sometimes i question why people gotta be so serious all the time. which is why i think bits are beautiful, and we could all benefit from bringing more bits to fruition.

with that, here’s a bit about three bit examples i hope to bring to life, in hopes of them inspiring bits of your own one day too:

1. your classic, stereotypical u-haul-style home tour date: going to an open house or a few as a third date with a girl. dw.. i’m not dumb enough to actually buy it, but we can start discussing what we liked or didn’t like, and it opens up the opportunity to get a good read on her character and humor based on how she interacts with the real estate tour person.

2. pranking the intern: we have one intern at pie, and he probably already doubted my sanity the moment i introduced myself with “omg you’re gonna be sitting right there?! i’m so glad we’ll get to lock eyes every day.” so many good bits to brainstorm for an intern. for his upcoming graduation, i’m thinking we wrap every single thing on his desk in congratulatory wrapping paper, including the desk itself, and then include a gift, also wrapped. his primary project as a software engineer has been improving an internal platform we use called The Bakery. a good gift could be a kids’ bakery play-doh set that’ll give him the chance to bake some play-doh pie.

3. playing friend feud: i love a good friend bit. the cover pic shows the one time i took my straight men friends to get their nails done, naturally in our matching m&m shirts (marty & the men™️), and then made a dramatic return to the girliepops back at home with “boys are back in town” blasting as we barged in with our premeditated handshakes and dance. anyway, i wanna play friend-feud, family feud style. but the buzzer would be something better, like first person to get to the end of hopscotch gets to go. and don’t get me started on how fun coming up with prompts could become. that could be its own independent hang. an example could be:

name an excuse lesbians might use to leave their great guncle’s birthday early so they can pick up their girlfriend from therapy.

bits are beautiful.

… and you could be too, if you actually commit to them. 😅

Never have I ever even remotely considered Halloween my favorite holiday.. until this year, perhaps. Historically, it’s always been Friendsgiving. And I think I’m happy to report that I’m okay with using the two interchangeably, switching between front-runner and runner-up depending on the moment.

I’ve almost always been a strictly non-fiction reader, with sprinkles of sapphic romcoms that sometimes slip in. So maybe my non-fiction blinders are to blame for why I’ve benched Halloween way more than it deserves. Consider this piece my apology letter to you, Halloween, and a thank-you in advance, my friend, before November 27th rolls around.

The world today is a dumpster fire. And bless my therapist’s heart (11 years and counting) for putting up with me, proudly displaying her “sorry for trauma dumping” sticker that I once gifted her. I’m not gonna get into all the reasons our world sucks right now, because my goal is for you to get through this not-novel-length piece in a single sitting. But I will say: it’s felt liberating to detach from reality in my recent blog posts – to believe in an alternative world where, if I manifest lofty life goals loudly enough, maybe they’ll actually come true someday.

So here’s another attempt, to give my One Less Lonely Girl™️ (who still gets a little lonely sometimes… even with the swagger of Marty McFly) something to reflect on. Maybe in another 11 years, when my therapist is still the longest relationship I’ve ever maintained [2️⃣2️⃣ years & counting], I’ll look back and decide whether the magic of manifestation actually gets you somewhere… or if it’s just a product of being a lil delulu.

Didn’t think I’d be spending Halloween in Columbus this year, but here we are. As my coworker and I were Ubering to an arcade bar, we realized it was trick-or-treating day for the kiddos. She asked the driver if this was the main area for it. After his quick confirmation, I chimed in, “Must be. Look at these huge houses. Definitely where the kids come for their full-sized candy bars.”

I guess, in my dream world, I’d also wish for a home that brings kids that same joy – a full-sized-candy-bar kind of home. But not too big. I’ve never believed in “the bigger, the better” when it comes to where I live. I’d rather reallocate what I’d spend on those extra square feet into decorations and an elevated trick-or-treating experience that’s more original than just candy.

Maybe I’d run little experiments.. like giving out yo-yos, but offering a double-or-nothing round if you score a Bozo bucket toss. Make it in? You win a Bop It & the yo-yo. Miss? You walk away with a Jolly Rancher at best, if you’re lucky. Or maybe I’d set up a generosity game.. where kids can choose between taking a crisp $5 bill, or passing it forward to double the pot for the next trick-or-treater. Or maybe I’d offer something that lasts longer than a candy bar that’s eaten and forgotten.. like a choice between their favorite treat or a Polaroid photo with their family or friends. Something that turns Halloween into a little more permanent memory-maker instead of just a temporary sugar rush.

