Recently, there’s been a lot of change for me, and I’ve been so grateful. My partner and I settled in a new city, and me at a new job. We’ve set up a new apartment, met with old friends, built new routines. Alongside these adjustments, I’ve been struggling with anxiety. I’ve been having a spike that’s been different and more impactful than what I’ve experienced in the past. I find myself moving so slowly due to the anxiety that others can notice. I see myself from the outside sharing odd and broken stories just to engage in conversation. There have been moments where someone asks me a question and I visibly take a two second pause before I can answer. The awkwardness of these moments make the thoughts in my head worse, and more paranoid. Overall, I feel sick and I feel wrong for being so, if that makes sense. There is a part of me that believe it’s all in my head, and it should be manageable. I feel frustrated and angry at myself.

Thankfully, things have been looking up. Much of my anxiety has faded and I’ve been better at managing situations. Coming out of such a time, as the previous week went on, I noticed myself feeling intimidated by those who it feels like are doing so much better than me. I feel jealous and sad. One day, seemingly long ago, it felt like, I too, had such aspirations. Nowadays, if I get through a day without an internal panic attack and an extremely awkward situation, I call it a success.

Tears brim my eyes as I consider this leaning on the cold metal side of the subway, standing at the end of train car. As if I have a choice in the matter, I decide to change my perspective. I’ll change my baseline, but it’ll be temporary. I must find a way to be proud of myself for this level of success (which actually is a big deal), and later, I’ll move it back up. The question that remains always: what will others think?

Last week, I read a post on Substack from a woman many years younger than me. She shared aspects of her personal life in relation to her family and her point of view on it all, and it was surprisingly similar to how I considered these same topics several years ago. Since that time, my opinions have largely has shifted, and I disagreed with most of her insights. I was able to clearly identify pain and self judgement leaking through the fallacies in her logic. Although I am aware that I could not read her piece without my own biases and projections, I felt for her, recalling what it was like for myself back then. I considered leaving a comment that may help her question her piece, and ultimately decided against it. Though this is not always the stance I take, I was able to garner a level of understanding. To survive, sometimes there are moments where we need to believe certain things, to adopt specific outlooks. I momentarily consider the same when I see someone falling deep into a political mindset that differs from my own.

It is sort of the loop I find myself in today. Looking at myself from afar, and judging the actions I take, I cannot bear it. I cannot bear to see myself seemingly wasting potential, taking such ridiculous steps that I will probably pay the price for day after day. But from inside, this is also all I can manage. It’s somehow all I can bring, and even to get there, I’m having to push myself. In a moment of clarity, I feel gratitude for all that I am given the ability to do. I feel thankful for my growth focused attitude, which I believe will help me bring more, day after day.

It has been difficult for me to find peace in meeting others where they are at. I tend towards judgement and criticism, always wanting to ask for better. My struggles internally with my mental health, this time where I have decided to push my baseline so seemingly low, has given me the unique opportunity to have some empathy not just for myself, but for others. We are all on our own journeys, that will always partially remain unknown to those who surround us.

And the same goes the other way: I have no idea what they are up to either.

My hiatus from Instagram has improved my mental health in ways I didn’t expect. I originally deleted the app because I had recently deleted TikTok, but found myself tapping through Instagram reels out of habit. Not wanting to trade one scrolling addiction for another, I removed it too.

Before that, I didn’t think I had a “problem.” I’d set a screen limit of ten minutes a day, and often didn’t even reach it. But without Instagram on my phone, I realized how much quiet FOMO I carried, even in those few passive minutes. How much my mood and sense of self were quietly shaped by what I saw and what I posted.

Still, I miss the connection. I miss knowing what my friends are up to, and I miss them knowing about my life. There’s no perfect substitute for casual sharing. It doesn’t feel natural to send a huge catch up text unprompted; doing so causes me to feel anxious, like I’m asking for something. Social media truly just gives the option to be just so passive; posting things here and there without openly admitting to our loved ones that we are looking for their validation and opinions.

In this transitional period of time with changes and new experiences, it feels strange to be “off the grid”. It strikes me suddenly sometimes, to remember how friends I consider to be close (even if we talk once a year) don’t yet know I’m engaged or where I live.

Even when I’m not documenting things, my mind still drifts to others, like what would they think if they saw me here, as I am?

Why is this? If deleting social media isn’t enough to escape the judgement of others, what is?

I used to think that the world was easier without cameras and smartphones because people got to be truly present. But after my hiatus, and the more I consider it, even long before modern tech, haven’t we always sought to share our experiences with others?

Social media has taken this aspect of connection to an disgusting extreme and one in which there feels to be no escape, but a lot of the core principles seem to have transcended before it’s existence. It has been part of us for a long time to imagine and give important to what others think of us, and to crave being part of society. It is biologically necessary for our species to have survived, each of us are wired for connection, for acceptance into a tribe.

What is the meaning of a personal experience that is not shared with others? Are those moments valuable, simply because most experiences are no longer personal?

In the same realm, what is the point of creating if no one sees it? Why spend ages pouring over an essay that exactly zero people see? What is the meaning of that?

