Online Dating (Before I had Online-Dated)

“I’m only getting through this by not thinking about their penises,” my high school best friend, college roommate, and life partner explained to me about how she dealt with her online dating adventures.

At 20, I still hadn’t upgraded to a smartphone, and apparently that put me in the 1% of college students that didn’t have one. Also, apparently, 40% of people have an online dating profile. I’m not sure of the validity of that one, but I’ll look into it. I heard it in a Buzzfeed video.

Anyway, this world is foreign to me.

In this fast-pace world I am young and out-of-touch. At 21, the only technology to my name was an iPod touch, Macbook Pro, Facebook account, and a phone I bought at Radio Shack two years prior for twenty dollars that has been referred to as an off-brand Blackberry. I didn’t have Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, or Tinder. I have four different email addresses. I had disconnected my iPod from my iHome that acts as my speakers twice in the past year, and only once did it leave the house (on which occasion I succeeded in shattering the screen).

In any case, just as some background for my ignorance on the topic, I am a bit behind the times. I’ve heard the stuff is great but, like any good 70-year-old, I am skeptical. The concept of online dating is just not quite romantic enough for me, and basing whom I interact with on an algorithm makes me the slightest bit uncomfortable. I can agree with author Roxanne Gay when she contrasts the complexities of humanity to the simplicity of math, and I will stand strong with her in trying to make sense of it all without the numbers.

In the spirit of curiosity and modernity, however, I watched some videos that I found educational. For me, it was like watching a production put on by some far away culture of which I know nothing.

Amy Webb’s Ted Talk about how she hacked online dating made me feel overwhelmed--a common side-affect of math for me--and a little bit sad. But, I appreciated how she broke down the situation. The questionnaire on her dating site was bare bones and created a strange system for matching dates. I mean, really, who bases his or her dates off of whether someone likes “horror” vs. “romance” films? Besides, we all know action flicks and comedies are the best.

So Amy ramped up her game quite a bit, and brought characteristics of dating “IRL” to the web. And I’m happy for her; even if online dating is still something that I may, according to the next video, have an irrational distrust for, she managed to streamline her dating experience with this new technology.

This is where Buzzfeed comes in. As much as I disliked being the subject to whom the video was directed, I was open to the education I received. How crazy is it that one third of married couples met online, and that 40% of people have online dating profiles? This video was incredibly informative when it came to throwing down some quick impersonal facts, and letting me know that my negative feelings toward online dating are not PC and that I need to evolve with the times.

Maybe online dating isn’t so bad, but I still have faith in the idea of putting myself into a community of like-minded people in real life and meeting a perfectly fantastic human with whom I can spend my time living happily in the woods. Don’t worry Roxanne and other technology haters; you’re not alone. 

* * *

Since originally writing this essay, I experimented with online dating on a number of occasions. I attempted to approach with an open-mind, and ended up feeling more down-trodden than I ever had trying to meet someone in the "real world." I even revisited after a couple successive relationships that spanned almost two years... this time felt even worse.

I know that people meet happily online, but it is certainly not the option for me. At least not right now. I am terrified of meeting people in person that I have already talked to online. I dislike staring at picture after picture and choosing in a split second whether or not they may or may not be a suitable partner, simply based on a photograph. And after yelling, "I DON'T KNOW, HOW COULD I POSSIBLY KNOW" at my poor sweet brother when he asked if I wanted to go out with any of the guys I had matched with, I realized that I was better off being a dork offline and not worrying about whether or not anyone was thinking anything of it. 

Live your best life; live your own life.

The "Nice Guy" Complex

Yes, you are a nice guy. Or at least you were, until you pointed it out to me along with a diatribe of how guys like you don’t come around often and I am making a huge mistake.

I’m a nice girl. I’m interesting and adventurous and driven and ambitious but you don’t see me throwing all that down on the table. Girls like me don’t come around all the time, either. But when it comes down to it, screw you. Everyone is special for their own reasons. And for the record, I have met too many “Nice Guys” to really believe they don’t come around that often.

Where’s the humility? The understanding and acceptance? This fall from grace is unbecoming of you, Nice Guys. Let’s take a second to recalculate your position in life. You’re nice. You’ve got smarts, I’m sure, and big plans for the future. You want to take care of someone who can mostly take care of themselves aside from a bit of emotional dependence. You have dated around a bit, but no one has settled on you. You’re bitter.

