in her timing as she runs the game of balance we call life. Two steps forward, three steps back. Abundance pursued by scarcity. Hunger + motivation extinguished by exhaustion + every obstacle possible. Smiling so hard your cheeks hurt — crying so hard your ribs ache. She’ll stop you entirely in your tracks to tease you with everything you’ve asked her for, then tell you you’re not actually ready for it yet. It could be so simple, but what thrill would that be?

That’s the thing about this game called life. If we always knew the plans, what would lead to where, had the answers. If you could watch your entire life, birth to death, like a movie — would you? The thought of knowing isn’t as comforting as I like to theorize it would be. To know is to kill the hopes, dreams, fantasies, imagination. The desire. The chase. Like knowing the ending to a book where the main character dies and the charmer is the one who killed her. You’d never get attached to the main character nor would you allow yourself to be charmed — you already know what’s going to happen. Save yourself the rollercoaster + disappointment, but deprive yourself of the connection + emotion you could have felt had the ending not be spoiled. 

That’s where the beautiful parts lie — the space between the body + the mind. The crevasse between what is + what could be. The unknown. Anxiety? Or fear that the true outcome won’t be what you hope for it to be as you zone out under the deceptive impression that you don’t know what you want — lying to yourself that you’re open to her plans. Even if you’re not ready for the darkness, light cannot be present without it. To fall low implies you were once high. To have a heart broken into pieces alludes it was embraced in the tightest, warmest hug prior to. A full belly as you say “I’m going on a juice cleanse for a week” comes after the best meal you’ve had in a long time. So good you couldn’t stop. “I’m never going out again” as you debrief the most fun you’ve had in months, scrambling the pieces together into a pathetic excuse for a memory. I hate cooking because the kitchen gets dirty, but how lucky am I to have a kitchen that gets dirty. I hate interrupted sleep, but how lucky am I to have a little person who needs only me to be at peace. I’m SPENT at the end of my days, but how lucky am I to have a job — one I am so passionate about + have life changing relationships because of. I hate when my gas light comes on when I’m 10 minutes late with $23.76 in my bank account — but how lucky am I to have a car that needs gas. Here’s the big one, the meat — what you’re waiting for me to get to. I hate falling in love because what happens when it’s over? If I didn’t dive off the cliff in the first place, I wouldn’t have to climb back up — only to probably dive off again. 

Damage control. Obsessed with control. Don’t ask for the good + rely on that to avoid the bad. But maybe the bad isn’t so bad. What if the bad is purely an absence of the good. Empty, passionless, predictable. Creativity is meant to flow like a watercolor brush across paper. The heart is meant to love like the sun is meant to rise every morning. Created for relationships — it’s what fills our cup. Keeps us going. Go ahead, avoid it so nothing bad will happen, then lie awake at night, wondering what the empty cavity in your chest is causing you to long for. Love is like fire — it’s powerful, warming, hypnotizing; but it can burn. More than any curling iron or frying pan you’ve touched before. Oddly enough, it’s a burn you can always recover from, even when you have yourself set that’ll never happen. What’s worse — the burn? Or the realization that you fell in love with a fantasy that wasn’t so real after all? 

But I’ve always believed love — real, genuine, divine, unwavering love — will always find its way. It’s written in the stars. The storyline isn’t how you would’ve written it, but what if it’s better how she wrote it? If I was offered the opportunity to watch my movie + learn the answer, I’d courteously decline. What will I do if the movie goes on without you? I prefer to live with the small fire of hope, in the space between what is + what could be. Sure, maybe another life — past or future. But I’m in this one, + so are you. What are the odds? I’ll keep writing + you do the same. But don’t be confused when two oceans meet and never mix — merely exist in respect to the other’s power + space; but never seperate. Oil + water. Fire + ice. Positive + negative. You + me? The space between the body + the mind — but will we ever exist outside of that abyss? I’ll savor this hope as the last sip of Cabernet Sauvignon in my glass. I’ll only sip it if you come back to offer me a refill — until then, I’ll swirl it around, counting the drips down the side, as I savor the sweetest smell I’ve ever known. 