It feels like there’s this messaging of deleting social media and generally living out situations for ourselves rather for the purpose of sharing out with others. Though in theory that makes sense, in practice, it’s confusing. When I don’t document my trips, I do feel a sense of relief. I’m not curating a moment for others or my future self. I also feel a strange loss, like the moment is already slipping away.

It’s a paradox, we want both to feel oblivious to others’ opinions, but still feel validated.

I saw a note from a well known account on Substack that went something like this: I can’t keep posting thought essays with catchy titles each week. Why don’t my other pieces get recognition on my platform? (I couldn’t find the note or the account else I would have linked it.)

I read this and I almost laughed; if a successful writer such as them feels this way, what hope is there for the rest of us?

Since then, I’ve been more attuned to how often creators share for the sake of engagement. Even when it’s not what they really care about, it’s what they know others will respond to. And I get it, I’ve done it too. Because again, what is the point of making something if no one sees it?

Sometimes, it feels like no matter the platform, we are all fighting for the same thing, to be seen and heard by others.

For now, I’ll keep my Instagram hiatus, because it feels better for me not to be there. I’ll continue to make the tradeoff of connection in favor of mental quiet, hoping that those who care about me won’t inadvertently hold it against me. I’m also trying to shift other habits. When I see something beautiful, I try not to immediately imagine how it would look on a screen, or what so-and-so would think if they saw me here. It’s hard. Minds are fickle, and change is slow.

But I keep wondering: isn’t it the fact that we wonder what people would think or feel, that drives us to create?

And: if we create art that no one sees, did we really create at all?

I recall this situation, years ago, at a talent show where a large group was performing. At the end of their set, one guy surprised a girl by breaking into a solo song, directed at her. The moment made me feel so cringe and I was overwhelmed with secondhand embarrassment. The girl handled it gracefully, maybe she even appreciated it. Still, I tucked that memory away, not wanting to revisit it, not wanting to relive the discomfort it stirred in me.

I imagine the feeling of cringe shows up differently for each of us. For me, it’s often paired with a queasy sensation and the urge to close my eyes, to look away. I tend to distract myself quickly, with avoidance as my go-to strategy. But recently, I’ve been trying something different. I’ve started to understand how our feelings, even the uncomfortable ones, might be trying to tell us something. So what is cringe trying to tell me? At first glance, it feels like it’s telling me to run, to escape, to leave.

But that’s a cop-out, isn’t it? Any feeling can lead to avoidance if I let it. When I sit with the moments of cringe, I often feel even more of it, but I also get a glimpse of what it’s actually trying to tell me. The feeling comes up often because I don’t want to see others struggle or embarrass themselves, because their embarrassment somehow becomes mine. More deeply, I’ve started to learn that what I don’t want to see in others is often exactly what I don’t want to see in myself. So, I cringe when I’m confronted with something in someone else that mirrors something I don’t want to see in myself.

If a coworker says something too direct I might cringe, not because they’re doing something wrong, but because I don’t feel comfortable speaking in that way myself. Maybe I’ve internalized a belief that I should defer to authority at work, so when someone challenges that, it’s uncomfortable. Maybe public displays of affection impact people because they aren’t accustomed to expressing love that openly. I roll my eyes when someone constantly cracks cheesy jokes, but deep down, it’s because it exposes how much they care about being liked. And I don’t want people to see how much I care about being liked. Again and again, I find that I cringe at things in others that I’m unwilling to confront in myself.

When we sit with the feeling of cringe, it often reveals something we don’t like about ourselves, something we’re struggling with. Feeling cringe isn’t a sign of being cool or heightened awareness; it’s actually a sign of being uncomfortable with parts of who I am. I shared that talent show moment, where someone else’s vulnerability made me feel strange, but what I didn’t mention are the hundreds of moments I look back on and reflect on how I was the cringe one. Things I’ve done or said in the past or just yesterday, that feel regretful, that I feel embarrassed by. Take social media for example; I feel like a lot of us go through phases where we post with more thought, more deeply. There are times I’ve shared what’s meaningful to me with aesthetic photos and broad quotes. When I come out of those moments, I often cringe at my own previous posts. I not only resent who I was in that moment, but that I chose to be vulnerable and open with it.

Those moments cringing at myself are harder to ignore and they haunt me daily: in the shower, before I fall asleep. They keep me insecure, and they stop me from being fully myself. This is why I think it’s important to acknowledge cringe and to sit with it. Only with that acknowledgment we can begin to let go of the shame we carry.

There’s nothing wrong with feeling cringe, it can be one of the most helpful feelings if we let it. Instead of flinching away from ourselves when it arises, we can see it as an invitation: to get curious, to look inward, to understand more deeply. Maybe this feeling is offering a chance to feel less alone, to release the shame of those awkward memories, and to recognize them as part of the shared human experience. I think, if we were a little kinder to ourselves in those moments, we might just learn how to be a little kinder to everyone else, too.