Idk… maybe I’m too deep in my night-word-vomit to wrap this up neatly. But TL;DR: there’s something really special about Halloween. It’s the one holiday where you can disguise yourself for whatever reason, to be whoever or whatever you want. Whether you dress as someone you aspire to become, the tomb of someone you’d rather not see roaming our world, or an inside joke only your best friend understands, it’s completely okay to assume the role that fulfills whatever you’re fostering.

girl in red fell in love in October. And while the month has nearly passed with me still lover-less, I’m at least leaving it with a newfound love for a holiday I never saw becoming the favorite.

Cuffing season really creeped up on us, cuties.

So, as a Curer of Loneliness professional, I’ve put together a carefully-curated advice column that offers a positive reframe of cuffing season to my fellow queers (& allies of c) – as a reminder that cuffing season can be cute even if you’re not coupled up. I’d like to personally shout out my Snuggle Pillow™️ for reminding me that a snuggle isn’t defined by anyone else being present but you.

Buckle up those carabiners, my queerios; this one’s sure to keep you cheery-eyed.

Trust and believe, I’ve scraped the internet clean doing research on how to survive the doom-ridden days ahead… the ones where the sun sets at 4 p.m. and, subsequently, so does your seasonal serotonin. A basic-betch Google search will tell you: if you’re riding solo this season, that’s okay… don’t be sad… just date yourself and do self-care so you can fall in love with you more!!!

Now don’t get me wrong.. I super support self-care in all its forms. But I kinda wanna call bullshit on you, Google. Idk… like, thx for attempting the pick-me-up, genius, but if feeling a lil lonely and cold when it’s chilly were that easy to solve, there wouldn’t be that whole epidemic my literal full-time job revolves around.

So instead, I suggest you cuff your crush.

Yes, cuff your crush. And I know what you’re thinking: if it were that simple, I wouldn’t even be here trying to take your totally not-science-backed advice.

But here’s what I mean: there are actual, research-backed studies showing that people who ignite their imagination with their partner-in-crime feel more connected overall. So, circling back to your partner-in-crush, use it as an excuse to exercise that creative fuse. If you did swoon that crush (and yes, dream big – celebrities count too), how would you keep things spicy and heartwarming when pumpkin-spice season fades and anything with the word “warm” in it feels wrong because it’s actually frigid AF?

Like, imagine you and Chappell Roan got to canoodling (seriously, set aside your fangirl lens here for a second). You can totally customize your Chappell-crush-curated date however you see fit – just have some funzie with it. For me, I’d rent out that chapel-turned-event-space in the West Loop. I’d Venmo-request her probably 69% of the venue cost (chosen for no other obvious reason than our income differences..). I’d play Hozier’s Take Me to Church, since it’s a song that acts as a metaphor for queer love condemned by religious dogma.

I’d probably wear my forced-to-retire (tbt to when I got fired from the catholic church) altar-boy robe- the one held shut by a rope tied around my waist. I’d wear nothing underneath except my woxers. And when the rope inevitably gets ripped off, we’d recycle it and find better use for it… perhaps during Station 7 (of 12) of the Cross while we play seven minutes in heaven. I’m not saying I’m trying to drop dead by getting nailed to the cross by the end of this baptismal playdate, but if I find myself on my knees repenting to get on the other end of the confessional booth as if we were doing the real-life version of Love Is Blind, just know that’s probably exactly what I needed in that moment to resurrect and return to reality, where I am painfully actually single.

Okay, that was a long-winded example basically to say: you’re allowed to crush on your crushes. No one’s stopping you, even if there’s no one cuddling alongside you. This imaginative mind exercise can even work on a smaller scale.

For example: if you make Lizzy McAlpine your crush, maybe you’ll come to embrace the warm embrace of pancakes for dinner. If you crush on Reneé Rapp, maybe you’ll book a flight across the fckn country – even if your ex is there – because you don’t deserve to live in fear just because of proximity to someone who wasn’t meant to be your forever one.

For real y’all, I’m finding myself more of an ally for those in love than ever before. It’s cute. It’s goals. It makes me happy to watch them. And sad sometimes, when I find myself looking too hard at the beauty of what they’re experiencing. But it’s okay. Until my time comes, I’ll crank the creative gear so that when I’m ready – and the receiver is too – they’ll benefit from the cuter dates I’ll be capable of coming up with.