THE BUTTERFLY EFFECT

Change (verb) to make the form, nature, content, future course, etc., of (something) different from what it is or from what it would be if left alone. 

I am a big believer in the “butterfly effect”. The notion that the universe is so deeply interconnected, such that one small occurrence can influence a much larger complex system. The feeling of hope that things really do happen for a bigger reason and maybe we’re not just purposelessly inhabiting a rock floating in space. Brought here with a purpose, each and every one of us is crucial in the system of what we call the day to day. Under the same sky, written in the same stars, warmed by the same sun, feeling the same moon. The journey of self discovery and restlessly searching to find where exactly you fit in said system is a universal experience, yet we still insist on the notion that “no one gets it”. 

Like many little girls, I always wanted to be a mommy. Baby Alive came everywhere with me for a greater part of my childhood. Swaddled in my baby blankets and placed in her stroller — to the store we went. Dinners. Just about everywhere. Always fed and with a clean diaper, too. I was a mother to that chunk of plastic, responding to her scheduled cries and big blinking eyes. But I grew up. She stayed home when I left and there was a day that I played with her for the last time before she ended up in storage because I was too cool for dolls now. I loved children but my desire to truly have them dwindled. They became bothersome and needy to me and a cry was plain annoying. I settled that maybe I was better fit to just be the cool, rich aunt to my friend’s kids. Say yes to things mom was a no on and give them back. No work, all play. Continuing to grow up and seeing the state of the world really drove my “no kids” point home. It’s different than when I was a kid and that wasn’t too long ago. I rode bikes around the neighborhood with my friends and played in the front yard for hours. There’s always been evil in the world, but it seemed to be significantly safer just that short amount of time ago. Bringing a life into a world of such danger absolutely horrified me. 

The butterfly effect. One small occurrence changing the outcome of everything. Altering a timeline. Car accidents half a second away from fatality, but you didn’t leave one second earlier because you had one more person to say bye to. What if you left one minute later and missed that moment in time completely? Meeting my first friend in preschool. Living in Tucson, Arizona. Losing loved ones. Agreeing to plans instead of staying in. Every decision I’ve made has brought me to this very second in my timeline and this second, too, will cause another outcome someday. Makes you feel a lot of pressure, huh?

The fact of the matter is — I was always meant to be a mother. Those wings of the butterfly flapped long before I decided I’d be better off as the cool, rich aunt. She is needy, and I love being exactly what she needs. Her cries aren’t annoying, they’re her communication that she needs me for something — everything. The world is a scary place, but she was given to me for a reason. I’m the perfect person to teach, guide and protect her. I was made for her, her for me. And now that I’m here, in this moment, writing in bed after putting my baby down for the night, it all makes sense. It’s clearer than ever before — my purpose on this planet. Her mommy. There was a me before her, but there was never a her before me. My life began long before her, but the rhythm of her heartbeat changed the way I danced. She changed me; made my nature different from what it would be if I were just left alone. I shook off branches from my tree and replaced them with stronger ones. I’ve given until I’m breathless, and then given more. I’ve looked in the mirror of my daughter and both smiled and cried. I get it now — the love that your mom tells you you’ll never fathom until you’re in her shoes. I’m in her shoes, and they fit quite nicely. The feeling of being someone’s sun, moon and stars. A mother’s love. Growing everyday, both of us. Me mentally, emotionally and spiritually. Her in the number of rolls on her legs and onesies fitting more snug by the minute. 

Change — the shifting of the familiar. She shifted everything I’ve ever thought to be true. She flapped her wings and flipped my world upside down. And I don’t ever want it to be right side up again. I’ll be a lot of things in this life. Friend. Student. Red wine drinker and dark chocolate lover. Apprentice. Leader. Chicken fingers and fries advocate. MUA. Tito’s Soda orderer. Dog whisperer. Obsessive hugger. Impulsive kisser. Ugly laugher. Clothing obsessed. Gold jewelry wearer. Taylor Swift hater. (sorry cry about it idc). Crier for a good romance movie. Overthinker. Perfectionist. I am a lot of things. I will be a lot of things. I’m not certain about much, but I can promise you a mother is my favorite thing to be. 