I’ve been practicing more of this when engaging with media. Often times in books and shows something really cheesy will happened that just makes me so uncomfortable, like I will pause the show and just do something else entirely. I often have this feeling when long running series come to an end. Something just so uncomfortable about watching the ending; knowing that this made up world will cease to exist in a few episodes. But slowly, I’ve been trying to let the feelings wash over me. Let them be there and let myself feel them with my eyes wide open. It has been hard, it has been cringe, but it has also granted me the opportunity to feel other things that I was avoiding; happiness for the characters, appreciation for openness between people, nostalgia for the situations.

The impact of accepting the idea of cringe as an illusion holding us back isn’t just a potentially more understanding, more empathetic world, it’s people who understand themselves better. People who can live and act closer to their most authentic selves. The next time you feel cringe, even over something that seems small, I challenge you to sit with it. Let it tell you something. Let it show you not just who you are, but who you could be.

Subscribe now

The walls have seen more of me than most people, from moments of joy and sadness, to times of uncertainty and moments of change. How lucky I have been, to have many walls protect me from the outside world.

As I prepare to move and sit on the floor using the lone stool as a desk in an almost empty, but also very much still full, home, I think about how this will be the fourth city I move to as an adult. It seems that I am shaping up to be a person who moves a lot.

I must ask: what is different about a person who wants to move, whether it be homes or cities, and someone who does not? When we remove circumstance and chance, I wonder if there is much difference left between the two people. Or whether there is something else, something fundamental. Like, maybe the one who stays knows that no matter where they go; there they will be, waiting for themselves. Maybe the person who leaves is too optimistic, searching for something that doesn’t exist. Perhaps it is exactly the opposite.

Gearing up for the move, I feel like I should be accustomed to the melancholy feeling of leaving, to the bittersweet feeling of saying good bye. Yet, as the moment approaches, I realize I do not feel prepared, that I have forgotten what it felt like and also that this time is different than the last. I struggle to comprehend how I look forward to settling down and when I am settled I feel bursts of energy to leave, to move, to wonder, what else could I do right now. I worry, if when the time comes, whether I will be able to stay in one physical place, without losing this energy to challenge myself. Will I be able to separate pushing myself to want more from the physical act of moving, knowing that one can exist without the other?

If you’ve moved recently, you may remember the logistics of it all, the mess of the days, the embarrassing realization of how much stuff you actually have, the panic in all the last minute tasks. I wonder if I sought out this chaos, or whether it found me. Considering that, I wanted this, I still do. I am so excited to live in a new city. The experience of packing everything up has been crazy and tiring, and alongside the disorganized days I find there is there is magic in the inconvenience of moving.

In both moving from, or moving to, there is calmness among the mess. Perhaps a feeling of a blank slate, starting anew. There is doubt in myself that follows; the stress of a newly acquired payment. There is something special about that first and last takeout meal eaten on the floor of a new place. It is a celebration, a mark of something new and something old, of a beginning and an end.

There is a realm of possibilities that seem to exist in a new place, the magic that is felt in that moment of aloneness (and the knowledge that we are not really alone; the home is there with us). Wondering about who lived here before: did they have the same questions as me? Did they sit here and feel nostalgic, like I am now? What did they fill the space with? I think also about who will live here next, what it will be like for them. I feel gratitude, that somehow, all these seemingly small things happened which led to the moment right now, me being here.

As I pack away physical items, I think of my memories here. I consider which memories I’ll easily forget and soon replace, which ones I’ll carry with me, and the ones I’ll search day and night for, years from now, not knowing what I did with them, doubting if they really existed.

I hear people talk of rose colored glasses as a negative thing, a lens that denies one an accurate perspective. Alternatively, these metaphorical glasses help me find renewed appreciation for all the small things, with the knowledge they will no longer be part of my day to day. I think it’s a blessing to be able to appreciate an experience more than usual, to let oneself see the positives and drown out the negatives, even if it is momentary.

I think of the day that I will leave the home. Leaving on trips, I feel anxiety, generally proportional to the length of the trip. The kind Lyft driver waits for me while I panic and go back a second time to make sure the back door is really locked and the oven is really off.

I think of this upcoming time leaving; the house will be empty. There will be no doorbell camera to keep an eye on things, my plush animal won’t be on the couch waiting for me to come home. The keys will be in the warm hands of a someone else, who will be looking to make their own memories in the place. It will be their turn to build a makeshift table to eat their choice of takeout, thinking about what this new chapter means for them. Another beginning, another end.

Sitting in an empty house inspires me. Spring time, in my opinion, is the most beautiful time in Austin. Sunshine flows through the windows, I hear the birds chirping outside, I see a cat climbing the tree. It was spring when I came, and it is spring when I leave.

I’ll start of by sharing that I feel embarrassed, and I carry a lot of shame not just because I was rejected, but because of the way I feel about it (for example, its impact on me all this time later.) For the most part, I don’t think about this rejection constantly. But it’s affecting me in other ways, and I have realized this experience has been subconsciously swaying my decisions. I want to call it out, my embarrassment of not being able to move on from this situation in some aspect or another.