Maybe you’re hanging out with the wrong people; people with whom you have virtually nothing in common, who are less educated and aware, who have few real ambitions, who don’t help you get out to meet new people.

Maybe you’re looking in the wrong places: on Tinder or speed dating events, at the library even though you hate books or the gym even though you don’t really work out much, at big parties but you really prefer small group events, at skeevy bars even though you prefer well-brewed beer.

Maybe you feel too much like you deserve it: whatever it is you think you want, you think it is only fair that it come to you easily because of how nice you’ve been to the world and everyone in it.

Here is a news flash: if you are being nice not for yourself and your own moral hygiene, then you aren’t really a nice guy, but you might be a Nice Guy. If you find yourself being kind and taking things slowly and buying someone things because that’s what you think you should do and not because it comes naturally, you probably are a Nice Guy.

Do everyone a favor and be honest with yourself and the people around you.

And, if you really are a nice guy, calm down. You clearly have not gotten to the place in life in which you prevail and you certainly won’t if you continue down this path of bitterness.

I certainly hope to end up with a nice guy one day, and I hope I never date another Nice Guy.

Sondering Through The Green

They have parents, too                                                                                                                                                                                                                   Just like me and you                                                                                                                                                                                                                And we realize this                                                                                                                                                                                                                     As we sonder through the green

He’s probably been in love                                                                                                                                                                                                Experienced the push and shove                                                                                                                                                                                                    And we ponder his bliss                                                                                                                                                                                                              As we sonder through the green

She wonders what she’ll do                                                                                                                                                                                                          Has big plans for the future, too                                                                                                                                                                                                    And we consider who she’ll miss                                                                                                                                                                                                    As we sonder through the green

They’ve all lived stories to tell                                                                                                                                                                                                        With more to make, just as well                                                                                                                                                                                                We shan’t count them on one fist                                                                                                                                                                                                As we sonder through the green.

* * *

Sometimes I feel suddenly aware of the fact that everyone around me also has an entire life happening concurrently with mine. That each individual is starring in their own story and their life is incomparably invaluable to themselves. This is when I go sondering through the greens.

When I sonder, I wonder where the people sitting in the park are from. I wonder if they have ever been in love or had their heart broken. When I sonder, I might smile and hope that the people in my favorite coffee shop have lovely parents. I might not, but I might.

Sondering can lead to projection, which is simply a bad idea. But it can also lead to empathy, which is a short skip-and-a-hop from understanding and patience, some of my favorite values. Sometimes when I sonder, I realize that I am not the only person in the room experiencing any number of neuroses. I realize that maybe the reason anyone does anything ever is to satisfy a neurosis: paranoia, anxiety, obsessive-compulsive, depression. Did she buy a muffin because she is sad, or was it because she did well on a test and thought she deserved it? Do those two things have to be mutually exclusive?

I go on, and sometimes feel so intensely the empathy this line of thinking can provoke that I take a sharp breath and shake out of it.

The Stool Stool

I never knew how important you would be to me when I first purchased you in that fluorescent-washed supermarket. I saw you: green with white polka-dots, foldable, and with a handle in the middle so I could carry you anywhere. It wasn’t as though I had any intentions of lugging you around with me, but I’m a sucker for potential pragmatism.

For weeks I didn’t know quite where to keep you, and that’s how you ended up in the bathroom. You were a floor item for the kitchen, and the bathroom was close-by. Leaning you against the wall, just inside the door and next to the toilet, was an easy answer to my problems. There you lay, rounded edges and lightweight, being put to use only when I didn’t feel I could make the jump to the highest shelf.

Until I read an interesting headline from my social media scrollings: Squatty Potty Encourages Return to Anatomic Pooping. Maybe that wasn’t the exact title, but I was intrigued nonetheless. Reading through the article, it became immediately clear that this was one of those crazy consumerist plugs for products a person doesn’t really need. The lack of versatility of this creation was astounding. A plastic stool shaped to the base of your toilet bowl to allow you to bend your knees and open your digestive tract to a porcelain abyss? I very rarely am willing to buy an item that only has one use, even if it will improve the connection of my daily activities to the natural inclinations of my body. As an avid outdoors-pooper, though, I could sense the value of this invention. I mean, at least it could increase awareness of the bowel-ease I, and many like me, experience in our multi-day outdoor excursions.

