In honor of Miss Karmie’s fifth birthday, I thought it was finally time to tell you the story of how I adopted this fluffy princess. I don’t know if it was a manifestation, fate, karma — or all three, and I know this story might sound a little woo-woo, but the story of how I ended up with my Karma is still the most magical thing that’s happened to me.

It’s fall 2022 — Taylor Swift has just released her Midnights album, so naturally that was the only thing I had been nonstop listening to for days. In typical princess passenger fashion, I was in charge of the aux as my ex chauffeured me home from a day of shopping when the line “Karma is a cat, sitting in my lap cuz it loves me” started blaring.

“Taylor should get a cat and name it Karma,” I joked.

“Or you could get a cat and name it Karma,” he suggested. And that’s when it dawned on me. My dad was allergic to pets so we never had a pet growing up, but two months ago, I had just moved into my own apartment — my house, my rules… I could adopt a pet.

My ex saw the wheels beginning to spin in my mind and immediately backpedaled, saying he was allergic to cats so I’d have to get a dog. To which I said, “If I’m getting a dog, it has to be a shih tzu.”

I had always been terrified of dogs having gotten chased by them and a traumatic experience of a dog eating cake out of my lap in my youth, except for my neighbors sweet, little shih tzu, Freddie. I remember running up the hill to go visit him as a child, always making sure I snuck Snausages (his favorite treat) in my mom’s shopping cart for him, and gifting him a little pig toy, which I still have photos of him cuddling up to him in my adult apartment even now. If I were to adopt any dog — it was going to be a shih tzu, in honor of my late childhood friend.

“Well, what color?” He asked.

“Definitely white and fluffy, maybe with some tan spots.”

“How old? You don’t want a puppy, right, that’s a lot of work?”

“Definitely not a puppy, but not too old either. Maybe like 1 or 2 years old, young enough, but not fresh out of the womb. And I could name her Karma! Or Karmie for short!”

“Well, do you want a boy or girl?”

“Definitely a girl, female energy only in my apartment.”

Adopting a shih tzu became my new obsession. I remember sitting at work telling skeptical coworkers of my new goal, them weary I wasn’t ready or financially prepared. Yet, I sat on breaks scrolling through adoption websites, looking at all the listings for shih tzus — but none of them were in the age range or had fluffy white fur. I eventually gave up. If it happens, it’ll happen, and I’ll find the right pup for me. So I decided to just leave it up to the universe.

The next day, I receive a screenshot from my ex’s family group chat where his sister had sent a photo of a white fluffy, female shih tzu, 1.5 years old looking for a home. “Is this Karmie?” the text accompanying it read.

I remember staring at my phone wide-eyed in disbelief, screaming. A few days ago, this was just a rear-view window dream, but it was closer than I could have ever imagined. “YESS! THAT’S MY KARMIE!” I texted back.

Unfortunately for me, my years of trying to convince my ex that I was a witch just to spook him had actually backfired because in that moment, he truly believed it. “How did you do this?” He asked, and I found myself wondering the exact same thing.

$500 worth of supplies at the pet store and a couple weeks later, we finally took the road trip down to pick up Karmie from his sister. It was both the best and worst day of my life. Two days prior to the trip, I had found out that I was not the only girl in this ex’s life, and now I was trapped in the car with him. I won’t lie, I was “crashing out” a little bit, as the kids would say. I was avoiding absolutely everyone in my life’s calls and texts. Everyone texting me saying “Please tell me you did not get in the car with this boy,” to which my lack of response completely confirmed I had, indeed, trapped myself in a vehicle with him for 24 hours.

There was awkward silence, forced laughter, and me just counting down the minutes, dreaming of what it would be like to meet Miss Karmie.

Not to mention on the trip down, through spotty internet connection, I impulsively put $2,000 on my dad’s credit card for Taylor Swift’s Eras Tour tickets. Which led to another call I definitely declined on the trip down. That was future me’s problem.

But none of it mattered, when eight hours later, I finally stepped out of the car screaming “Karmie!” to a dog who had been previously named Nunu, but somehow responded and knew her new name right away.

And just like that, I had a new furry companion.

Karmie was a rescue. I brought her home, and put her in her pen. Crate training lasted all of two days before I couldn’t take her heart-breaking whimpers anymore and let her sleep next to me. She had me wrapped around her paw right from the get-go.

When I first got her, she was insanely skinny, anxious, and had a bite mark on her back. At the time, I was also insanely skinny and anxious due to my lack of regularly eating meals. She refused to eat kibble. So I decided to sit criss-cross apple sauce on the floor next to her and eat my takeout, until she slowly just started eating with me. We became meal buddies, encouraging one another to eat.

Four years later, we’re both a healthy weight and still enjoy sitting on the floor together, sharing French fries (unsalted for her, of course).

I read somewhere that you make soul-contracts with your pet and they’ll come into your life right when you needed them. Maybe that sounds a little woo-woo, but not long after I brought Karmie home, I asked the ex to drop off my key and that was that.

I’m not sure whom rescued whom, but somewhere in the last four years, Karmie taught me what unconditional love and loyalty truly looks like. We’ve regulated each other’s anxieties, fixed our diets, gone for numerous coffee adventures together, and even learned how to paint together. Not to mention the times I’ve dyed the ends of her tail and the ends of my hair matching hues of pink.

After a wishful conversation, I ended up with my best friend for the last four years. So, I don’t know, maybe I manifested her. Maybe it was fate. Maybe she was my good karma for putting up with that ex. All I know is, everything works out just how it’s supposed to, and I’m beyond grateful to come home every night to her little tag wagging at me.

Today, we celebrated her fifth birthday with some pup cups, walks, treats, a visit from her Grammy and Grandpaw, and a special cheesy-salmon-broccoli dog-safe birthday dinner. They truly do grow up so fast, and I’m excited for the many, many more years full of love, laughs, and fluff with this sweet, chaotic, little princess.

Happy birthday, Karmie! ♡

And to think I almost didn’t go on that road trip, but I took a leap and got my karma.

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The following is a short story I wrote a few weeks prior to beginning my Substack journey. During this time, I was missing my writing days, and this was my first attempt to dipping my toes back in. Months and Substack articles later, I revisited it and decided this deserves a place on my Substack. So here is my first fictional piece — let me know what you think!

“Tower in reversed — you will not be comped tonight.”

The steam coming from this middle-aged brunette (we’ll call her Karen)’s eyes could’ve melted all the snow in the city. She stabbed her (apparently) subjective “medium well” steak and forced it into her cracked crimson lips. Instant karma in every bite. Somehow her allergy to any steak with pink in it dissipated magically, and she finished her dinner with a smile that her Cabernet had repainted her lips.

Another satisfied customer.

I spin around as Brian is raising his head in my direction.

“And what card do you have for me tonight?” He beckons, rolling up the sleeves of his navy suit. The navy really brought out the blue in his eyes. He was always dressed so pristine, but for some reason there was a scuff of dirt on his left dress shoe. Typical Brian. I guess there really isn’t such a thing as an absolutely perfect man.

“The cards say you will have the chicken piccata with a side balsamic salad and roasted potatoes,” I sneer, grabbing the cards back out of my apron pocket.

“The cards are wise tonight,” he smiles as I shuffle.

“Five of swords reversed? Bry-Bry, what’s wrong? You’re not walking away from that fancy paying job of yours, are you? I can’t lose my best tipper!”

He laughingly rolls his eyes. “You know I was really hoping tonight would be the night you pull the lovers card for us, and we can stop doing this back-and-forth dance.”

I close my eyes and focus deeply. “Ah, Bry-Bry, I see now! The five of swords is in the reverse for you because I am walking away from this deeply uncomfortable conversation to get your piccata.”

“Don’t forget the tiramisu!” He called after me.

“When have I ever?” I teased walking back into the kitchen.

I log into the POS and begin punching in his order. By now, I could do it with my eyes closed. My manager glances over my shoulder, “Ah, Brian’s here again?”

I pretend to be shocked. “How did you know?”

“You know, I wonder if he would still come in everyday if you stopped working here.”

I raise an eyebrow. “What, Jerry? Are you going to finally fire me?”

“I should for the way you scare all my customers with your voodoo!”

“Yeah, well my voodoo just got the table eleven Karen to shut up and not send her steak back.”

Jerry’s eyebrows legitimately went up to his forehead. “You got Mrs. Wilson to not send her food back?”

I shrugged. “What can I say? It just wasn’t in the cards for her today.”

“Yeah, well, you better chill out on it before Clarissa gets back, or she might have you fired.”

“But then you can tell her how I got Mrs. Wilson to behave?” I pressed.

Jerry threw his hands up. “I’m staying out of this, Lauren! Now, get that man his piccata!”

I hit send on the system and go into the back where his order is already steaming hot at the window. Every weekday at 5pm. Just. Like. Clockwork. Truly, the POS was just a formality at this point. But we always knew, we were always prepared.

“Thanks, Ronnie!” I yell out to the kitchen chef, throwing the food on my tray.

“Always happy to give you some meat,” Ronnie perks back with a sinister smile. Literally, why do I still work here?

I place the food down in front of Brian. “How do you guys do it so fast every time? The cards tell you I was coming?”

I scrunched my nose. “Yeah because I’m definitely pulling my cards trying to predict the next time I’ll see you.”

“Bet if I came in ten minutes late, it’d screw up your whole day,” Brian joked.

“Not really, but your food would be ten minutes cold — and we don’t microwave.”