While my Snuggle Pillow™️ might have no feathers left by the end of this cuffing season from being squished too hard each night, I’m okay with that. And if someone does happen to come around, just know: it’s the Snuggle Pillow™️, not me, you’ll have to ask whether you can sub in.

… and I’m not talking about sinking my 3s this time. 🏀

But it feels like an important reminder sometimes.. to myself, and maybe to people around me if they feel like they wanna hear it.

The whole “life ain’t as cute as Instagram depicts” is a cliché by now. I know, you know, the world knows, that life is like a silly little seesaw, teeter-tottering in whichever direction depending on the weight you’re carrying that day. And let me remind you: the seesaw doesn’t just teet and tot on its own. You usually need someone on the other end.

It’s the same for life. Some days you’re sitting on the seesaw heavier than the norm, and your friend gets right there with you on the other end to lift you back to balance. Other days the tables reverse, and it’s your friend that needs you to hop on so they’re not stuck sitting at ground level alone. And naturally, there will be times when the heavy hits you both at the same time.

The silver lining then? You’ve got options:

A. You can both get on the seesaw, and it’ll still stay balanced; the heavy creates an equilibrium point. You can sit in the loudest silence together at the tippy-top, without ever touching the ground.

B. You can call in an assist. And if I were actually trying to drain those threes 🏀, I’d prefer teamwork and an assist over forcing it solo too. You don’t need to be everyone’s lifeline every time. Distribute the weight. It’s okay, I pinky promise.

You know that song that goes, “if we go down, then we go down together?” Love so hard on your people that you can prove what the Chainsmokers preach.

Anywho, I digress..

You SEE? You SAW? Now go conquer by checking who’s waiting for you at the park.

I take the long way to work. The Bryn Mawr Red Line to the transfer at Fullerton to a short walk is an option; instead, I take the nearly hour-long ride down the 22 bus. Most of my co-workers fall into the “10–15 minute walk from the office” bucket, and I commend the logical choice of a quicker commute when we’re in-office five days a week. My slow & steady commute is a choice, and I’d choose it over and over again.

I’ve gotten better at holding myself accountable to stay unplugged on the way to work, respectfully ignoring the urge to obsessively check Slack. It gives me space to clear my unread texts, maybe squeeze in a FaceTime, or send a few voice memos to love on my friends the way they deserve.

I’ve also found ways to make the ride feel wholesome. A couple of weeks back, a five-year-old named Phoebe sat right next to me. I forget what got us yapping; with kids, for me, it usually starts with a little wave and a soft smile as they’re people-watching and we happen to lock eyes. Most of the time, I just get a shy smile back before they hide behind mom or dad. But other times, like with Phoebe, it wins me an interaction. Lovely, really, ‘cuz sitting silently has never been a strong suit of mine.

Phoebe and I yapped for about 35 minutes until her stop. She told me all about her love for dragons, especially in Wings of Fire. Starflight was her favorite; she even had a special voice for him as we read through snippets online. She decided Morrowseer would be the dragon most likely to be my friend. She didn’t have a reason, and when I asked if it was because of alliteration, she looked at me like I was a little cuckoo-cuckoo. Truth is, Phoebe taught me more about dragons than I taught her about English. Turns out, little ones are often better teachers than we are.

Before she got off, I gave Phoebe an Only Humxn sticker. In a bittersweet voice, ever-so different from her Starflight one, she left me with a soft, sweet “Bye, Marty!” as we parted ways. I really wish adults could channel their inner child more when it comes to stranger danger. Like, when I awkwardly wave and smirk at you slightly, that’s my signal that maybe we could be something in each other’s lives. Let’s yap next time.

Yesterday, during my commute, I went all in on the people-watching, trying to gauge what everyone else does as they meander to wherever they’re headed. I observed an entire side row and here’s my take on the lineup:

• Rider A: definitely texting a crush, maybe still stuck in the dating app DMs. The giddiness was too good to be anything else.

• Riders B & C (a very straight couple): I usually barely care about straight love; naturally, I get more feels from the gals, gays, and theys I empathize with in our ongoing fight for why love is love is love is the light we need in this daunting, dark world these days. But even watching these two reassured me that you gotta love love. Rider B was your Vineyard Vines-wearing golfer bro. Rider C was his boo, the SoulCycle girliepop in her matching yoga set. The way they stared into each other’s eyes gave me the cringe, but also kinda cute cringe, in my judgy review.

• Rider D: chatting away with her BFF on the line. Likely Italian, given how her arms were swinging as much as her words.

• Rider E: an older gentleman who, at every other stop, warned any passenger across from him about the leak dripping from the front row seat they’d just taken.