It wasn’t until the next morning--after my coffee--that I made the connection. Sitting on our pathetic rental throne, I glanced to my right and noticed you. My practical beauty. My handled warrior. My emerald stool originally intended for kitchen-use. I grabbed you by the handle--designed to the contours of my four fingers--and released you in front of me. I raised my knees nearly to my chin and placed my feet upon your surface, an act I had done on multiple-occasions but never while sitting.

The effect was immediate. To keep things from getting too graphic, let’s just say the hose of my insides released its kink and the contents were free to flow. On that day, I christened you my Stool Stool (patent pending). I swear by you, at least when I’m at home, and when you aren’t around I suffer greatly. At times the desperation culminates into strange acrobatics, my feet pushed against the walls of a public stall, though usually I just keep your spirit in my thoughts with a small crunch.

You came with me to my new apartment and you live in the same place: to the right of the toilet and, if you’re walking into the bathroom, left of the doorway. You’re a comfort on most days; I know you’re there when my morning breakfast is washed down by my coffee. On others you’re a tease; some mornings my body is too anxious or distracted to complete its cycle at the right time.

But no matter what, you’re my Stool Stool (patent pending), and you will remain close to my heart (and toilet) until you become so decrepit, so rickety, and so well-used it is time to find a suitable substitute.



I like to press blackberries to the top of my mouth with my tongue. If they’re good, they burst without me having to involve those sharp and aggressive molars most people use to chew meat. With an abrupt pop they’ll explode, and my taste buds will be overcome with an all-at-once sweet and tart juice that can only come from something created by nature. The flavor radiates like another powerful force of nature I know.

I know that not everyone has the same sensual relationship that I do with blackberries. I know that not everyone has had the experience of eating them off bushes on a rain-forested mountain when they were figuring out who they are. Not everyone has been so lucky as to take a small bus to the peak of a mountain each morning as they listened to corny jokes and excited strangers. Not everyone has had the wondrous opportunity to photograph well-off businessmen as they screamed down a zipline and experienced a euphoria they had probably only ever felt if using very expensive drugs.

It wasn’t a very skilled position, photographing tourists on a mountaintop zipline in North Carolina. But it was important for me, at the time. On those days, I would bask in the clouds I was so fortunate to be hugged by, or soak in the rays of light coming from a glowing orb that felt close enough to touch. On those days, I would read books about the hopeless culture we’d created for ourselves that is utterly unsustainable and doomed to failure unless we each look inward and recalculate the truths we’ve grown up with. I would lie in a fabric sling and snooze to the sounds of jubilant visitors flying blissfully through the canopy of trees around me.

On those days, I would feel the putty-like peach core of self-pity; the showers of doom and dread; the overwhelming realizations of a world at large. I knew, on those days, that our consumer culture was going to be the downfall of this Earth. I knew that if we could not move past our need to always have something more, something better, something new, that we would destroy the one planet we have to live on. The planet covered with the people that I loved so much.

I would be nearly crushed between the delicate molecules, that affect this life in so many forms, hovering in the clouds above me and flowing in the river below.


This world moves me. The people, simple creatures with complicated backstories; the environment, mystifyingly interconnected. Maybe it’s because I almost lost it all once, or maybe it’s because I’m growing up.

Sometimes it all washes over me: the depth and intensity of the inner workings that make this existence what it is. In those moments I feel splashes of pain mixed with passion and a complete lack of comprehension. In those moments, I feel the weight that is my perpetual ignorance; I feel the truth that I will never understand it all. In those moments I feel an abrupt and powerful surge of desire to love, to give, to learn and to embrace. An utter need to take on this life and all that it can be.

In those moments I collapse inward. Simultaneously, I feel both miniscule and immense. I consider the possibility of my impact on this existence to current and future generations, or of my triviality and complete inhalation from the human experience and psyche.

I ground myself.


I spent a few months living on an island one summer. Some days I would retreat to the water after work and feel its breath. I would slide into the chill mass that is the Boston Harbor and emerge feeling cleansed, despite the plastics bags that scattered the beach and the heroin needles rumored to decorate the sea floor.

That summer was an enlightening experience. For the first time in my young-adult life, I was permitted the autonomy I have always craved to explore a beautiful place while also uncovering and solving issues within an organization that I truly believed in and felt a part of. I mattered, and no one doubted that.