“Thanks, Lauren!” He said, digging his entree fork into the salad. Truly, when will he learn? Not that I care all that much. I remember my first day — my trainer had brought out a soufflé and he asked me to grab a spoon for it — a seemingly easy request for a nervous girl’s first day followed by the tantrum of a thirty-five year old woman who was in absolute dismay that I had brought her a soup spoon to eat her soufflé with! Can’t you just imagine the horror?

All my tables are either eating away or sitting with checks that were paid an hour ago, so I hop on top of the cooler, criss-cross apple sauce, and take my long awaited scroll break. The truth is: dealing with all these adult children and “flirty” men really takes the wind out of me. Sometimes I have to forget I know how to speak the English language and scroll endlessly until my mind catches up to the void I feel inside my soul.

Kidding!

I scroll past a video of a puppy eating ice cream — adorable, an elderly woman coloring like a kid again — wholesome, and a recipe for my crab Rangoon lasagna — delicious! I save the recipe, knowing damn well I’ll never return to it. But that’s the fun part about the scroll. Trying to imagine yourself living and being as all the people you compare yourself online to, and then knowing damn well you’re going to just return to your miserable serving job until your pores permanently smell like grease and Parmesan.

I come across an article — INVESTIGATING MURDER OF WOMAN, 27, ON POND RIDGE RD. The hairs on my arms and neck raise. Pond Ridge Road? Isn’t that two streets over? A quick Google search confirms that I am indeed currently in the backyard of a murder investigation. I read on:

Tuesday afternoon at 3:57 PM, police were called onto the scene of a young woman found lying behind some trash cans on the edge of the local park. Witness reports called the police after hearing screams coming from beyond the playground. The park is currently evacuated and blocked off until the investigation is concluded.

Witnesses report the body was found alone with no suspect in sight, however there was a man in a suit headed down the other side of the road. Witnesses say he was too “professionally dressed, pressed and cleaned” to be named a suspect, but police are seriously considering all their options.

The woman is not being identified to the public as of yet, but reports say she was found with XOXO carved into her forehead.

We are updating this live as the investigation continues.

And you see? This is why young people don’t read the news. It’s too depressing. The girl was my age, and if I had any friends, I’d probably be spiraling over the identity. But instead I’m making mental plans to have Ronnie walk me out to my car tonight — after all, there’s nothing scarier than his delusional ego.

That’s enough scrolling than I can stomach now. I throw my phone back in my apron and hop off the cooler back into the Wild West of my section. Jerry side eyes me, “Where did you disappear to?”

“Did you hear a girl got murdered at the park like a hour ago?”

“Lauren, how did you not hear the sirens go by? They just showed the story on the news about a minute ago.”

“I was probably in my voodoo realm at the time, channeling. Maybe I picked up on her spirit!”

Jerry sighed, helplessly. “If you picked up on her spirit, wouldn’t you have known someone died.”

“That’s a good point, actually.”

“Lauren, just go check on your tables. I think Brian is almost finished.”

I grab his tiramisu from the counter and place it in front of him with the check. “You know, we actually made this fresh today.”

“You mean to tell me it’s not always fresh?” Brian raises an eyebrow.

“You mean to tell me you eat it everyday and haven’t noticed the difference yet?”

Brian closed his lips tight and pondered for a moment on how he could be so cluelessly oblivious. “You know, I really should lighten up on your tip with every snarky comment.”

“That’s fine. I can tell Rachel to take care of you next time,” I shrug.

He looks over to the airhead — I mean, red-head gossiping at the host stand about some pointless celebrity rumblings. “You can’t be serious?”

“Oh, but I am Bry-Bry. She could be your new girl. She can keep you up to date on every Justin Bieber move there is,” I said wide-eyed, nodding like I was absolutely going to hand over the man keeping my rent paid to a big-mouthed airhead. Red-head! Darn it, I did it again.

He slipped his card into the tab. “She wouldn’t keep me as excited,” he said with a wink.

I rolled my eyes and ran off to run his card. Truthfully, Brian wasn’t awful. Except for the fact that he ordered the exact same meal at the exact same time every weekday like some kind of psychopath. How he doesn’t get sick of the same routine is beyond me. But if I had daddy issues, I would be all over him. He always looked so handsome in his suit. And I’d be remiss to say I hadn’t dreamt of someone like him whisking me away from my tables and taking care of me. But unfortunately for me, I don’t want my children to one day refer to their father as grandpa and that’s enough of an ick to get me to stay away.

“Tomorrow at five?” I ask cheerily, handing him back the tab.

He scribbles onto the receipt. “It’s a date!”

He hands me the book and walks out of the restaurant. I open the tab and for once I’m not staring at the $50 tip on the $20 check —

but the ‘XOXO’ he scribbled on the signature line.

My heart sinks.

Thanks for reading! I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments below!

XOXO, Aerin (;

When a pin pops the balloon of hope and confetti of reality comes falling down, it’s times like these I could really use a drink. A little red wine and the Red album drowning out the racing thoughts in my head or a cold old-fashioned in my hand while staring out the window sounds like the ideal band-aid to all my woes, but unfortunately for me, I quit drinking. Well, for the most part anyway.

As I’ve seen the ugly reality of true alcoholism, I hate to use the term so loosely, but I think it’s common knowledge that during the COVID-19 pandemic, a lot of people kind of became alcoholics during lockdown. Locked in their house with nothing else to do, not sure when they’d be able to return to work or go about their daily lives, a lot of people started drinking a little heavier than normal — myself included. I was freshly 21 during lockdown and the constant uncertainty paired with all the grief spreading around the news, I found that a short walk to the corner store for a White Claw and a night of listening to Taylor Swift was a valid distraction.

And when COVID restrictions began to lift a little, I found myself working at a restaurant hosting and later serving. Starting the job, 21 year old me was naive of the stereotypes around restaurant culture. While I don’t think there are any actual drugs circulating the restaurant I was at, everyone openly smoke and drank — every single night.

It was one of those slow-burn realizations that started with the crew doing shots together every once in awhile after a crazy Friday shift where there’s a wait at the door and tables are constantly being turned over the second the last guest sitting leaves. The shots felt ceremonious in a way — we had trauma-bonded over the last few hours and were just breathing a collective swig of relief: we had made it through. Or someone would bring a bottle of peanut butter flavored whiskey (Skrewball, if you must know) for us to all take a shot and try together.

At that job, there were crazy employee parties — long tables covered in more food than we could ever assume and bottles upon bottles of beer, wine, and the occasional bottle of whiskey someone would donate to the cause. The second party I went to, I remember the eighth shot and nothing after that — waking up in my apartment with texts on my MacBook letting me know that I had, indeed, left my phone in my friend’s car. I was 22 at the time.

Prior to turning 21, I never had a fake I.D., never went to a bar, and had been to a total of one house party. Drinking wasn’t something I had heavily experimented with before turning 21 — which legally, yeah, makes sense, but let’s be real, the average American knows their tolerance and favorite cocktail to order by 21. Legally, I was right on track, but socially, I was a little bit of a late bloomer. So yeah, I blacked out at a work party, and if it had been literally any other place of work, I might’ve had a meeting with HR the following morning, but at this restaurant — I was celebrated. I walked in the next day with a heavy migraine to everyone telling me how much fun I was and recalling stories I hadn’t the slightest memory of.

My “party phase” started at the tail-end of 21 when bars were coming out of lockdown, and the phase lasted maybe half a year, mostly going out to the bars after shifts with friends from work. After months and months of lockdown, it was so exciting to go out and have my first experiences in a bar. Every time it was suggested, I’d get so excited for a night out, and every single time I got there, the same brutal realization hit me: I didn’t actually like being at the bar. What I really liked was hanging out with my girls, getting dressed up, doing each other’s hair, and scream-singing to Hannah Montana throwbacks before we went out.

At the bar, the music would be way too loud to actually hear my friend’s drunk confessions and stories — and you can only say “what did you say?” so many times before I just started nodding like I heard a word of it. The bathrooms would always be graffitied with penned phone numbers and quotes, toilet paper littering the floors, and stenches that made me wonder if the bush outside was a better option. But the true core of it was my socially-anxious-self felt a hundred times more anxious standing in a sea of drunk girls dancing and missed conversations, so my brain concluded that my only solution was to just simply drink more so I could enjoy myself.

I was chasing the glamorization that movies and shows had portrayed. It started with this excitement of feeling like I was finally living my Serena van der Woodsen lifestyle — crazy, wild, carefree, but looking good while doing it. I’m not going to lie and say there weren’t good stories or fun moments, but between the way I felt so uncomfortable at the bar and all the stupid little mistakes I made, I wondered why I was even putting myself through it. How could this be the glamorous life I was sold? I realized, more often than not, I wasn’t even having fun.

I finally admitted to myself that I really hated the bar and club scene and started passing on invitations. Because I stopped going out, I naturally started drinking less. And when I did have a drink, it started to feel more like a choice rather than a social obligation or the cure to ease my social anxiety in the grimy bars. If I was out at dinner, maybe I’d grab a drink. After a shift, maybe I’d have a snack and sit in the booth with a glass of wine debriefing the night with coworkers. And if someone handed me a shot of whiskey, all bets were off and I was devouring it.