• Rider F: a nice ginger guy bopping to whatever was playing on his ‘pods. My guess is Miley Cyrus’ Party in the U.S.A.

I don’t fully know what I’m trying to get at with this post. But maybe, it’s that from time to time, consider taking the long way home. It just might fill your cup a little extra and fuel you more for the day ahead.

I went for a run today. It’s recently felt good to be putting my very expensive Pride-edition Brooks Ghost running shoes to use after they’d been collecting dust for a hot minute.

After hitting the 1-mile mark at Foster on the lakefront trail—and feeling (and fearing) the return of what I consider the worst injury of my basketball career: shin splints—I pulled over for a much-needed stretch.

I found myself in a random patch of grass near the path, Pursuit of Happiness still playing in my ears, and I settled into a seated stretch facing south… half-watching two kids kick a soccer ball around.

That’s when I noticed the dandelion directly to my right.

I’ve been thinking about getting a dandelion as my next tattoo. So, while realistically speaking, I definitely poured more sentiment into the little, gently-swaying dandelion than it likely warranted, it felt like a sign. I paused my stretch to jot down my feels right then and there. In retrospect, it might’ve just been an excuse to mission-abort my stretch (what I need more of in life often overlaps with the parts of working out I prefer to avoid).

I thought about blowing it out and making a wish. Then decided I’ve already done exactly that a few too many times lately. So I left it.

I felt compelled to give it a name, at the very least.

Danni the Dandelion was the first thing that came to mind. The alliteration gave it a nice ring, and Danny was the last person I texted before my run, so I’m sure there was some recency bias surfacing there too. Danni also felt gender bendy in a way I liked, especially with no one I know spelling it with a double n and i. Yes, I recognize giving it a name was silly and extra.

I’m going to try to find myself on more runs to that exact spot: 41.9765010, -87.6487025 (per my pin) and see how long Danni sticks around. My guess? Not long. I had to play goalie three times as the kids’ soccer ball came rolling my way, nearly trampling Danni each time. (Only one of those three kicks actually went in the direction I intended in my attempt to kick it back.)

Whether Danni goes out by soccer ball, by the inevitable gusts of wind that blow a little extra harder near Lady Michigan, or by a stranger who needs a wish more than I did today, there will be no hard feelings.

I’ll just remember that in that moment, it felt good to let my fingers do some writing. To imagine a new tattoo. To kick a soccer ball wildly off-course. To give entirely too much meaning to a tiny inanimate dandelion—just for the sake of slowing down. And to simultaneously avoid the stretches I should probably get back to now. 🫠

10/10 would recommend making friends with your local neighborhood dandelion.

Years ago, my BFF Lena coined June 9th as Martha G Appreciation Day, for no other reason than knowing the sexual innuendo would inevitably exacerbate the awkwardness we already know we radiate back into the world. 

Just to clarify: we’ve really leaned into owning awkward as part of our personal brand identity. Like, when people say, “It’s only awkward if you make it awkward…” it usually just tempts us to make it even more awkward than where it began. 

I think we don’t always give enough credit to the arbitrary and the potential it holds. June 9th was completely insignificant for most of my life — until this random date was slapped into my world as an annual recurrence (without consent, mind you). It became a date that might always age well, even if the emotions of the day don’t. 

So while this post is to be continued, I’m writing this with the goal of holding myself more accountable to lean into the underrated potential that the arbitrary can bring… a promise to flirt a little harder with the beauty behind the arbitrary. With the nonsense that becomes ritual. With the random moments and dumb jokes that, in hindsight, might actually be the ones that reroute your entire life. 

Because if there’s one thing June 9th has taught me, it’s this: keep the people who bring out your unhinged. The ones who double down on the bit. Who see awkward joy as art.

And finally, here’s to June 9th — the date that somehow turned a sex position into an annual holiday where people feel compelled to profess their love for me, and where another BFF slipped into my life on the same day. Because that date was somehow always meant to bring a little more good — and a lot more chaos — into the mix.

Throwback to that one time we almost started our friendship a couple weeks sooner. I texted you—what my poor memory can only imagine was something like:

“sup? in the hospital. crippling pain ‘cuz of pa(i)ncreatitis and suddenly wondering why they don’t actually spell it with an ‘i’ to give it a proper definition through a literal lens. hbu?”

You replied, “well I lost my dog.”

And f*ck—suddenly my pain felt a lot less relevant, knowing you had it worse.