I would go to work and instead of my supervisor telling me what to do, he would offer me a list of tasks and ask what I thought we should do first and how we should do it. His ocean-blue eyes mimicked the waters we were surrounded by, and peeked from behind his reddish-blond beard. The combination instilled confidence. They showed me he trusted me with good reason. We worked day-by-day and side-by-side to create an environment of learning for the inner-city students that would visit the island, and to give the instructors more time to focus on the most important parts of their jobs.

Most mornings, I would rise from bed as the sun snuck above the trees on the east side of the island. I would dress in my athletic tights and cut-off high school event shirts and run. I would run nearly the entire length of my floating home, and appreciate the diversity offered between the beaches, fields, and wooded sections of our small island.

I immersed myself into the natural beauty of the island; I absorbed and recycled the compassionate culture of the organization I was working for and people I was working alongside; and I imbibed the awesome power of my profession of choice.

I was floating on a dream of fulfillment.


Growing up, I suffered from crippling anxiety. For an 8-year-old, that meant that I couldn't turn doorknobs in public buildings with a bare hand. It meant I couldn't eat anything that seemed even slightly suspicious by its smell or texture. I had to use the restroom anytime I even thought I had to pee, and wash my hands after touching any surface or object that I viewed as questionable, the criteria for which was unbeknownst, even to myself. I would watch the fire alarm’s light blink on and off, and tremble with worry that it would stop flashing and start screaming. It meant that my curiosity was stifled by fear, and my joy drowned by irrationality.

It meant that, without warning, my eyes would grow wide as my heart raced. My breath would quicken and shallow while a sense of complete and utter doom overcame my senses. This could last anywhere from two to twenty minutes, usually not developing into much more, but sometimes dissolving me into a puddle of tears and horror on the purple shag rug that lie on the floor of my room.

Now, these moments come and go as quickly as a flash rain. Now, I grip the nearest sturdy object and knock three times.

I ground myself.


Some days, I can feel the intensity of my self-pity lodged in my throat. It is similar in size to the core of a peach, yet more malleable and dense. It threatens to erupt through my tear ducts, to overtake the façade I've worked so hard to establish: that I am more powerful than my neuroses, my darkness.

On these days, I work to allow myself no indulgences. I crave moist and precisely crafted muffins, or sharp and unforgiving nips of the vodka I’ve had in my freezer for six months. I used to allow these things, and I would sink further yet into my darkness. I would breathe deeply the contents of a glass bowl, crafted locally with only one intention. I would grab a bag of pretzels and retreat to the television to melt my conscious mind away from my body. I would watch episode after episode of shows where people’s lives were more difficult than mine, hoping it would make me feel better.

I wanted nothing more than for my undesirable body to be detached from my poisoned mind. I thought that poisoning my body, too, would help make this happen, even if just for a time.

I had no steady surface to help me find balance.


When I write I pretend that I am writing for a reader who also faces multiple neuroses on a day-to-day basis. Maybe this person has worked hard for many years to bring the loud rush and crash to a dull roar. But maybe this person is new to this world of overwhelming trains of thought that speed by, unyielding in their wrath. Maybe this person has recently found themselves collapsed upon the floor, returning to that physical position of safety from which we originate, with tears rushing down their blushed and downtrodden cheeks. Maybe even a person with walls of steel discovered a crack and felt the rush and pull of a strong current.

I want to say that it’s O.K. to feel this current sometimes, but I don’t actually feel that way, because it isn’t. Some of these places and transitions we experience will bring us to our knees, but I wish they didn’t. I wish things were easier, and that people were nicer. I have a lot of wishes that won’t come true.

I ground myself.


There are times when I have to acknowledge that it doesn’t care how well things are going. It doesn’t care that my personal and professional efforts are paying off. It doesn’t care that my budding relationship is on track to bloom, thrive, and sail across the seas.

It doesn’t even care that I’ve been exercising consistently and eating well. In fact, it is trying, and sometimes succeeding, to convince me to stop all that. It wants me to eat fried and sugary foods and stop running. It wants me to give up on my fundraiser, or at least feel like it won’t make a difference. It wants me to destroy my relationship from the inside-out with a lack of confidence and an underlying paranoia.

I don’t want that; it does.

It greets me every morning, and puts me to bed each night. It saunters by during the day, when I’m not paying attention, to tell me that I’ve earned that latte; my boyfriend doesn’t love me; I’m going to fail so why try anyway? It tenses my shoulders while I sleep so that I wake up without actually having rested.