I remember when I started slowing down, it was like taking off the rose-colored glasses and I began to see just how many bottles of liquor were hidden on shelves in the kitchen at work. I began to realize how many coworkers truly were just pouring a glass every single night without fail. And I saw all of the stupid fights started from slurring comments. Then, I started seeing TikTok videos of servers talking casually about their restaurant’s culture like it was the tour bus of some crazy rock band, and everyone commenting on it just normalizing the behaviors. I think that revelation is what drove me to truly just stop drinking. Sure, I had blacked out a few times being young and dumb and not knowing my limits, but it wasn’t that I had a problem — but I knew if I kept up with the restaurant culture, it would inevitably become one.

For example when I was out of work for a couple weeks, I remember my first shift back — as soon as I walked in, 5 o’clock in the afternoon, I watched one of my coworkers pour a bottle of wine into a mug to conceal the beverage from the customers’ eye. That wasn’t the life I wanted for myself. Where casual alcoholism was just socially known and accepted, sipping throughout shifts, and just waking up to do it all over again.

So I just kind of quit. Not because I was “holier than thou,” but I just wanted to slow down and see how I felt — and I actually felt so much better. I wouldn’t say that I necessarily live the most textbook healthy life, but my mind and my liver have definitely thanked me for eliminating the Old Fashioned.

Do I occasionally have a drink every now and again? Sure. Sometimes when I go to dinner with my parents and see a lavender martini on the menu, my tastebuds get curious and want to try — but the thing is, since I’ve stopped, I have literally zero tolerance to alcohol and I’m drunk off a sip. At this point, I could be hungover and feel awful for days off a singular glass of wine. I’m not even exaggerating. A couple weeks ago, I found a bottle of kombucha (a fermented tea) in my fridge and I must have drank it too quickly because I genuinely got buzzed off of it. Yes, you read that right: I’m such a lightweight now that I got drunk off KOMBUCHA.

Sometimes a glass of wine feels like a fun, little vibe at dinner, but for me, it’s just not worth the risk of feeling awful and out of it the next day. I honestly just don’t like the way it feels anymore.

And I won’t lie, being in your twenties and not drinking hasn’t been the easiest thing. It strained a few friendships where I kept declining their parties, not out of disdain for them, but I just didn’t want to be around a bunch of drunk people. Living in a city where a big part of the culture is drinking, it does kind of make me feel left out sometimes. But then I remember when I tried to be in on that culture, I still felt left out. So yeah, declining nights out can feel a little bit lonely sometimes, but two things can be true — I found that for me, I was happier chilling at home with my paints and one of my favorite films on in the background. And I realized that’s okay.

Sometimes when life really hits the fan, I find myself wondering if should I just grab a bottle of wine and let loose. But I know it’s going to hit me hard, make me spiral harder, and I’m going to wake up wondering why I did that to myself, trying to resolve life’s troubles through a hangover. Sometimes I feel like a glass of Pinot Noir and Taylor Swift echoing my thoughts back to me might really be the resolve I need, but instead, I choose to play life on difficult mode, just raw dogging my emotions and dealing with it with a clear head. And that is precisely why I’m 26ixty — a 26 year old grandma.

Plus, I discovered pickle lemonade — my remedy to any bad day that sings to my soul and doesn’t leave me feeling like garbage in the morning. I’m still very much a beverage girlie — my coffees, experimenting with different flavored matcha recipes, teas, juices, smoothies… and kombucha, if I’m feeling a little wild. (;

What started as just slowing down and being more conscious of my decisions turned into I don’t even want to have a sip for fear I’ll be dancing on a tabletop.

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There are two things my dog, Karmie, holds sacred in this world — her Grammy and her collection of “Grammy” ropes. And they were threatened tonight.

For starters, Karmie is a little ten pound shih tzu/maltese, who wouldn’t hurt a fly. In fact, she’s actually terrified of flies. As spring has finally sprung in my area, I’m awaiting the inevitable day when a fly finds it’s way inside and she shivers in terror from the top of the sofa — a yearly tradition at this point. But that being said, she is truly the sweetest, most lovable pup around.

But she’s also insanely smart.

And a tiny bit manipulative — but that’s for a future post.

Tonight after work, she laid on the floor with her fluffy butt in the air, tail wagging — her way of asking for rubs. So I give this pup the love she deserves, rubbing her for five minutes as her smile grows wider and wider, until she erupts into a hurricane of zoomies and starts jumping from toy to toy.

Karmie starts gnawing at one of her precious ropes her Grammy bestowed upon her when I grab her arch nemesis — Piggie — and he begins creeping up onto one of her ropes. She flies at him, snatching the rope away and spitting it out back onto her pile of ropes. Because of course, her Grammy has bought her six of the same rope so she has back ups and fresh ones to play with. You know what they say about grandparents spoiling their grandchildren…

Anyways. This continues for a few minutes, her playing with her rope, Piggie (which as smart as she is, I’m not sure she grasps the concept that it is actually I, her mother, controlling this evil pig) grabs at another rope and her lunging at the pig, giving him a little shake in her mouth. Until the pig grabs another rope, and the vicious cycle continues — each time, Karmie getting more and more visibly agitated.

Until the last time when Karmie has finally had enough of Piggie’s antics, she storms towards him, grabbing him angrily, and walks with him tightly in her mouth to the staircase… where she just drops him down the flight of stairs.

I, bearing witness to all of this madness, just start crying, laughing. Karmie looks at me with bright, happy eyes, tongue out, tail wagging, and starts Snoopy laughing. I know I let this dog watch far too many episodes of the Snoopy Show because she has genuinely adapted Snoopy’s contagiously, maniacal, little laugh. I know that sounds made up, but my mom is a witness to her Snoopy fraud, and one day when we’re not laughing too hard, we might actually remember to record it for proof.

But then — her eyes widened and she looks terrified as she looks back down the staircase realizing she had just committed plush-toy-murder. She races down the steps and reappears a moment later, dropping Piggie off at the top of the landing. Karmie kicks her back feet and lets out a little sneeze — a true “hmmph, I hope you learned your lesson” moment.

After the week I’ve had, I think Karmie knew I needed a laugh, and I’m still wiping tears away writing this. Though I’m also considering maybe locking her out of the bedroom tonight…. I don’t think she’d claim me as her next victim, but part of me also knows with me out of the picture, there’s nothing stopping Grammy from adopting her.

Actually, if you don’t hear from me by the morning… call the police. There’s a killer shih tzu on the run.

Catch up on my latest posts! ♡

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Still here? Alright… let’s talk about it.

For those of you that think creativity belongs just pen to paper, brush to canvas… it’s more than that. Creativity isn’t just an act of doing, it’s a mindset. It’s not just the things you make — it’s how you think, how you problem-solve, how you play.

And my mind? Well, for better or worse — it never stops.

A very slow night at work gives a girl a lot of time to spiral in her thoughts — and her Pinterest. As I waited for the customers to ring in, my pickle addiction was being spiritually fed as I scrolled past pickle dips, pickle pot roasts, pickle cupcakes. And in true Carrie Bradshaw fashion: I couldn’t help but wonder, what would a pickle taste like in cookie form?

And just like that, I ran home and got to work in my lab — er, I mean, kitchen.

I started rummaging through my cupboards like a mad scientist. What would even go in a pickle cookie? I thought about peanut butter and pickle sandwiches and settled on a crunchy peanut butter base. I remembered “kitchen sink” cookies and thought… maybe these would work if they were just unhinged enough. So I crushed up dill-flavored chips and tossed them into the batter. Balance.

My mistake wasn’t making the cookies — it was posting them.

Like Taylor Swift said, “haters gonna hate, hate, hate.”

I shared a photo slide on TikTok and within 24 hours, I had 30k views and a flood of hundreds and hundreds of comments. Some people were into it, referencing childhood memories of peanut butter-pickle sandwiches. Some were mortified. Some were weirdly angry. (I won’t even repeat some of the things that were said to me). And others? Well… they told me to take a pregnancy test, taking turns guessing in the comments whether I was having a boy or a girl. Joke’s on you — it’s another shih tzu. (;

But then something strange happened.

At 30k views, the video stalled. Notifications disappeared. Every video on my page flatlined. Even previous videos with engagement were now showing 0 views, 0 likes. It stayed that way for about an hour. I guess the people saying they reported it… weren’t kidding. God forbid a girl have a hobby. So TikTok might’ve tried to silence me — but Substack? This is my turf now.

And so, as promised, whether you’re planning to make these out of curiosity or pure spite, I present to you:

My Infamous Pickle Cookie Recipe

I’ve made a few tweaks since the first batch — they’re a little crunchier now… but just as chaotic.

Try them. Roast me. Love them. Bring them to your next girls’ night… just don’t blame me if you don’t get invited back after that. I don’t care what you do — just don’t report my Substack for this. Then I’d really be in a… pickle. (;

If you have made it this far without unsubscribing, you are officially my kind of people.

If you are brave enough to, I hope you will take a chance on these cookies and try them out, share them with your friends, and I would love to hear your feedback on them. But if you do make them, maybe… don’t post them online.

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Sometimes the universe has a funny way…

Two weeks ago, my shaky hands hit the publish button, thus beginning my Substack journey. All anxious thoughts dissipated when I found just how kind and encouraging the community on here was. Before I knew it, I was waking up early and racing home from work to draft my next post. I just couldn’t stop writing. I fear I have started to hear my keyboard clicks in my dreams.

I was beginning to feel a bit like an unpaid intern running a one-woman magazine, but it’s the first thing that’s made me feel intoxicatingly alive again.

I started this thinking: What am I going to even write? What if I run out of ideas?