That shame also helps me feel less alone. I think almost every one I know is caught up on one thing or another: that relationship from years ago that didn’t work out, a work situation where they could have reacted differently, a friend group back in college one was a part of but felt was toxic. Listening to friends, it’s easy to pick up on these things weighing them down, themes strung along our conversations. It's not a bad thing—it’s merely an observation on how our brains work, how it’s so easy to stay hung up on something, but so difficult to get over it. I am not trying to be insensitive and devaluing the significance of these situations, rather just bring their existence to light.

So, last year, I had a job offer rescinded, and it actually wasn’t even the first time (this is likely what helped me pick up on my pattern). Both times I ran into a disappointing situation such as this with my career, I took a step back in searching for opportunities and lost a lot of confidence in myself. This time around, I kept thinking what is wrong with me, why am I not applying to jobs more seriously and trying harder when I know what I want to do next? Of course, I realized that I was trying to avoid discomfort and rejection, but not specifically that it was these previous rejections looming over me, warning me, even if I get that far, I’ll only get that far.

Following are some ways of thinking that have helped me immensely in dispelling negative narratives and feeling better about myself, and more motivated in general.

1. Normalizing my thoughts and not feeling ashamed of my embarrassment. Things happened outside my control, I was rejected, and it’s normal that I feel upset and scared to try again. If I stay caught up in feeling badly about my thoughts, I won’t be able to think through the next steps clearly.

2. Understanding why my mind keeps reminding me of this negative experience. I think my mind is trying to protect me from feeling that way again. For that, I am thankful. Thank you to my mind for caring about me; how well intentioned, and also misguided. There is something else my mind can do to help me that is not discouraging, rather empowering, so let’s shift my focus to that.

3. What fires together wires together. The more I attention I give this thought; the more the connection between neurons will strengthen in my brain, and the more the thought will arise. I can change my thoughts simply by guiding myself to not repeat this narrative to myself, rather replace it with something else.

4. Reminding myself to trust the universe. Consciously, I don’t like to dwell on things that didn’t work out because I believe things are the way they are meant to be. I pick a value and I repeat it to myself when I feel really attached to the outcome of my efforts. For example, what is meant to be, will be.

These ideas have helped me, and it’s all a work in progress. I am still working towards finding distance from these rejections and building up my confidence.

If you’ve had a job offer rescinded, please know that you are not alone. You are not lacking in any way. I hope you find compassion for yourself, like you would for those you love. I hope that you are kind to yourself, and find peace, strength, and love. 💫

This wasn’t the first time I had tried to invite sending physical letters in my life. One example of this is when in 2023, I set a New Year’s resolution to mail twelve of my closest friends physical birthday cards. Another is when I opt to send Christmas cards to friends, which aren’t holiday cards in the traditional sense, just little notes saying hello. The letters in Beautiful World, Where Are You? in part inspired this blog, a place to capture correspondences in a one place, spark new trains of thought and conversations between friends, and for me to work through ideas “out loud”. Actually, joining Substack was an idea my friend and I had together, when we saw the weekly. We wanted a place to share updates, mostly with each other, since we live so far apart.

When I think of letters, I think back to older ways of doing things. Handwritten notes, and even e-mails, feel dated. Like, when was the last time I sent an email to a friend? I opt to text, and on occasion call friends. Even that feels like a lot to balance day to day (subtext: I am not good at texting).

Handwritten notes feel extra special, in part, because they are intentional. Especially if that’s the only form of communication corresponders have, the sender does not have the luxury to dole out bits and pieces of additional information as it comes to mind, like with texting. The act of writing the letter gives the writer the chance to flush out their ideas and intentions. It allows the receiver to absorb the information and structure their own thoughts before replying. Too often, and especially in digital means of communication, we start talking and see what happens. We don’t know what we are trying to say, or why it’s important to us; we have an idea, but end up running with it too quickly.

When it comes to physical letters, and paper goods in general, I find myself drawn to them, and the idea of them. Over the years, I’ve bought stationery with the intention of writing notes, but it always seems to end up lingering in my desk drawer. I’ve purchased physical books that I put off reading, instead opting to read the novels available on my e-reader. Every year, I spend ages finding the perfect planner, only for it be a backup option to my main planning tool, a calendar app.

Initially, I set out to write this post to convince folks that paper goods and print media is superior to its alternatives. I wanted to remind myself and others of the charm of paper things, whether it’s looking through little notes, or leafing through a glossy magazine. But when I sat down to explain this, to flush out this idea, I realized my day to day actions don’t reflect my belief in this idea to be true.

As well all know, the relevance of physical media has been dwindling down.

Sending mail to friends can feel like a hassle. It takes time and several steps to attain and deliver. I gave up on my resolution to send birthday cards when one I mailed to a friend was stolen, with only the torn envelope left behind in their mailbox.

A physical planner isn’t the most convenient either (you can trust me, because I keep one). I rarely have my physical planner handy when I’m making an appointment. Meanwhile, the calendar app on my phone is easy to access, and syncs with my partner’s calendar.

I can’t remember a time in the last several years that picking up a physical book was more convenient than using my e-reader. I can access so many books for free using Libby, without having to go to a physical library. Referencing books and quotes later is also more straightforward, all my highlights across books show up in once place that I can access from any device.

Writing in a paper journal is not that practical for me either. My hand starts to hurt and my writing gets sloppy when I write too much, whereas I can type on my laptop faster and for much longer.