It doesn’t care how many times I prove it wrong; making it through the day without that candy bar, gaining more support and sponsorships, receiving caring messages or phone calls from my love.

No, it really doesn’t care about all that good stuff. It doesn’t care about me, and it doesn’t care about anyone else, either. It works to pull me under; deeper below the surface where the sun still glints and glimmers.

It laughs at the ground on which I attempt to grip the soles of my shoes.


At least when things are bad it makes sense to be this way. I can actually justify my worries and compulsions if I’m alone, struggling in a class, or having an issue with a friend. But when there is none of that, when my life is utterly devoid of strife, I cannot even attempt to decipher what these anxieties are gripping to. Gripping, with their nimble and dexterous phalanges, to anything they can.

But then I see something. A man with a bright red visor, age worn into the creases next to his eyes, an unknown experience removing both his legs just above the knees.

There is a total bliss about him as he allows the driver of the bus I’m on to help him to his spot. He and his wheelchair rise with the lift as the bus driver holds down a red button on the remote that controls it. She straps him to the floor with large metal hooks, and he turns to ask where it is I’m lolly-gagging off to.

Immediately, there is a change. I take out my headphones from the podcast I was listening to because I know this is more important. He tells me about his 57--no, 86--grandchildren and his third wife who passed almost ten years ago. He asks if I ever planned on getting married, as if it were already too late for that, and suggests any of his many grandsons. I tell him that if things don’t work out with my current boyfriend I’d give him a call.

He is happy. He sees the light everywhere. I can tell, because it reflects from his eyes. It ricochets throughout the bus and affects everyone on board. It was hard not to want that; to be happy and magnetic. It made me want to choose to be happy, but I know it doesn’t work that way.

I ground myself.


In this world there are big things and little things. There are things in between, of course, but I’m more comfortable with this dichotomy.

Because, after all, sometimes even just that fact can be too much. The big things in the world become so monstrous and unbearable that we need to fall back on the littlest of things. We need to crouch down in the middle of a busy sidewalk, a grassy field, a trail in the woods, an unpopulated beach; we need to crouch down and squint our eyes at all these little things.

Our top and bottom eyelids will come so close to touching, our lashes nearly blocking the view altogether, as we focus on these little things. A blade of grass, each sliver made of precious threads; a fallen acorn, its dark brown exterior delicately caressed by lines of a light tan streaming from the cap to the tip; a tiny shell, the life once occupying it gone on a new adventure; a piece of stone, potentially a conglomerate of thousands of years of pressures, waters, and changes.

The vastness of the world of little things is nothing to scoff at, I’ve found. The amount of flourishing and success, of trouble and strife, is comparable to our own world. The mystery of a modest world much unnoticed; the romance of empires we may never access.

I live day by day swaying with the tide of these humbling acknowledgements.


At times I feel suddenly aware of the fact that everyone around me has an entire life happening concurrently with mine. That each individual is starring in their own story and their life is incomparably invaluable to themselves.

In these moments, I wonder where the people sitting in the park are from. I wonder if they have ever been in love or had their heart broken. In these moments, I might smile and hope that the people in my favorite coffee shop have lovely parents. I might not, but I might.

Sometimes in these moments, I am lead down a path of projection; of making assumptions about people I don’t know based on people I think I know. But other times these moments lead to understanding, which is a short skip-and-a-hop from empathy and patience, some of my favorite values. Sometimes in these moments, I realize that I am not the only person in the room experiencing any number of neuroses. I realize that maybe the reason anyone does anything ever is to satisfy a neurosis: paranoia, anxiety, obsessive-compulsive, depression. Did she buy a muffin because she is sad, or was it because she did well on a test and thought she deserved it? Do those have to be mutually exclusive?

I go on, and sometimes feel so intensely the empathy this line of thinking can provoke that I take a sharp breath and shake out of it.

I ground myself.


As I walked through the rain I thought about the power of water. It’s power to change the color of my pants, and wash dirt away from the streets. I wondered if it could wash away my pain.

I thought about water and its many forms, and I realized that it is just like our minds. That sometimes, like a steady rain, feelings seep into our minds and through our bones. Sometimes these feelings are chilling like a late fall shower, and we hate that they last so long. Other times these feelings are warm and welcome, like a mid-summer downpour that we are so willing to dance in. Water can arrive in the form of a tsunami or a hurricane, devastating those in its wake. I read somewhere once, “hurt people hurt people,” and I think that’s what an emotional tsunami probably is.