Fast forward to me now having almost 20 posts in the drafts going — which do I post next?

Today, I woke up to the insane surprise that I hit 100 subscribers on here. Truly — it’s not about the numbers, and I’m sure a fair amount of those 100 are AI bots or people hoping for a “subscribe for subscribe” outcome. For me, it’s more about the fact that there are people out there reading and resonating with my words — yes, I’m talking to you, girlie. Little fourth wall break. And if you’re sticking through my posts and still reading, from the bottom of my heart, I truly appreciate it.

Two weeks ago when I started, I thought I would be screaming into the void forever, so to have eyes on my posts now is both terrifying and exhilarating. Being able to just talk about different aspects of being in your 20s and finding people who relate makes me feel like I’m not as lost as I think. Maybe we’re all just doing better than we think we are.

But in a bittersweet twist, the Universe decided to bless me with an ironic cosmic joke:

Just as I have found my voice again, I literally lost it.

I woke up sick a few days ago, and even though I don’t even feel that sick — I still have my personality, I feel awake — I have literally no voice. Just call me Ariel from the Little Mermaid. So unfortunately while my job currently consists of me answering phone calls, I had to take a sick day, leaving me with some time to just type away on Substack. Oh, how tragic, right. (;

That’s when the absolute irony struck me — the dichotomy of me physically losing my voice, but feeling like I have finally found it again through my writing.

Maybe Universula (Ursula… Universe…? I don’t know there’s a joke in there somewhere) took my voice away so I could focus on the one that matters. I’ve always been very spiritual in that I’ve always believed the universe will always give you what you need, even if it’s not necessarily what you want. Did I want to take a day off and lose out on money? My landlord says no. Did I maybe need a day to sit with my writing and realize that maybe this is the voice that really matters? Maybe. I don’t know where my writing will take me, but I am forever grateful that I’ve found a home on Substack to be able to house and share it.

This is all to say: thank you for taking the time to read, to comment, to share. Maybe I only have a few readers, but to me, that’s success. Not in the way that I’m getting book deals, but in the way that by taking the time to read and comment, you (yes — fourth wall break again — you, you) have given me that sparkle of life to write and feel alive again.

I may have lost my voice, but it’s never been louder.

I also run an advice column on here called Dear 26ixty! If you have a situation you need advice on or just need to vent about something, feel free to anonymously submit your story below.

Share your story! ♡

Dear 26ixty,

for the past 5ish years ive moved a lot, and i guess i’ve gotten comfortable in the routine of constant change and novelty. i just started a lease and a new job, which has been sooo rigid compared to what i’m used to. what advice do you have for being ok with life being slow and (admittedly) suddenly a bit boring, especially while still craving adventure?

— Margaretta

Dear Margaretta,

In one year, I moved five times:

From my dorm room → parents for a month → subletted apartment for the remainder of summer → back to a dorm room → a crappy apartment with a girl I met on Facebook → my first real apartment.

During that span, the longest I stayed put was six months in that crappy apartment. But here I am, 2026 and although like you, Margaretta, I was craving a new adventure, I’ve just renewed my current lease for the fourth year.

At 21, I had an undying, restless need to be independent and move out on my own. For a while, all of those moves were exhilarating — where would I end up next? Until I procrastinated finding my next place, leaving me with a cheap, crappy sublet off Facebook — huge mistake.

I got the master bedroom — a very large, long rectangular room with its own private bathroom and generous walk-in closet. Trust me, it sounds way nicer on paper. It was old, dingy, and there was no overhead lighting — just a very tiny window at the one end of the room that just barely shone any light in. The building absolutely reeked of curry and marijuana 24/7. Allegedly, there were roaches. There were two sets of shared washer and dryers per floor — one of which was always broken, and somehow, I always found some guys underwear mixed into my loads — ew. No bathtub, but the shower floor has some gross, black marks on the tile which the landlord swore up and down was not mold.

Sure, by the end of my 6 months there, I had somehow turned that depressing room into a pretty cozy space adorned with a ridiculous amount of fake flowers and leaves scattered across the walls. But I had never been more miserable there.

I didn’t know what my next step was, but it was definitely getting out of that apartment the second that lease was up.

So I started to dream — touring one crappy, old apartment after the next, trying to envision myself living in each one. Some were okay enough. Some had shared laundry — again. Some had guys catcalling me as I was getting out of the car to tour the place — a great first impression for your new neighbors.

Finally, I decided to just tour this one complex whose price tag absolutely terrified me, but it couldn’t hurt to just look, right?

I wore a blue floral summer dress as I first stepped into this luxury apartment with the open floor plan and huge windows, the sun illuminating every inch of the space. Compared to my dark, long prison cell I was currently at, this place felt like a resort. It had a window-view of the water. In-unit washer and dryers. A bathtub with no sketchy marks. And above all else — a decent sized balcony. I could paint outside in the summers! I could feel the sparkle in my eye, so I ran home, applied for the apartment, and began packing for yet the fifth time.

And I’ve been in this same apartment for four years now, Margaretta. I was heavily considering not renewing my lease and going on a new adventure this year, but a worker’s comp injury sort of put a damper on my plans. Your letter actually made me smile because I’m currently in the same place as you — feeling that restless drive for change in my spirit but succumbing to another year of just staying put. And that’s okay.

As much as I wanted a change of pace, I realized staying really isn’t all that bad. Back when I was constantly moving, my adventurous drive didn’t always lead me to the best places. Sometimes, settling in one spot might feel a little boring, but there’s a quiet kind of magic in it. Maybe it isn’t even boring, maybe it’s just stable and steady.

Having lived out of boxes for a year, it took me nearly four months to finally feel like I was safe to settle and decorate my walls — this wasn’t as temporary as before. In the last four years, I went from bare walls and eating on a floor cushion to a dining table and fringed-walls. Settling in one place means you finally have a place to make yours. Every night when I retreat back to my cozy, little haven, I feel at peace. From the ivy leaves hanging around my bathroom vanity to the reading nook I designed, my home feels like a safe place to just exist.

I’ve spent so much time doing different DIYs like painting my nightstand sage with dark green ivy leaves or recreating a Monet painting to hang in my living room — little things to give my place personality and keep me busy when life gets too quiet. And the real pay off has been watching the space transform into a dream-Pinterest-board fantasy come to life.

Your environment is truly everything. If you have a place that feels comfortable and like you, you’re going to have an easier job kicking off your shoes at night after a long day. So close your eyes and envision what you want your space to be like. Maybe try creating a Pinterest board and plan some DIYs to keep you busy.

The type of peace I have gained by sitting still is immeasurable. I have completely accustomed myself to having a quiet, yet full life. Staying still can be uncomfortable because it allows you ample time to get to know yourself — and you can treat that kind of silence as terrifying or an invitation to really figure out who you really are and what you like.

Once I finally settled in one place, I was able to get myself in good routines and discover new hobbies. I remember when the excitement of the “new” place wore off and I found all the days beginning to feel the exact same, like I was stuck in Groundhog Day. But I realized that adventure doesn’t always mean physically going on some crazy side-quest, there are quiet, slower adventures to explore. There’s a saying that you’re only bored if you’re boring, so I chose not to be bored and to find the things that filled me with fire and kept everyday feeling exciting.

I’ve found something so magical in waking up and journaling with a coffee on my balcony. I’ve tried a million new recipes — my Buffalo chicken pasta is now a go-to comfort meal and my cannoli cookies have become a fan-favorite at Christmas time. I’m even handwriting and illustrating my own cookbook right now with all the recipes I’ve grown to love so future sixty-year-old me can look back and smile (or pass down to her granddaughters one day). I wrote a post about how being alone doesn’t mean you’re lonely, where I included a huge list of things that I’ve found to love while being alone if you want some more ideas.

But what are your things, Margaretta? Maybe you always wanted to try watercolor painting? Or set a goal that you’re going to walk three miles a day? Maybe take photos during those walks of beautiful skies or little trinkets you find along your way and start a scrapbook of them.

My quiet life has also ventured outside of my apartment. I’ve become a regular at local cafes and stores that know my order when I walk in through the door, which makes me feel like I’m a part of a community, something I wasn’t able to cultivate by constantly moving to and fro.

I’m still finding new things and places to explore and feed my sense of adventure. There are new coffee shops I haven’t tried yet, and parks I have yet to bring my little shih-tzu for walks. I even just found a literary club not too far from me that I want to join and find other like-minded writers.

There’s a kind of peace in knowing you’re set for the minute and not going anywhere. As much as I wanted a new adventure, I’m equally as excited that I don’t have to call movers and start taping up boxes again — or investigate suspicious marks on a future place’s shower tiles. Let’s be honest — moving sucks. Margaretta, we are saving ourselves huge headaches by staying still for a minute.

I didn’t lose my sense of adventure by staying still — I went on the journey of finding myself.

If you would like to submit to Dear 26ixty, you can anonymously submit your story through the button below!

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Dear 26ixty,

At work I got a direct report (I’m the manager) who is super shy and quiet and the rest of the team is complaining he’s not contributing to problem-solving, etc. And it’s gonna become a bigger deal if we don‘t fix it.

How do I bring it up without making him feel awkward and self-conscious?

— vine boom

Dear Vine Boom,

Fifteen year old me sat around a Harkness table — a large oval, twenty students all talking over one and another, trying to sound more pretentiously intellectual than the next — absolutely terrified to open my mouth. So when you asked me this, Vine Boom, I knew exactly who your direct report was.