Physical media is not more durable. Both digital and physical media can suffer alteration or loss.

With all this in mind, I can’t argue that physical media is still relevant today. I see so much content revolving around physical media, but I feel confused on it’s practicality.

There is something undeniably special about paper creations, but I find it difficult to identify. Why write on paper? Why print photos? Why read physical books? Perhaps to be more intentional. I wonder how much the feeling of being drawn to physical paper items is nostalgia for the past.

I don’t know if there’s anything uniquely special about print media given the many alternatives. I do know this: I love the feeling of opening my paper planner and using all my colorful pens to make lists. I enjoy the hours of research every December for a new planner because it’s a tradition for me; something I’ve done my whole adult life.

I love sending paper mail, like a note, a postcard, or a birthday card, because I know how special it feels to receive the same. That feeling of sorting through the mail only to see something pretty, and something unexpected amongst the monochromatic envelopes and plethora of advertisements.

I enjoy printing out photos and making collages. I don’t regret the unused stationary in my desk drawer, rather I appreciate what it reminds me of and the opportunity it represents. I find value in keeping a physical journal that I’ll use from time to time.

And when I have the flexibility, I enjoy picking up a magazine or a physical book. I appreciate the tactile experience that comes with it, like seeing the cover art in full color and the new book smell, especially since it’s no longer my default.

Physical print is charming, and it’s different than digital media the way water is different from ice. Paper creations are enchanting to gift and receive, and their physical nature lets them capture something special; the curve of letters in one’s unique handwriting, the smudge of ink from a rushed departure, the fragrance of my perfume lingering on the paper, or the spill of my morning coffee.

Physical media requires more pause, more intentionality to engage with. The extra time and inconvenience of carrying a bulky book or writing long enough to make my hands hurt, these small moments allow me to savor the experience of these actions. These “inefficiencies” help me feel connected to the process, and remind me of the timelessness of certain aspects of the human experience.

I sometimes think of new technology as something that will overtake, where one medium should replace the other. In many ways, that’s what this piece has been doing, comparing physical and digital means. However, such comparisons are ultimately meaningless (when we leave behind the business aspect of it all). Print and digital serve different purposes, as do water and ice. Two things are true at once; I appreciate the charm of paper goods and the usefulness of digital media. Isn’t that the essence of all that we know? To move between seemingly opposing viewpoints, oscillate between different opinions, sometimes contradicting ourselves as we progress?

I’ll conclude with this; though physical media may no longer be relevant or the convenient choice, the intentionality and charm that paper goods brings is significant.

I didn’t mind sitting through the long list of names in the hot summer sun; I looked forward to hearing speeches, always curious what people had to say, how they could artfully manage to summarize years of being into just a few minutes. I would sit on the stadium benches squinting my eyes to get a clearer view at the speakers, so impressed with their demeanor and grace. I remember appreciating events like this so differently so many years ago. I remember welcoming the melancholy I felt and letting it wash over me. Somewhere between then and now, I’ve become cautious of such emotions, anxiously suppressing them, maybe fearing it to be too much.

Attending a graduation ceremony, I was moved not only by the graduates but also by the audience. The people who showed up with signs and high energy in the early morning to support someone they cared about. Somewhat self-involved, I attended each graduation thinking also about my own progress that year and reflecting on my own village of support.

I’ve always appreciated how graduations give such a formal sense of closure; a time to celebrate and reflect before one moves on to their next adventure. How often do we get that, to be aware of the last time we will do something while we are doing it, to know that we officially closing a chapter and beginning another?

Now, I’m in my late twenties, and for me, graduations have gradually been replaced with weddings, which are much more costly to attend in both time and expense. It’s no longer just a morning under the hot sun, or an evening of dressing up, but days of travel and expenses.

Until just a few years ago, I would complain that I had never attended a wedding, and folks would laugh responding, “You’re going to regret saying that!” The statement excited me, I longed for the time in life where my social calendar would fill with weddings and pre-wedding events alike. Now that it has begun, I’ll be honest, it comes with different challenges than I expected. As you may have read in my previous posts, I’ve been apprehensive about spending the time and effort to show up for old friends, wondering if the tradeoff makes sense for me, at this point in time.

It seems easier to rationalize incurring time, energy, and financial costs for friends one sees regularly, but what about the friends I knew at some point a long time ago? Someone I used to see every day, in what feels like another life, and today it’s a “how are you” text a couple times a year?

Now that I’ve had a chance to settle after attending a series of weddings, I’d like to share my thoughts on why I believe there is value in attending the weddings of old friends.

1. It’s an opportunity to say goodbye to a once-close friend. As we get older and move to different places, becoming different people, older friends (who aren’t local) are often harder to meet. It can feel tempting to decline a wedding invite when there’s little chance of an awkward reunion or questioning as to why. But I see the converse reason to go: when else would our paths cross again if I didn’t go to this event? It is sad, but I sometimes think of weddings as a time to say goodbye to old friends. A chance to celebrate the friendships we’ve had and to celebrate each other moving in different directions. It’s an opportunity to acknowledge change graciously. As time moves forward, we shed parts of who we were, and sometimes even the people who made us so. While this is natural, how do we appreciate growth and change without acknowledging who we once were?