DON’T BLINK

The childhood friend you never thought you’d go a day in your life without seeing, only to just hear from her on your birthday — if you’re lucky. Don’t blink. The shoes your mom bought a size too big so you could grow into them; in the donation pile because you couldn’t possibly squeeze your growing foot into them. Don’t blink. One day, you rode your bike around the neighborhood with your friends for the last time and took a razor scooter to the ankle for the last time. Don’t blink. 1st grade turned to middle school, shedding tears every single year in between over the same bully only to become friends with her in high school and talk everyday. Who’d think she’d be married before me? She deserves it, her heart needed love. Brandy Melville T-Shirt dresses and low rise Hollister jean shorts now nowhere to be found. That one Triangl bikini and Victoria’s Secret discontinuing swimwear, causing a worldwide panic among teenage girls, only to bring it back. Summer ‘16. Meeting your best friend for the first time. High school is forever long, we’ll never have our licenses. We just graduated and got into a nearly fatal car accident driving home from a party, but the angels were on duty as always. Don’t blink. Your first love you never thought you’d know a life without turned first heartbreak you never thought you’d heal from. You mended your heart and hung onto the sweet memories, shared songs and inside jokes that you now laugh alone at. Loved again. Lost again. Don’t blink. The dreaded weekly phone calls with grandma because they “inconvenienced” your day. Now you listen to the voicemails you just happened to save to hear the love in her voice again. Drove daddy home for the last time, unknowingly. You have his voicemails but you don’t have his words of wisdom, hugs or laughs. He’ll never hold your baby or give you away if you get married. Don’t blink. Lost sight of your dreams and passions, found them. You’re in your earliest of 20’s while your friends plan their next trip and you await the next cry to be needed by your baby. The newborn clothes she swam in for months, draped over the side of the crib to be put away in storage — she’s outgrown them. The newborn diapers you so relentlessly used the last of and never repurchased. Took a photo, even, to remember just. how. tiny. Don’t blink. 

It’s fast, this life we live. Some moments feel longer than others — time is subjective. I scroll through my camera roll, watching the evolution of every version of myself, year to year. I see a pure, innocent little girl who hasn’t been told her nose is too big for her face. I see a 2010’s icon, probably XX Pro or Valencia instagram filter. And the galaxy leggings? I’m sorry, but they were a moment. I see a middle schooler, trying to figure herself out. A high schooler who was too cool for her own good. A sorority girl out of touch with any sort of reality. A girl with a light in her eyes and a fire in her soul before this world, false friends and the wrong boys shattered her over and over again. I see numb. I see grief and a heart broken by death. I see healing and acceptance. I see light, dark, everything in between — and I’m not just talking about my hair. And most recently, my camera roll full of baby pictures. Because I refuse to believe that she looks like a brand new person every week. I hold onto every version of her and welcome the change everyday.

I can understand now, why adults always would say “time flies”. What is time, even? The big and little hands on a watch. The teller of whether to angrily rush, not allowing any memories to form, or move in slow motion, using every sense to captivate the moment. And at the end of the day, it isn’t real. Just one more thing we’ve created to trip ourselves. Life is dancing with death to the rhythm of a ticking clock that no one sees. And this clock ticks so. damn. fast. I blinked, and jumped from fifteen to twenty two. There was a time I was so eager to “grow up”, and today, I would do anything to be sixteen, in the car with my best friends, blasting our rap playlist and showing each other that we did in fact study the lyrics and are ready to show that off at the next house party that’s blessed with our presence. 

Whether your eyes are welled up with tears, or watering because you truly just haven’t blinked — dry them. Text your friends back. Make time for the plans you’re putting off. Tell the person that just came to mind that you love them. Who cares if it’s too soon. If you scare them, they’re not the right one. Call your parents. Hug your parents. Please — hug your parents. Walk your dog. Taste new foods and smell the flowers. Share the song to your story you think no one cares about. Take pictures of the sunset, and everything you find beauty in for that matter. Invest in your hobby and practice your craft. Show enthusiasm when you’re excited and cry a river when someone hurts you. Life’s too short for a poker face. Communicate. Laugh. Scream to feel alive. Mix perfumes. Use your good products, stop saving them. They’re going to expire. Eat the cookie, drink the soda. Do shit that makes you happy. But most importantly, no matter what it is you choose to do, don’t blink. 