I wasn’t confident in myself at that time, and who is at fifteen? The only true place I felt confident was when I was penning my thoughts to paper, where I could process, realize, and articulate what I wanted to say. Of course, it also didn’t help that I was the scholarship kid at the fancy, private all-girls school. There was already a sense that I was an outcast, and I can still see the smirks of the more fortunate girls in the back of my mind.

A decade later, I still remember this one particular day like the back of my hand. There was maybe five minutes left of class, right before the lunch bell. The teacher told everyone to stop and started calling out five of our names one-by-one, asking us to stand. I stood standing alongside four other girls, us looking at each other in total fear. The teacher commented how we had not participated in the discussion and that the class would not be dismissed until we each said something. In that moment, I had completely forgotten everything about the book we were reading. The only thing I was focused on was the fact that I had to say something — cheeks red, hands sweating, body trembling. And I would constantly beat myself up for it, asking myself what was so wrong with me that I can’t just speak. From that moment forth, I absolutely dreaded going into that class and for a moment, even resented writing because of that.

After graduating college, I had reconnected with some of those girls separately who happened to be apart of that humiliation, and we ended up discussing it. I found that what we all had in common: we never forgot that moment, it hindered our confidence, and we were all equally hard on ourselves for not participating in the first place. It’s not that we didn’t want to, we were all just painfully shy.

But on the contrary, I also had a chemistry teacher, who never once singled me out or asked me to participate more. And the only thing I loved more than writing was coffee — which she knew, and would sometimes send me e-mails through our school network of caffeine molecule related jokes and memes. One time when we had to choose an element to do a project on and I chose lithium, I remember her looking at me in my Hot Topic band tees and immediately asking, “Evanescence or Nirvana?” Both.

Before I realized it, we had an unspoken deal almost where whenever we had our monthly presentations in front of the class — something I absolutely dreaded — she always had me first on the list to present. There was something about me knowing in advance that I’d be the first to go and then it would be over with that gave me so much more relief and confidence. Compared to other classes where I’d sit waiting for my turn, not even focused on the presentations ahead of me because I was so scared to do my own.

I excelled in that chemistry class and it was my favorite that year, even though I had never been that into science. Halfway through the year, I was regularly raising my hand, asking questions, and participating like a functioning-non-anxiety-ridden student for the first time in my life. And it was genuinely because the teacher had fostered such a safe and positive experience for me to do so.

When I started at my first job years later, I was still very shy, but not to the point of hands-trembling anymore. Just very quiet, smiles and nods, not really offering my opinion, much like your direct. But since getting to know the team through time, holiday parties, and bowling hang-outs, I regularly joked around with my team and felt comfortable voicing my thoughts and concerns — like a time when I felt I was the only one doing all of our side work. Something I wouldn’t have been able to self-advocate for had it not just been through time and low stakes moments where nobody is performing for anyone. So if there’s any way to build in something like that, even something small like a pizza party, it’s worth it.

And this is all to say, Vine Boom, that I have been on both ends of your problem — the one who was doing too much and the one who wasn’t doing enough. I know firsthand how frustrating it can be to do all the work, but I also know how hard it can be to just open up sometimes.

I can tell you’re a good manager by the fact that you asked how you can bring this up without embarrassing him, or making him feel self-conscious. From an introvert’s perspective, having that talk with him privately instead of humiliating him in front of his peers is definitely the first step, but I suspect you already knew that. If he really is that introverted, odds are he probably knows he needs to speaking up more, and he might already be hard on himself about it.

So while you need to have a discussion with him, maybe don’t emphasize on the fact that’s he shy and just slip it in while trying to connect with him a little more. The more comfortable he feels around you, the easier it’ll be for him to speak up. Not to say you have to become his new best friend, but fostering some sort of professional relationship where he knows that you’re his boss, but also that you still genuinely care about him and his growth — and I can tell you do.

Do you know of any of his interests — a particular band, or game, or something he’s mentioned before? Maybe just ask him how his weekend was, try to relate to him personally, and casually slip in the part about participation. I think it’s all about the approach: if it seems like a lecture or he’s in trouble, he might take it harder, but if it’s a friendly conversation with a tiny bit of constructive criticism, I bet he’ll leave that meeting feeling more positive and confident.

Or maybe you don’t even need to bring up the shyness at first. Maybe just have a small talk with him and then ask “Hey, what did you think of (insert something from the last meeting)?” And when he tells you privately his idea, really just encourage him and hype it up. Verbally affirm that he has good ideas that are worth sharing. Maybe if you’re able to email him some notes on the meeting beforehand so he has a moment to think and prepare what he could say.

The chemistry teacher never made me feel like my silence was a problem to be fixed. She just made me feel safe enough that I eventually fixed it myself. I think that’s all he needs from you — and something tells me you already know how to do that.

For starters: I don’t strive to be a bitch, and I don’t condone Mean Girls-esque behavior.

I’m learning to adapt more of what I like to call: laissez-faire bitchiness.

All my life, from teachers to friends to strangers, I have always been labeled as one thing: “nice.” That’s not a bad thing to be called, but it kind of sounds like some sort of blanketed, surface-level compliment. It should be taken as a direct regard that you’re a good person, but being called “nice” kind of feels like they haven’t gotten to know you well enough past the shy smiles and agreeable nods. Like, sure, I’m nice, but I’m also creative and witty.

And I have always prided myself on being “nice.” I’ve always been the typical girl-next-door “good girl.” I’m loyal to a fault, reliable, supportive, a good listener, encouraging, always trying to help, and just generally… nice.

One time a friend sat me down and had me watch an anime called Fruits Basket with her, only for her to point out halfway through that I was like the main character — too nice and always giving too much until I have nothing left. Ouch. I thought this was girl’s day, but also… yeah, I get it.

I’ve always been too nice to the point where I let people walk all over me. A people-pleaser. A push-over. The kind of girl who never confronts — just smiles and nods.

A few years ago, I used to be so scared to advocate for myself. For example, if someone hit me with their car, I probably would have blamed it on myself and ended up apologizing to them — and that’s not even an exaggeration. Let’s just say for better or worse, I’ve grown a backbone since then.

And to that extent, I’ve been learning how to become more of a bitch.

For starters, let’s define what I call a laissez-faire bitch:

Laissez-faire bitch: one who withdraws instead of arguing; letting something slide, but not being warm about it

It’s a fancy term I’ve coined that basically just says: I have boundaries now and I’m protecting my peace.1

It’s not going out of your way to be mean or passive aggressive, but just the overall lack of further engagement. Think of it like something happens → conversation trying to convey boundaries → if the other party lacks accountability → laissez-faire-bitch mode activated.

Now, I don’t have a peace sign stick-and-poked on my finger for nothing. I have always been, or at least tried to be, the peacemaker — even in situations I genuinely have nothing to do with, I’m usually the one roped in to mediate at some length. However, through the years I have learned that sometimes you can take the high road all you want, try to talk things out, come up with solutions — but some people are just going to be how they’re going to be. I’m not going to say that’s okay, but some people just don’t know how to communicate like an adult. And in that case, sometimes you just have to let it be.

I’m not trying to learn to become Regina George or something else of the sort. I don’t have a burn book, I’m not judging people’s outfits.

It’s more of “a rebel with a cause” mentality. I’ve just decided that I’m done entertaining people and situations that are not good for me. I’ll give you an example:

I had a situation at work once where this male coworker cornered me and was right up against me, trying to grab me.

This was not the first instance with this guy. This particular guy had a long history of inappropriate comments, trying to grab me or get me to go home with him, and a lot of low blows of him commenting on my weight.

So I got away and went to tell the manager — who also happened to be his “bro” — and he just told me that coworker was just playing. Just joking. What do you expect? You know how they are.

I said, “I expect respect, to not feel unsafe at work. I shouldn’t have a coworker trying to grab me.”

The manager literally told me to “calm down, stop complaining.”

My blood was boiling.

Girlies — and I say this with my whole chest — if anyone ever makes you feel uncomfortable or unsafe, I want you to speak up and speak out. Complaining is “ugh, I’m tired, my feet hurt,” not “someone tried to grab me and made me feel unsafe.”

And what did I do after this situation? Well, clearly nothing was done on the manager’s end after I tried to communicate, so I started just simply clocking in, doing my job, clocking out. I wasn’t in the position to just outright quit with no back-up plan, but I also didn’t cause a scene or entertain them further. No “Hi, how was your weekend?” No small talk. Just do my job, get my money, go home to my dog, start planning my exit route. But because I became less friendly and social, people were whispering that “I must be on my period” and calling me a bitch.

The thing is — I’d rather people think I’m a bitch because I stood up for myself than my silence allowing them to feel comfortable continuing that kind of behavior.

I don’t let people walk all over me, and I don’t let things slide anymore. But I also don’t cause a scene. The “laissez-faire bitch” attitude that I have coined is more-so me just setting boundaries and upholding them… but with a cool name attached. If people are going to call me a bitch, I might as well reclaim the title in a fun way.

Some people expect that the “nice girl” will just let things blow over, but I’m no longer the girl that just says “teehee, it’s okay.”

When the “nice girl” starts to put up boundaries, it no longer allows people to get away with what they used to and forces them to take accountability. But not everyone likes to take accountability, so instead, they’ll label you “difficult,” a “bitch,” or say “you’ve changed” — when all you did was learn how to finally advocate for yourself. If the people around you are uncomfortable with you sticking up for yourself and communicating your needs, then honey, those are not your people.