2. It’s a chance to learn more about a friend, and who they are today. When I’d attend graduation parties, I’d hear speeches about the graduate from so many different people; from parents to best friends to lab partners. It’s everything coming together, and at a wedding, doubly so. Beyond the words shared by loved ones, a wedding is a chance to see people embrace their cultures and participate in family traditions. It’s an occasion to see someone I know in a different context playing the part of a bride/groom/nearlywed in the way they wish to. I’m Indian American, and some of my friends whose weddings I’ve attended recently are too. It’s been so cool to see them embrace their culture and merge it with American traditions. At one sangeet, I watched my friend, who was the bride, dance so expertly. She’s someone who I never knew to be a dancer, and I was so moved seeing how hard she worked to learn the choreography and just how talented she is — in the dance performances and in all aspects of her life. I was overcome with awe for her and this rare feeling, or realization, of being in the presence of greatness.

3. It’s a moment to celebrate a friend and be present in an event that’s important to them. Many people invest a considerable amount of time planning the wedding, whether it’s low key or extravagant. It’s really an event where the couple’s personalities shine through, and it’s so easy to appreciate how hard they worked to plan the event. The wedding is a chance to see the love between two people, whether through the vows or the small ways they interact through the events, or through speeches their friends give.

4. It’s an opportunity to meet mutual friends and new people. Attending the wedding of an old friend often means I will meet a couple friends who’ve come for the same reason, and it becomes a chance to catch up with them all. I also get to see my friend’s families, and other people from their life, people who make them who they are today. I recall at 4 a.m., when I was getting into the Lyft to go to the airport for a wedding, and a moment of emotion overcame me. Thinking about how many other people, who know this couple, are rallying today at the same time, from all over the world, all to come to the same place, in hopes to celebrate this momentous occasion. How lucky I am, to have people to love and travel for.

You might think I’m biased because I’m clearly on the more nostalgic end of the scale - I love graduations, and of course, someone like me would cherish sentimental events. While there’s truth to that, I also urge you to to consider: while we don’t want to live in the past, how do we honor our past selves? How do we show love and appreciation for those who helped shape us into who we are today? Did we truly get closure from the chapters in our lives we may not even think of as chapters, like the friend we used to FaceTime every day for hours, but now only exchange texts with on birthdays? Time is linear, and maybe that’s exactly why it’s worth celebrating.

About three years ago, I saw a high school classmate’s wedding photos on social media. It was a classmate I must have had a few classes with for a year or two across middle and high school. When we had classes together, we would talk every day. One day, we just stopped talking—no reason, other than it was a friendship only based on circumstance. There was no reason for me to have known if she was dating someone, no reason for me to be shocked seeing her wedding pictures.

For weeks after that, I had vivid dreams about people I knew in high school and even middle school. Names I hadn’t consciously thought about in years—people I didn’t even follow on social media. In my dreams, I saw their faces, I felt the emotions of talking to them after so many years. Sometimes I imagined their faces to have aged as mine has. I heard the school bell, the chatter of friends, and I could feel the smooth surface of desks, the grainy texture of bulletin boards beneath my fingertips. In the morning I’d wake up overwhelmed with sadness. I felt embarrassed and frustrated, I didn’t want to cling to the past instead of moving forward. Why was this realization of the passage of time affecting me so much? I felt so much sadness, knowing I’d never be there in those moments again, or speak with those friends again. I felt such shock on how I could go from talking to someone every day and then never again. I, unfairly so, wanted to know that the people I dreamed of were all doing better than I could imagine. I’d wake up thinking about how I’d never be that age again, never be in those classrooms again. For all the things I despised about myself back then, I couldn’t help but miss myself too.

I don’t really know if attending the wedding of an old friend is justifiable; if the expense, time, and energy makes sense. I don’t know if it’s worth the tradeoff of making memories with newer, closer friends, or the impact of one’s mental health to revisit the past. I won’t deny feeling resentful towards it all, wedding culture and industry. There are definitely weddings I have said no to, and I don’t regret it.

For all the times I resent the cost of attendance, I also enjoy the weddings I attend. I feel sincerely there is some privilege to it all, to be invited to a moment of importance; whether it be a graduation, a wedding, a birthday, anything. During the event, I feel moved by comments about the couple, inspired seeing my friends in shimmery dresses, and happy to celebrate their unions. How can it be, someone I met in a classroom when I was eleven, is standing here now, getting married? Self involved still, I wonder about my own reflection in comparison, how have I changed since I was that eleven year old girl, making a new friend?

At every wedding, I wonder the same, what does it all mean, to be here, to be a part of this? It’s time for the reception, and the stage lights are really bright. I look up, squinting to find the speaker’s eyes, excited to see how they’ve interpreted the task to give this speech, which moments they’ve chosen to highlight in the few minutes they have this evening.