Most of all, though, I relate to waves. Waves in the ocean, rolling gently across the sea and breaking as they see fit. Occasionally a wave breaks across me, and just like when I lived by the ocean it seeps its cool and refreshing power through my body. These waves dictate how I approach the next decisions of my day, and although their power seems unruly and ungovernable, I know where they come from. I might not be able to choose what waves break across my body and through my mind, but I sure as hell can choose if I lean in or let them knock me down. I find my power in these waves around me.

I lean into them, and find comfort in the power and fluidity of a world that moves me.


What You Need to Know

I’ll start this by saying that I’m not finished yet. The publication may be in your hands, on your screen or what have you, but I’m still writing, thinking, and developing. This shouldn’t bring any less credibility to what I have written; I just want to expose the lens through which you are receiving these words. Many of these were written while I attended a university and lived in the same town I had lived in for almost 20 years, with a few months in other places for interesting summer jobs that my adventurous soul told me to take. I have done strange, scary, questionable, humble, arrogant, informed, spontaneous and planned things, each being its own category of “thing” and encompassing anything from joining a community service fraternity and quitting it to spending three consecutive days under the influence of alcohol because I could; from painting houses in New Orleans to watching the person next to me struggle and not offer help.

I’m a person. We both are, you and I, and I want you to remember that. Remember that I haven’t finished yet, in any sense of the phrase, and I wouldn’t want to delude myself into thinking that this is the completed formation of my thoughts or for you to think that it is either. Writing will never be all encompassing, as much as we hope for it to be. It will never fully satisfy what you were hoping it would, because we just don’t have quite enough words or time for that. And even if you wrote a piece that you felt said everything you wanted it to, someone would interpret it differently. Because while you and I have read, done, and experienced—and maybe you’re 23 as well and joined a fraternity and helped sometimes but not others—we have not read, done, and experienced all the same things.

In the end, I might be trying to justify what turns out to be an incomplete or unsatisfying collection of works, or explain away any doubts these essays may provoke, but I don’t really know. And that’s O.K., you know, to not know. That’s O.K.

For years I've considered starting a blog, but bounced around thoughts such as, no one is going to want to read what's going on inside your head, and sometimes, your thoughts are unoriginal, and even, what's the pointSo, recently, I re-realized that I write for myself. I've been writing ever since I learned how, usually multiple times a week. Usually in a private journal, but sometimes I'll write poems or essays about what's going on in my world or the world at large. I have decided to post some of these writings publicly, and am not looking for a response of any kind. On the other hand, if you happen to think I have potential and want to pay me money to write more words, let me know.

Looking Back on 2017

This past year brought with it some of the most difficult times, and some of the most beautiful. I experienced deep patience and unrefined frustration. I doubted myself and my abilities at times, and yet felt truly invincible at others. I broke some rules and upheld others. I made some tough decisions and some easy ones (yes, I will have the most chocolatey ice cream). I learned how to hold myself up but also when to let someone else take the weight. I chose happiness over worry (as much as one has the power to do so), and I continued my journey of learning what fuels my body and what fuels my neuroses. 

In 2017, I spent approximately 3 months putzing around my parents' house, 4.5 months on the Appalachian Trail, 3 months working on Thompson Island, 2 weeks volunteering in Texas, and another month traveling, with family, or in some other type of limbo. I learned so much about the person that I want to be, but have come to few conclusions as to how I would like to get there. I have learned much about acceptance and feeling at peace with chaos and indecision. I heard so many kind words from powerful, passionate, intelligent, and hard-working women, which really speaks to the fact that empowered women empower women.

I was able to experience some truly selfless generosity, which I expect to work to return karmically for the rest of eternity. I remembered how passionately I want kindness and compassion to be a part of everything I do, and to be patient with myself while I grow to this standard. I felt the urgency for environmental action, the helplessness of someone who wasn't sure how to take action, and then the intentionality of someone who is realizing their own potential. I turned 23, which was the second birthday that didn't feel important and I still can't rent a car or run for office.

I am ready to face 2018 with an open mind and an open heart as I move to a different region and begin a new profession. I am eternally grateful to everyone that helped me in any way this past year, and to everyone who has offered so much support for everything I am doing. I am enthusiastically approaching this year with the spirit of someone who is ready to give to the universe everything I can (within reason). 

Please consider these my sincerest regards for a wonderfully sustainable and contented new year.

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