And I’m no longer compromising my peace to make others feel comfortable.

Those who know me know I’m still that “nice” girl teachers used to comment on my progress reports. I’m still the girl who will spend all-nighters painting a portrait of your dog ahead of our hangout just to surprise you. I’m still the girl who will answer your 2am FaceTime when you found a spider in your room and need some emotional support before you can go to sleep.2

The only difference is now: I don’t tolerate disrespect.

I read to fall in love with the world.  To experience.  To gain perspective.  To live.  To go on an adventure I’d otherwise never get a taste of in my dreary upstate bedroom.  With books I can slay dragons, travel the world, live in London during the 1800s, study magic in a castle, meet a crazy man in a Mercury hat.  With books, I’m not just a waitress — I’m a princess, a dragon slayer, a tree nymph.  With books I get to live so many different lives, meet so many friends, lovers, enemies… enemies-to-lovers.  With books I can switch my reality from snow to magic.

Wealth is what helps the rich gain experiences.  Books are what helps me.

Feel free to comment down below your favorite book — let’s recommend some of our favorite reads to one another!

She lost her voice as she found it.

The sunset glow from the salt lamp in the west end of the room

Illuminated a warmth of nostalgia as her fingers clicked against the keyboard,

A clickety-clack all too familiar, but vaguely distant.

The silence held like a thick fog in the darkness,

A sniffle and tissue thrown, chilling the air with an echo of despair,

But she persevered, allowing the 26 characters to form their patterns across the screen.

To write and to post is to be perceived, to be seen,

Something she had not tangoed with since fifteen.

To deny thy art is to deny thy heart.

They say you never forget your first love,

And despite her attempts to shield herself from it,

Dancing with the illusions of Impressionism and Renaissance,

But bedridden back to the keyboard she came.

Those first few keystrokes like putting keys into a door

You used to call home.

Phrases to sentences, articles to a pile of drafts,

Unable to stop, the words flew through her

Like a lost melody finding its way back to sea.

The adrenaline of sharing, the ease that freed her soul,

Everyday feeling it a little lighter,

Until her throat became tighter.

But how poetic:

The moment she found her voice again,

She lost her vocals.

— sometimes, the universe is ironic.

Having a crush as an adult is so embarrassing.

Like, genuinely humiliating.

Because what do you mean I pay all my own bills, hold down a job, keep my house clean like a domesticated wife archetype, cater to my dog like she’s a human baby — but I come undone over a simple, contagious smile thrown my way? Like, girl. Focus. Your rent is due.

When you’re a kid and you have a crush, everyone collectively hums into a chorus of “awww”s and call it puppy love. It’s innocently sweet — holding hands on the swing set, buying ice cream.

But as an adult, saying “I like this guy” sounds so middle school, so childish. Reporting back to my friends, Oh, he pinched my cheeks tonight, and genuinely being butterflied by it feels even more childish. As a girl so focused on being independent, focusing on my art and writing, making sure the bills are getting paid, it feels so embarrassing to counteract me holding the ship down with micro-interactions that have me blushing like I’m thirteen again. By 26, I thought I would have grown out of over analyzing eye contact and replaying small interactions like they mean something. The worst part is being self-aware enough to recognize that, but no matter how hard I try, I keep seeing his smile in the back of my mind.

When we were younger, having a crush was dramatic and felt like the end of the world, but it was still safe. There weren’t any real consequences. If your crush in middle school didn’t like you back, you’d find someone else next week during recess. As an adult, liking someone feels like risking something — it’s the quiet pressure we all try to ignore, like we’re running out of time. As if every flirtation or relationship is supposed to lead somewhere — and if it doesn’t, then we’re ultimately doomed to end up alone. It’s as if every smile and wink is the beginning to the end of our free-flowing-20s’ spirit.

But in a world of skyrocketing rent and healthcare bills stacking up on the dining room table, is it wrong to entertain something that momentarily alleviates that stress and makes you feel like a kid again? Isn’t that something we’re all chasing after anyways? Just a sparkle of our innocence back.

The shameful thing is: we are equally guilty of flirting like actual middle schoolers with a 401k. He pinches my cheeks, flicks my pens, and I’m flicking the tip of his hat or turning it sideways on him. Yes, very mature, adult-flirting happening here. At least from my position: Mr. Eggroll (as we’ll refer to him) and I work together and he’s just a little… like a decade older than me, so outwardly asking him out does not really seem like my best move. I’d rather just slowly tease him a little and see where it goes. After all, the last thing I need is my already high-school-gossipy workplace to be whispering about this. You know the saying about workplace romances… and normally I am the biggest advocate of running far from it — but against my better judgement… he’s just so cute. Besides, when has a little smiling ever hurt anyone?

Or maybe I’m invested in this storyline because I want a reason to relate to Taylor Swift’s “I Can See You,” one of her best vault tracks — argue with the wall.

It all started nearly a year ago at this point, when Mr. Eggroll, who had previously been someone I’d just clown around with during downtime, just became noticeably shyer around me. His “hello”s became whispers I almost missed — to which I mentally screamed no, no, abort mission because I knew what was coming next. Secret smiles exchanged, a lot of childlike teasing, him sneaking me crab rangoons throughout my shifts, end-of-the-night watching TikToks together, me asking about his family and his cooking endeavors, him asking about my paintings and art. I don’t even want to admit this, but I may or may not have slipped a framed sketchbook page disguised in a brown Trader Joe’s bag at his station for Christmas. Someone cue Taylor Swift’s “Down Bad”…

Now, will anything actually become of this? It’s been almost a year of playful teasing, and as exciting of a distraction it has been in a workplace that feels like prison sometimes, I’m not sure if it will ever go anywhere. After a year, you’d think something would’ve happened if it was going to. Is that disappointing? It is what it is, nothing lost, nothing gained. Does my chest still race every single time we bump into each other? Admittedly, yes. Has he actually taken the initiative to ask me out officially? No.

For what it is, it’s been a fun distraction, something simple and sweet to look forward to on the days I’m dreading clocking in. I found myself wondering why do I keep getting excited at those tiny butterflies when it’s clearly not going anywhere? Then I realized, unless something official happens to solidify it — I am grateful enough that I had something light and fun to remind myself that I am not as broken as I thought and I’m still capable of feeling this way, just like I did when I was in middle school harboring my first crush.

After college, I was in such a rush to grow up — I got my first solo apartment at 22, working endlessly to be able to afford it — instead of just crashing with roommates and going out partying all the time. That’s how I ended up being 26ixty — a 26 year old gal feeling like a retired grandma who skips the clubs to paint with my dog. Being single, independent, and so wrapped up in my simple, cozy life for so long, I began to wonder: would I ever be capable of feeling that flutter of excitement again? How would a guy ever potentially fit into this life? So even if nothing becomes of the elusive Mr. Eggroll and I, at least I know that somewhere inside of me that little girl who dreamed of her happily ever after is still very much alive.

So, yes: having a crush as an adult is so embarrassing, but maybe it’s proof that our inner child still believes in a little bit of magic. Maybe it’s the silly, little emotions that remind us we’re alive.

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Are you lonely or are you just alone? There’s a big difference.

I’ve been single for a few years now, living the bachelorette life of my dreams. Does that mean I’ve been out clubbing, bringing home one night stands whose names I’ll never know? Absolutely not. I’ve been home chilling with my dog.

The closest thing I’ve done to a one night stand was the DIY paint job I gave to the one sitting next to my bedside — a spring, sage green table adorned with a wreath of dark green leaves. Adorable.

But for the last few years, I’ve endured the sad eyes looking at me like I’m lost in life and will never be happy unless I have a man by my side.

“Why don’t you have a boyfriend?”

“You should really find someone.”

“All the good ones are going to be gone.”

“Well, have you tried the apps?”

Gag.

Listen, I’m not going to sit here and ramble about how men are evil and all guys are the same because that’s not true. Are there some really disgusting guys out there? Oh, 110%. But girlies, I promise you the good guys aren’t a myth. They do exist.

No, seriously, they do.

After I got out of a long, horrible two year relationship (if you can even call it that), I immediately met a very nice guy. The guy who wanted a wife, a house, a white picket fence. Respectful, hardworking, charming… everything on paper.

But I just wasn’t there yet. And that’s okay.

A few years later I hear through the grapevine that he’s engaged, and I’m genuinely happy for him. He’s getting exactly what he wanted, as he should.

And as for me? I’m still sitting at home chilling with my dog. It’s not that I don’t ever want anyone, or I’ve sworn off guys, or something dramatic like that. I am just not actively in the pursuit of another relationship right now. And that is absolutely okay.

Because while everyone looks at me with those sad eyes, I am blissfully aware of one uncomfortable truth:

There is a future version of me that exists living in a house with a wonderful husband and a crying baby, thinking back on this current version of me, longing for the peace that I have right now.

And that’s not to say that future me won’t be happy with a man, a house, a family — the dream, right? But I only get to be in my twenties once, live alone, doing as I please. Is it so wrong that I want to soak up this moment for as long as I have it?

Here’s my current reality:

• Cuddling up to my dog at night — heavy emphasis on no man snoring next to me.

• Quiet movie nights rewatching Uptown Girls for the 500th time.

• Candlelit cups of tea, curling up with a thriller book (and being glad my 10-pound dog is there as security in case the book characters decide to come to life and intrude on my sanctuary).