I would be remiss if I ended this piece without sharing my opinion that when it comes to celebration, there is so much more to commemorate than just weddings. It’s been my experience lately that I’ve been getting invited to a lot of wedding ceremonies, but I am equally enthusiastic in prioritizing and traveling in the same way for friends when they invite me for work, university, or hobby milestones, or anything else I know is important to them. At the end of the day, celebrating each other is what truly matters.❣️

~

I chose a random seat and looked quietly at my hands. I had just arrived but already had a feeling I was going to start crying. I looked at the paper on the clipboard but I couldn’t make sense of it - there were a million questions from rating certain tendencies from one to ten to filling in the blanks of questions about my goals. I had hesitated to show up today, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to. I felt miserable imagining myself sitting with a group of other people who were like me, who felt even a little bit the way I felt. Wouldn’t it be better to stay home, and feel bad by myself? There, I would at least have more control.

It’s etched in me now, the swirled, emblem shaped design printed on the plain, white and gray colored rug. The order of the chairs, the width of each, and who liked what chair best. The heavy looking curtains in the room. How every day, one girl would frustratedly mumble, “Why is it so dark in here?” upon her entrance, and pull the curtains open gently. How on the days she didn’t attend, the room stayed dark for the whole day. It’s engrained in me now, the whirring sound of the air conditioning unit behind me, so loud at first, but quickly forgotten. The windows were so bright compared to the dreary inside of the room, the contrast in light was so high it would hurt me to glance outside. There, I would see the ongoing construction that never seemed to stop, perhaps symbolic to the ever ongoing construction that was said to be happening inside of the room.

During group, I sometimes got to forget the question of how I had gotten there. For a moment, my focus would shift to how everyone else got there. It gave me solace to see the others and learn their frustrations were similar to mine. When I was at group, it felt like I had a purpose; I had to be here. I had to learn the skills. I had to hear my group mates’ prompting events and their stories. I had to look away when they cried. As we went on, I wondered how serendipitous it was; of all the people in the world, it was us eight who had ended up right here, right now. Perhaps that’s just the emotional part of me, overthinking. Maybe it could have been anyone in that room, and I would have felt the same gratitude and feelings of sameness between us.

~

Radically open DBT is still a fairly new curriculum, and my understanding is it is meant to target those who deal with the opposite end of the spectrum than traditional dialectical therapy. While traditional DBT targets controlling intense emotions, RO DBT helps reduce over control tendencies. Folks often partake in the program to get guidance and support, and learn beneficial skills that aide in dealing with day to day life. Both programs teach skills that are relevant to all. Additionally, when one is in either end of the spectrum at an extreme, they are often bouncing back and forth from one side to the other, exhibiting tendencies of both ends. (I am by no means an expert, this is just my understanding of the curriculums.)

The intensive outpatient program I completed was in person, lasted three hours a day for four days a week, for five weeks (excluding absences). The structure of the group was that to start, we would each fill in a behavior chain analysis worksheet citing a prompting event we had experienced in the last 24 hours. This could be anything from the security guard to the hospital changing the rules of what we were allowed to bring inside, to heavier events. The idea was to analyze the event and intentionally observe the impact it had on us, and how we could use our newly acquired skills to better our reactions and our state of minds. The worksheet also included a questionnaire with more detailed questions of our health in the last 24 hours. Once we filled in this information, the group clinician would call on each of us one by one to discuss the event, ask questions, and validate us, and show us how we can use the skills from our curriculum in this scenario. Sometimes this portion would consist of goal setting for what to do next in the scenario. Though only the clinician would see what we had written, everyone would hear this conversation, and occasionally pitch in with their thoughts.

After check in, we would get a short break for about five minutes to use the restroom and such. Then, it was time to formally review the curriculum. This portion was more classroom like, where we would go over a lesson, sometimes watch a paired video or do an activity to practice the skill we were learning. Often, as the group became more comfortable with each other, this time was filled with healthy debate on what the curriculum was guiding us to do - and whether it made any sense at all.

The positives of attending a skills RO DBT group for me were as follows. First, it was a consistent place to go for support. When a mental health crisis strikes, it can be extremely beneficial to experience daily support. Daily mandatory attendance helped keep me accountable, and caused me to not only learn the skills, but practice them day to day. I wasn’t convinced that a group setting would be beneficial, but I came around to it. It was nice to be surrounded by others who were similar to me. It helped me feel a lot less alone and part of a tribe.

Some of the negative aspects of the group for me also revolved around the daily commitment. The curriculum was extremely rigorous and difficult to absorb in such a short time. Furthermore, it felt exhausting to attend daily, and the skills didn’t always feel useful. Though the curriculum is well thought out and applicable, not all aspects were helpful for me personally.

Whether or not I would recommend this specific program would depend heavily on who is asking. If one is on the cusp of a mental health crisis and needing extra, intensive support, it can be really difficult to think properly and make a plan on next steps. Here’s a brief checklist I would go through to evaluate if an intensive outpatient program makes sense for someone:

• Find out what an average day looks like in the program to understand what to expect.

• Try to speak with the group clinician before committing to the program. The leader of the program makes all the difference - they are who the group hears from all day.

• Consider the cost and get a quote. These programs may not always be covered by insurance and can add up.