It’s wild knowing she and I just missed meeting each other. I bet Marty & Mika (M&M) would’ve been quite the entertaining duo. From what I do know of Mika, she left her mark on all of us. I see it in the way you talk about her—and all your chosen fam do too. Trust falls and all.

And while she keeps chasing squirrels into the trees (that we can only hope doggy heaven holds plenty of), just know I’m here for your trust falls, through and through. But if you’re ever planning to test them in a literal sense, you better triple-confirm that my attention is locked in—because you know how easily distracted I could be, even by a falling leaf. Just like Mika would’ve been if a squirrel ran by.

Although “good grief” might feel like an oxymoron—like it’s impossible to feel the “good”—I’ll try to point out at least one that might wipe away some of the hurt, even if only temporarily. Kind of like those Oxy wipes that got rid of pimples… until they inevitably came back. (Admittedly, that’s my worst line in here, but it felt funny. Might delete later.. Lolz.)

Here’s the full-circle moment I hope shifts at least some of the sadness into the slightest smile:

You probably don’t remember, but around this time last year, I sent you Emily’s For the Grieving poem (see cover photo screenshot). And yes, scrolling through our entire Insta DM history was a total time suck, but absolutely worth it for the picture proof.

Not too long ago, an entire team of us found ourselves in the most perfect March Madness cabin, collectively sobbing as we read through all of Emily’s poems one-by-one. Fast forward: Only Humxn now has an original piece by Emily—the first collab of its kind. One that perfectly intertwines your original Stay; campaign with everything we know about the love between friends. And it went out into the world during Mental Health Month.

You’re going to feel sad today. I know that. Let it pour—because only the best storms are followed by a rainbow. And hey, we’re only eight days away from Pride Month. 

So to tie this all up in a beautiful bow, in Emily’s words:

“I’ll [forever] keep reminding you, I’m here and I love you and I’m sorry.”

Emily is a best friend of a best friend.

And I love that Mika is exactly that to me.

FULL F*CKN CIRCLE.

Welp. 281 days have passed since my last blog post. Anyone still here?

I’m not promising it won’t take me another 281 to post again, but if you’re hoping for more, know this: it’ll take individual high praises, persistent check-ins, and an aggressive number of high fives to hold me accountable. I respond extremely well to praise. Just sayin’.

I don’t know if you all remember, but 2,429 days ago (wow, time flies), I wrote a post about how fall is my favorite. And in reflecting—and in retrospect—that sentiment may have been a tad too strong… and a tad unfair to the other seasons. I’ve also started to fear that my shitting on summer in that post is gonna bring me some bad juju or something. So, with apology and love, I’m here to formally retract the blatant favoritism I showed to fall in 2018.

I’ve been trying to reframe some of my more judgey ‘tudes lately too—to lead with happier, smilier faces. And I’m reminded of that commitment by one very specific moment: this one time last year, a rude dude in a big tough guy truck yelled at me to “move the fck faster!” while trying to make his left turn onto Ashland from Catalpa. Never mind that I had the green light to cross. (Pardon me for thinking pedestrians have the right of way. Oh wait… they do.)

Anyway, just a few hours before that encounter, I’d been released from the hospital. I was walking across the street to pick up my pain meds from Walgreens. Internally, this man made my blood absolutely boil. But instead of reacting, I smiled and gave him a little wave—hospital bracelet and all—hoping he might see it and feel something human.

So thank you, rude sir. In being so rude, you reminded me of something important: that kindness matters, especially in a world that doesn’t always feel so gentle.

All that to say…

Summer, you’re a sweetie too. Sorry for playing favorites that one time. This one’s for you. 🫶

⸻

CHICAGO SUMMER IS ALMOST HERE.

At least that’s what I keep telling myself… despite waking up to a “feels like 34 degrees” situation this morning. And the 90-degree day last week isn’t helping, other than reminding me the weather might be just as bipolar as I am. So I guess… this is some kind of mental health advocacy post too???

I’m stoked for summer szn, y’all. And if you’re not yet on the same page, I hope the reasons below help shift your mindset.

In the past, I’ve referred to summer as the season I never quite feel ready for: sand in my pants, dodging major swamp ass, never quite feeling beach bod ready.

BUT THAT MINDSET IS NO MORE.

Bring on the swamp ass! If you can’t stop staring at my booty, just admit it—you’re probably experiencing some wet in other places too!! Lolz.

(Suddenly really hoping my coworkers don’t read this, but they do follow me on the ‘gram sooo… apologies for the awkiezzz in advance, Pie peeps.)