• Random inspiration hitting at 11pm and grabbing some clay to wrap around an old jar and carve out a cute little fairy house. (Pinterest approved craft nights).

• Blaring the Hannah Montana 2/Meet Miley Cyrus soundtrack on my speaker as I do the dishes and vacuum my dog’s playground — I mean, my living room.

• Having long paint sessions after work, staying up until 3am until the toucan looking back at me is just the right amount of chaotic and colorful.

• Rummaging through my cabinets like I’m on Chopped and coming up with… unhinged? Chaotic? Recipes like my peanut butter pickle cookies (truly, don’t knock it until you try it).

• Being rebellious and leaving a few dishes in my sink at night because… who’s gonna know?

  Oops, I just told on myself, didn’t I?

My point is: being alone doesn’t mean I’m lonely. There’s a very common misconception that a woman can’t be alone whilst feeling happy and fulfilled. But my life is full — friends, family, freedom, peace, and exploring my creativity to its full extent. I get to try new things, be as weird as I want, and who is going to judge me?

Okay, okay, I do catch my shih tzu side eyeing me from time to time…

Are there some quiet nights maybe I wish I had plans? Sure. But in those moments, I’d much rather be bored at home than anxiously staring at my phone waiting for a text back.

One day, I’ll have a busy life filled with family and driving kids to soccer practice. But for now, I’m content just soaking up my days creating and just… being a girl.

If those people with the sad eyes telling me to “just find someone” could see me dancing around to Taylor Swift with a paintbrush in my hand, maybe they wouldn’t see my life as so pathetic. But it’s my life, not theirs. And I’m enjoying every minute of being “locked in my castle,” filled with string lights and fringe on my walls before I have to find a way to make some guy’s baseball collection blend into my aesthetic.

After years of back-to-back bad relationships, it’s honestly a fresh of breath air to essentially date myself, explore who I am and the extent of my mind’s weird ideas.

Being alone doesn’t always mean you’re lonely.

Sometimes, it means you’re finally free.

… And if I come on here next week claiming I’ve found the love of my life, mind your business (;

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What happened to romance?

What happened to being in Barnes & Noble reaching for a book as you feel someone else’s hand, look up, and find yourself staring into the eyes of your soulmate?

Maybe that’s where my fairytale-esque, hopeless romanticism starts to show.

But when did we all start swiping for our next partner on our phones? Who decided that this was normal?

And this is where my 26 year old grandma mindset sets in: could the guy in the picture holding the massive fish be my future husband?

No, absolutely not. But why are we all pretending like it could be?

When you’re single, people look at you with those sad eyes, asking, “Well, have you tried the apps?”

No, and I will not — well, not seriously, anyways.

Have I made an account? Sure.

Have I looked and laughed at all the guys holding fish? 100%. (But seriously, what is with all the fish? Genuinely asking here.)

Have I tried actually tried swiping and talking to someone on there? Absolutely not, and you couldn’t pay me to.

When you’re swiping, it’s just photos — there’s no personality, no spark, it’s just mindlessly scrolling and rotting on your phone.

Sure, I know, I know, people have found their future husbands on these apps, and I’m not trying to discredit them, but the whole thing is so… unromantic.

Online dating is like online shopping.

And for some people, they love it and impulsively pull out their credit cards at midnight. But for me, I like to go into the store, find what I like, and try it on in the fitting rooms. Is it comfortable, does it look flattering on?

The thing with online shopping is: you never know what you’re getting. Maybe you’ll find a rarity, an exception, an absolute gem will show up at your door in a week. Maybe you’ll get something cute to wear to the club once or twice, but it’s not going to last past a couple washes. Or maybe you’ll find something that you’ll never wear and you’re way too lazy to return — a complete waste of an investment.

People always says the apps are where you find people, but we all know what the general consensus of guys on there are looking for. And listen I’m not hating on you if that’s your thing. If you want a fun Friday night, swipe away, live your life, girl.

I’m not against hook up culture, I just have zero interest in participating in it.

What happened to the meet-cutes in the grocery store? When did cycling through profiles become the norm? And why is that everyone’s default solution? Well, have you tried the apps?

Is it because we’ve lost the art of the third space?

I’ve seen so many people ironically comment how a niche corner of the internet is their “third space.” And while those corners can sometimes garner connection, it’s not the same as physically meeting someone and spontaneously falling into deep conversations and connections.

There are barely any third spaces left for people to meet and connect. Even the malls are dying. And especially with how expensive the world has gotten, even the remaining few third spaces will cost you $50 before you leave your house.

So maybe the apps took over because there wasn’t anything left. They were a way to meet people without having to spend money or leave your home.

But still, I can’t help but wonder —

Am I just an outdated grandma and need to get with the times, or is there anyone else out there still fostering the hope that somehow, someway they will organically find their soulmate?

I guess I’ll return to rewatching all my favorite rom-coms like a future prophecy for my non-existent love life. Though I suppose if I do want to spontaneously bump into a cute guy, I may have to actually leave my house for that…

I guess you really can’t have your cake and eat it, too. But if I do to decide to actually leave my cozy dwelling, I better not find my soulmate walking around holding a fish.

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I’m a writer and the greatest honor would be finding just one person who resonates with my words.

But God forbid the day someone I know personally finds my ‘Stack.

And I suppose it doesn’t help my case that I chose not to write under an alias, which I suppose I could easily change that real quick.

But I don’t want to.

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I’m on the precipice of “being old,” or at least that’s what my younger coworkers like to joke.

And as a wise 26ixty year old lady, I’m tired of hiding.

I’m too old to be too scared to take a risk. Maybe nothing will ever become of my writing, maybe no one will ever read. But I’ll never know if I don’t try.

So here I am writing my little articles, being brave, and attaching it to my name.

But I still don’t want anyone I know to find it.

Writing my articles and sending them out to my subscribers (though that sounds too formal, I think of you guys as my girlies I share laughs, cry’s, and recipes with), is an artistic expression.

Having someone I know read these same posts? That’s intimacy.

Ok think about it like this — Taylor Swift goes through a break up and calls her friends and vents about every little detail with them. That’s vulnerability, that’s intimacy. But then she puts out a song about the break up to her fans. That’s an artistic expression.

As her fans, we can theorize and take a guess about who each song is about, since we’ve been following her career and story for 20+ years. But here’s the thing: we’ll never actually know. (No matter how much Swiftok “experts” try to convince us their analysis is 100% canon).

I’m writing my articles and sure, I’m in the beginning stages, my “debut era” if you will, and if you read long enough, you might be able to connect some dots, but you’ll never actually know.

I’m not going to name names — just write about my experiences, what I’ve learned. And if that helps you find some comfort or feel less alone, then I feel like I’d have done my job.

But if someone I know personally finds my writing — yeah, I’m not ready for that.

I can come on here and be vulnerable and honest with you because we don’t know each other, and there’s a sense of safety in that. I can vaguely write about this and that, and you’ll have no idea who’s who or the context.

If my mom opened up a piece — yeah, she’d know exactly who or what I’m reflecting on, or throwing tiny jabs at.

My mom, bless her soul, gets the lengthy, detailed phone calls, naming names. She knows the tea.

My ‘Stack is for letting it all out and reflecting because I’ve found that hearing someone’s else story, finding a piece in it that resonates with me, helps me feel less alone and like maybe I’m not totally behind in life.

My Substack isn’t for the people I know — it’s for the girl burrito-wrapped in her blankets at 2am wondering why the guy she likes won’t text her back. And maybe during her spiral she finds one of my pieces and it feels like talking to a friend.

This only works for me because I don’t know my reader — I can say whatever and be as vulnerable and honest as I want because you don’t actually know me.

They say not to vent because the air flows into other rooms, but if it floats out into the void, it’s just a creative release.

Maybe it’s contradictory. The desire to want to be seen, but not by the people who know you best.

But for now — this is the only way it feels safe.

It’s easier to take a risk without the fear of those you love potentially seeing you fail.

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And my body finally called a time out.

Beginning of February, I started to feel some pain in my left shoulder and arm after a busy night of holding trays and dealing with Karen’s.

Listen — I know I’m not the strongest pickle in the jar, so I chalked it up to a busy night, joked I got a “good work out in” during my shift.

But before the Valentine’s Day shift, I was pregaming with a lot of Tylenol.

Whenever it started to feel a little better, the pain just came back swinging. And every night I kept going in, forcing a smile, pretending I cared that their steak was medium and not “medium well” — (even though, it totally was, Karen).

While I’ve always joked that I was a grandma, this was the first time I physically felt like one. It got to the point where anytime I grabbed a coffee mug, or tried to wash my dishes, or give my dog some rubs — my shoulder, arm, back, and neck were screaming at me.

The last week I spent working — my body was infuriated after just two tables.

And for someone who’s been doing this, again, nonstop for five years, six nights a week… that was concerning.

Apparently I had a strain that I just kept further straining for two months, until all the related muscles were angry and started a riot against my upper body.

And so I was put on bed rest for a full week.

I got myself a bunch of Trader Joe’s frozen dinners to eliminate cooking/dishes. I propped myself up in bed with a bunch of pillows, cycling through various Disney+ movies on my iPad.

It would’ve been a lovely staycation if I was able to turn my head or make my bed without feeling like I needed a cane and a recliner after.

As someone who is so — go, go, go! — all the time and whose mind is racing ten thousand creative thoughts a minute, pausing felt insufferable.