1/11/24

Lana B — “mom” of most every friend group i’ve belonged to; “mom” for REAL. I’ll give you a second to pick your jaw up off the floor, run to your group chats, call Kris Jenner — whatever it is you need to do. I didn’t go through the archives from the past 365 days + create an album on my phone called “fake it” planning my recent posts to not have a “break the internet” moment. It was easier than you’d think — i’m not Kylie Jenner; no one thought to strategically cross check my nail color, hair length or notice my old iPhone in a mirror selfie instead of my current. swindling instagram is more fun than anything i’ve pulled to date. 

May 20 — 10 minutes before i clock into work. 2 red lines. 1 plastic stick (well, 3 over the course of 24hrs. it’s called denial) oh, + ill be home alone for 48 hours. it’s definitely not the kind of news i’d dare tell my mother over the phone, so i sit alone in my house, pinching myself, looking at the tests every 5 minutes in attempt to grasp any sort of feeling that this was real. every thought against myself running through my mind. i’m too young, i won’t be good at this, what will people think? it was a time to learn to truly believe in the mantra “WHO CARES” + start living life for Alana, doing what sits well with MY soul — what i know to be True. + that truth is that i was made for this. that this was actually the answer to my prayers, just in a way i wasn’t anticipating. in a language i hadn’t yet learned. like always, God knew better than i did what i was asking for when i was crying out to Him, asking that the hole in my heart be healed. filled. snap me back into reality, im tired of going through the motions. + let me tell you, this did just that. 

June 12 — i sit in the doctors office, watching a B&W screen, looking at what seems to be a pulsating blob. i hear my doctor describe to me that blob is in fact a tiny person starting its life inside of me. “gestational sac, yolk sac, heartbeat.” words i thought i’d only hear in anatomy class. confirmation from a medical professional + i still didn’t think this could be real. no shot. but i’ll admit that the happy tears my mom shed that day + the way she continued to hug me from the second i told her was real. so this must be too. 

September 17 — it’s a GIRL! because one Alana isn’t enough for this lifetime. a carbon copy. i needed her. i see myself in the windows of her soul at 3 AM, when the world is asleep + it’s just the two of us. falling in love all over again, every. single. time. i’ll sleep again one day, but these moments are finite — everyday she’s the smallest she’ll ever be again, depending on me the most she ever will. i love being her peace, but what she doesn’t know is she’s equally as much, but probably more so, mine. + ask anyone, i was certain I was having a boy. but life made complete sense once i knew i was able to recreate the most precious love i’ve ever known — my mama’s. from the other end. i have a daughter. 

1/11 — the number of new beginnings, abundance, protection + good fortune; accompanied by a new moon. i have lived 21 1/11’s + considered them merely the day after my birthday. who knew my 22nd one would change my soul for eternity. an empty wound in my heart, searching high + low to fill for years. nothing worked. not until 1:30 pm when i see my daughter through my tear filled eyes. when the world was laid on my chest after the hardest experience i’ve ever had, but i would do a million times over for a love like hers. not until my heart itself was eviscerated — worn now on the outside of my body, to be protected with every fiber of my being while flaunted as my most prized possession. 

“open arms” by SZA puts her out along with the rest of “what love feels like”, a playlist on spotify by yours truly. house makes her eyes big followed by the cutest facial expressions you’ll ever see, + my hardest of both rap + dubstep doesn’t wake her on our car rides. i still swear that the oxytocin rush Zeds Dead gave me in my car jam session on 1/10 is what initiated the beginning of my labor later that day. 

it all makes sense now, every moment of pain + emptiness i’ve endured in this life. every experience that’s shaped me into the woman i am today. every everything. her eye contact heals the depths of my being. she stares into my soul + i into hers; we both see home. + home is where the heart lies. i don’t just want to say that i’d die for you — i’d live for you. every day of this uncertain life, i want to live + be your constant. 

my deepest dream come true — no longer a dream, i wake up to live it. twice through the night + every second of the day. 

G.S.B. | 1/11/24