There’s so much to love about summer—beyond the obvious stuff like street fests and getting a tan.

WNBA season. NWSL season. Basically all our fav gay sports are back, bbyy!

And I am so here for it. Find me playing streetball at every opportunity—and really channeling my sporty spice energy with any other sport that’ll have me.

Also, every time I visit my parents’ place in summer (hi Mom, hi Dad—really hope you never find this, but if you do, I’ll definitely blame my more conservative cousins for showing you), I throw on long sleeves and compliment their aggressively efficient AC system just to hide my tattoos. And it’s in moments like that I’m reminded: summer is queerness on full display. The tattoos are out, the hair might get a big ol’ masc chop, the carabiners are dangling, the shorts are short, and the croppy toppies are crop-toppin’.

My job is literally to cure social isolation (another plug 🔌 for Pie); but has anyone done a wellness check on Lady Michigan 🌊 since last summer?! Imagine the loneliness she must experience without a bunch of crazy kids jumping in for months! For real though…

Patios are also back to having a purpose, which we love. I still remember my birthday in 2021—deep in the Covid era—celebrating in an outdoor bubble on the patio at Pilot Project. It was “feels like -17” degrees out. So yeah, patios are ready to get more action again.

And let’s be real… we all are.

Summer makes us lighter. Fewer mood swings, more park swings. More action in the day-to-day. Winkety-wink. 😉

And sure, in my old fall post I talked about how fall dates are hard to beat, but… let’s be honest: summer dates deserve to be on the leaderboard too.

You could come play streetball 🏀 with me. Or just show up as a sweaty spectator. Your call.

So Summer… I’m sorry. Truly. You deserve more credit. You bring the heat, the chaos, the carabiners. You bring the queer joy we need now more than ever.

You know what they say: sun’s out, sapphics out.

Here’s to you, Summer.

Fall may remain the stud of the seasons. But you, my friend—you’re bringing the sexy back. 🌈

⸻

PS: If you made it this far, you’re my favorite.

No pressure, but feel free to call me, beep me for the high praise, high fives, throw singles at me, etc.

Otherwise… like I said, might be another 281 until you hear from me.

xoxo,

Gossip Marty

I solemnly swear to make my post after this one more light-hearted to get some giggles out of whatever silly people go out of their way to read this. until then, pardon the sappy.

a few years ago, I wrote February 19th. that date will forever be ingrained in my brain. rereading the blog post, I realized how much I beat around the bush in writing it so here’s the harder, more straightforward truth: I was fired from a job I poured so much love into, was hospitalized, and diagnosed with bipolar all in the same day. (for real y’all, I recommend spreading that shit out if you can). the serendipitous, good karma of February 19th hit me this year when i started working at pie that very date, and suddenly, i really feel that singing “Kill em with kindness” on repeat all these years paid off (shouts to Selena Gomez – an also having bipolar baddie).

I feel like I’d be doing a disservice not to resurface these words:

To my friend — my gritty, beautiful, loving, inspiring, irreplaceable friend: take your time. Let it pour. Give this place the most beautiful storm it has ever seen. And when you’re ready, I’ll come find you.

Love, 

Happiness

I’ve been feeling really, really happy lately. and I want to knock on all the wood in the world right now, not to jinx losing this feeling that took so long to believe in and feel again. at the same time, i would take every ounce of happy in me, and give it to my friends that could use more of it today than i can. i promise I’m not saying this in an attempt to sound heroic, or to paint a false narrative that’s actually physically impossible. i just truly get joy by giving.

recent conversations have really led me to believe that there is no better way of loving anything or anyone than by telling the truth. the more I reflect on this sentiment, the more it resonates; the more it resonates, the more i see it rippling through my life more than ever these days – in my friendships, in my relationship, in reading my visit summaries after each doctor visit… truth feels scary sometimes; but there’s so much truth in love and vice versa.

I feel compelled to share the parts of my story that don’t always surface when I’m posting all smiles on the ‘gram or when I’m surrounded by my favorite people and also can’t help being nothing but smiles. the truth is, i struggled for years. i still do sometimes. and when I do, i listen to the same ~25 songs on the repeat in my “feels” playlist, including Superbloom by Misterwives that I’m missing seeing performed live right now, in this very moment (loving you a little extra, Katie, for FaceTiming me in). Today, I’m adding another song into the shuffle. To my friends — my gritty, beautiful, loving, inspiring, irreplaceable friends, this one’s for you:

so much creds to my sidebraid sister.