I was beginning to understand how stir crazy my dog must have felt during the blizzards these past few months.

I rested for a few days before I decided to try drawing. I constantly kept myself in check — making sure my back was to the chair, my neck not craning over, scrutinizing every mark. But apparently, I had worn myself down to the point where I couldn’t even hold a marker.

Great. Love that for me.

So back to bed I went, with the pillows propped, the tray table with the iPad in front of me.

And that’s when it hit me: Substack.

I’ve previously had two failed Substack publications — and I only say failed because I gave up on them after two posts:

• My art history ‘stack was fun but it started to feel more like homework than fun.

• My art/DIY ‘stack I loved writing on, but started to overthink every post.

So I decided to give this one more try and start fresh, not niching myself down so I had the creative freedom to write whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted.

Thus, 26ixty was born — a Substack existing under the niche of comfort. Comforting recipes, comforting films, comforting projects, comforting reflections.

And so I started writing. And writing. And writing.

It felt like coming home. I hadn’t written in so long, and I think part of me was scared to try my hand at the pen again because what if I had lost my spark? But it felt so natural. As soon as I started typing, I couldn’t stop.

And I know I’ll actually commit to this one because during my time of forced rest, I whipped out a bunch of drafts already queued up to go live.

So while everything is inflamed and I can’t move, I was ecstatic to learn that typing did not trigger any sort of flare. I forgot how natural writing felt to me — it was like breathing — and now that I’ve fully immersed myself in it again, my lungs feel full for the first time in years.

Joining Substack again — but this time from a place of comfort, rather than pressure — reminded me of my high school Wattpad days, when I was (not-so) sneakily drafting my stories in class, when I probably should’ve been paying better attention in physics.

As someone who used to always slam her notebook shut when anyone tried to glance at my work, I’m glad I’ve healed that anxiety to have fun publicly expressing my thoughts and journey on here.

Even if no one ever reads these words, I’m still writing again and fearlessly putting myself out there — trust me, that’s huuuge for me.

I’m still trying to find my rhythm again, but it’s like a rusty wheel, you just have to grease it up and keep rolling until you’re back on the right path.

And maybe it’s just the Hannah Montana anniversary special talking but… you always find your way back home, right?

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I always come back to the same movies for two reasons:

• I know how it ends. And when life seems chaotic and uncertain, cozying up under blankets to a movie knowing exactly how it’ll end can be the utmost comfort.

• My favorite movies I usually see a glimpse of myself in, and it makes me feel less alone.

Below is a guide to a list of films I believe every girl in their twenties should immerse themselves in at least once.

These films all feature strong women finding themselves and figuring it all out, just like we are.

Breakfast at Tiffany’s (1961)

Watch if you are finding yourself or struggling with avoidance, scared to commit to a moment in time.

Audrey Hepburn is a classy, graceful, badass — and we’ll deep dive into her in a future post. In Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Hepburn takes on the role of the elusive Holly Golightly — a seemingly sophisticated, classy woman from afar, but an avoidant mess struggling to find her place. Holly is scared of the world — scared of intimacy, buying furniture and settling in one place, terrified to even commit to a name for her cat.

We find Holly as she is trying to reinvent herself, running from her past while simultaneously trying to portray something she is not. A manifestation queen or a cluelessly delusion woman trying to find her place?

There’s glamour, love, heartbreak, and of course, the comforting elegance of Tiffany’s — it’ll calm you down right away.

Uptown Girls (2003)

Watch if you were either: forced to grow up too fast or struggling to adjust your free-spirited soul to adulthood.

The dichotomy of Brittany Murphy’s free-spirited character, Molly Gunn, and the uptight child she’s nannying, Dakota Fanning’s Ray, plays at the dynamic of age versus spirit.

Ray is a child who learned too quickly that the only person she could rely on is herself, strictly scheduling responsibility into her every second of her day. She’s so uptight to the point of carrying around her own personal soap to public restrooms because… ew, germs.

Molly is a bohemian queen, living life to the beat of her own drum, with zero plan or responsibilities for the future. She overspends, goes by the seat of her pants, and finds herself falling for a rockstar, who even writes a song for her.

While Molly teaches Ray about letting loose and let people in, Ray teaches her about taking responsibility and accountability.

This movie never fails to make me cry as I see younger me as Ray, but relate to Molly’s clueless adulthood, trying to figure it all out. But neither Ray nor Molly are necessarily living the correct path. Once they help balance each other in a sort of yin and yang way, I realize that if I can fuse my ambitious, strict younger self while still embracing my older free spirited ways, I can heal my inner child. She wasn’t wrong for being ambitious — she just needed some more gentle watering.

Confessions of a Shopaholic (2009)

Watch if you are trying to control your impulse spending and take control of your finances; figuring out what’s important in life.

Rebecca Bloomwood is, unfortunately, my spirit animal. She’s the definition of: fake it until you make it,

The girl who romanticizes shopping and manifesting her dream life by dressing the part. Which ultimately does work for her… until her debt catches up with her.

Cue the scene of her and Krysten Ritter’s character taking tequila shots as they’re screaming in the kitchen opening the bills cluttering the table.

Dreaming of working at a fashion magazine, Rebecca finds herself taking a job at a finance magazine to work her way up. Ironically, she’s absolutely killing it with her column, becoming the underdog MVP with her column. But how can a girl avoiding her debt give people genuine financial advice?

This movie is filled with fashion, love, irony, and chaotic drama trying to hide her double life. If you need a laugh, this movie will warm your heart. If you need financial advice, maybe subscribe to Barron’s.

The Devil Wears Prada (2006)

Watch if you’re struggling to stay true to your authentic self/girlbossing and finding balance between career and life.

Anne Hathaway’s character, Andy Sachs, just graduated college and is ready to launch into her journalism career. Andy is studious, practical, and ambitious, finding her and her blue lumpy sweater applying for a job in a fashion magazine — one that any girl would kill to have, except for her.

Andy finds herself adapting from her clearance bin sweaters to Chanel and Yves Saint Laurent, becoming the very thing she hated. As she witnesses and conforms to workaholism, she finds herself not recognizing the girl in the mirror. Andy broadcasts the importance of holding onto your authentic self and not selling your soul for the potential promise of what could be.

While I have no intention of becoming Miranda Priestley, I may or may not have adapted her “That’s all” line when dealing with annoying coworkers. Miranda shows how you can have it all and nothing all at once.

If you want glamorous fashion montages throughout the NYC sidewalks and the perfect 2000s movie soundtrack, lose yourself in this film… but find yourself again in the end.

Clueless (1995)

Watch if you’re cluelessly, hopelessly lost in life, and need a good laugh.

Clueless is my go-to feel good film. The 90s fashion, the tartan prints, the 90s soundtrack, and all of the one-liner quips and 90s slang. This movie is like a warm hug of nostalgia, laughs, and heart.

Cher Horowitz (Alicia Silverstone) is a spoiled brat, who uses her daddy’s litigator career as inspiration to argue her way out of any trouble. When Tai Fraisier (Brittany Murphy) joins her school, she sees her as a helpless, lost little lamb, who she just wants to “help” — aka, make a clone of herself. As they say, the student becomes the master, and as Tai begins to rise and outrank Cher, she sees herself mirrored back to her and decides she needs one more makeover — this time for her soul.

It’s an exaggerated high school comedy, a dramatized snapshot of teens during the 90s, but at it’s heart, it’s a rom-com, coming of age story.

Also… Paul Rudd, need I say more?

Black Swan (2010)

Watch if you struggle with perfectionism, performance anicety, and the fear of being perceived.

Natalie Portman‘s Nina is a quiet, reserved, determined ballerina after the lead of the Swan Lake production. Cue Mila Kunis’ raunchier and confident, Lily, who enters the scene as her competition. The dichotomy of Nina and Lily shows the black and white swans, until Nina begins feeling the pressure of competition, entering into paranoid hallucinations. Losing herself trying to prove herself, she begins to embrace her dark side and embody the black swan.

This is one of those films you can’t really describe and have to just sit with and experience. Honestly, I’m not sure what else I can say without spoiling it either.

This film is more of a psychological thriller, touching on horror, but I could not recommend it more if you are someone who struggles with perfectionism, being perceived, and worrying about what everyone else might say.

Legally Blonde (2001)

Watch if you’re ready to prove people wrong, and find what you’re really made of.

Reese Witherspoon’s Elle Woods is, at the surface, an air-headed blonde — until she opens her mouth and classily shuts everyone up with her unexpected intelligence. She is the best example of don’t judge a person by the cover. With her unconventional admissions essay, Elle finds herself changing paths from fashion to Harvard Law.

While everyone is watching, waiting for her to fail, she remains determined and motivated, until she’s winning lawsuits and Valedictorian of her graduating class.

Elle ran to Harvard to chase a boy, all to find what she’s really made of and rejects him in the end.

Elle is a feminist icon, a true “girl’s girl.” Her graceful wit will have you rooting for the entire film.

And the lesson behind it all? Don’t underestimate the girl in pink.

There are a million more films I could talk about, but we’ll stop here before this post is a novel-long. Let me know below what your favorite films are and if there’s any I should check out.

Definitely want to make a post in the future about all the unhinged, low-budget films I love that are so bad, they’re good.

Remember girlies — don’t let anyone underestimate you, steal your sparkle, or run you ragged to the point you lose yourself. You’re in charge of your own lives, and if you ever forget that, watch one of these films and re-inspire your mindset.