The way I began my search for the correct program for myself was searching on Google, Psychology Today, and Reddit. I appreciated that the hospital I chose did a free intake session to give me their own recommendation of which of their programs would be the best fit for me.

Before I completed IOP, when doing research on various programs, I saw a comment on Reddit that they were so happy they part took in IOP and that they always smile when driving past the building in which they attended. Though I don’t think I’m at that point, I will always think back to that room. To my clinician, and to the fact that I showed up every day.

It’s the transience of life, I suppose. How we go from seeing someone every day, to possibly never again. Upon completing the program, it was daunting to approach life without group every day. I felt bogged down with sadness as I realized I’d never exist that way again, the way I did in that room, with my group mates. With all of us on the same side. But as weeks have gone by, it has also felt good, to be done with it. One of my group mates once said, on what must have been her third day of group, “I know that this is important, but I don’t want to be here. I want to be past this. I want to have already done the work.” It reminds me, how it was equally miserable as it was comforting to show up every day. It calms me to recall that group wasn’t supposed to be indefinite - it was a program with a known end so I could continue on to the next thing. I think about my group members from time to time, and I wonder what they are up to these days. I hope they are thriving.

Before I begun, I decided; when I saw something that made me smile, or reminded me of a moment in time, I’d put a big smile. I’d say, thank you. Thank you to this piece of clothing for giving my body a shield, for keeping me contained, for giving me these memories. Thank you, for letting me be who I was when I wore it. (I felt admittedly silly doing this but it helped me!)

I knew I would want to keep the old clothes that didn’t fit me anymore, or were too worn to keep around; I love to hoard things. I tend to rationalize with myself; I’ll can use them for a sewing project, for a craft, I’ll wear it when I lose weight again.

There were a number of things that made this task easier for me. Going through piles of clothes, I came to the realization of how different my days look now than they did just a few years ago.

What proved to be more difficult for me was not saying bye to the clothes, but this fear I would forget who I was when I wore it, if I got rid of it. The textured sweats I wore at a sleepover with my friends; one of who liked them so much and ordered the same then and there (I was so flattered!). Touching the light brown sweater I wore when I spoke in front of thousands of people for a talk at work. I wonder, where is that girl now? I miss her. Did she really exist? Holding my once favorite sweater dress, one I wore to work as much as I possibly could, knowing I was stretching the limits of what length was appropriate to show up in. I liked that risky girl, knowing even then, the chance I was taking, feeling youthful and fun. Knowing, perhaps rightfully so, I wouldn’t always have that confidence.

Is it that we see our past selves with such optimism and positivity? The clothes tell a beautiful story; and when I read old journals, I see a more nuanced one.

In the end, I made a sizable dent. I filled up six medium size shopping bags to the brim. But today, after my shower, when I look in my closet, I can barely tell. At first glance, it almost looks more crowded (I tried to rearrange so all remaining clothes are in sight). It makes me laugh out loud. 

I’ve been doing some work, personally, mentally. I’m not sure how to describe it. But it’s involved a deeper commitment with therapy and such - and it doesn’t seem to have made such a difference. I feel like it’s been such an investment, and a dramatic increase than my usual sessions. 

But maybe, I wonder (I hope),  I’ve made six medium sized shopping bags full of difference that I can’t quite see when glancing at myself in the mirror. Maybe I’ll find myself noticing it when I spend a little less time getting ready to go places; having less clothes to go through. Perhaps, I won’t be able to tell until I’m in the midst of moving cities; and am suddenly grateful I have fewer boxes to pack. Maybe, I won’t be able to tell until one day, I’m asked to wear yellow to a party, and I’m searching around the closet, realizing hours in, I’d rid myself of that sweater ages ago.

I am particular about my clothes, about how they feel, and if the fabric gets along with my skin. The cloth needs to be soft but not fake and synthetic feeling. The fit needs to be flattering, but not too tight in any area, especially not around my stomach. That’s where I breathe from, it’s where my gut sits – how can I think about anything if I’m being squeezed? The article of clothing should feel like it’s not even there, but also that it’s protecting me.

Beyond the fabric, I hold a grudge against pants, especially those made of denim. I like dresses, skirts, and even shorts, but pants feel like they are meant to torture me. I don’t like the way they feel and the way they constrict me, imprisoning me in a way that others can’t see. When I’m sitting for a while and move my legs a bit, the bottoms of my pants will rub against my bare ankles, alarming me into thinking ants are crawling up my legs. This aversion makes easy things hard, from dressing properly for occasions to staying warm in colder climates.

The last few years, I had been lucky, going to school in dry, hot Arizona. I walked to class in flowy skirts and cotton shorts, pulled together with thin flip flops, allowing even my feet to be comfortable. I remember feeling the sun with every part of my body. By the time I walked out of my apartment and down the stairs and on to the sidewalk, the warm air softened me, like butter softens when we forget to put it back in the refrigerator. I think that’s what college is, a chance for us all to leave the big, cold boxes we grew up in, even momentarily. After we soften, we melt, and realize that box was there for a purpose.

I no longer live in Arizona, I can no longer get away with my comfortable outfits, and I don’t feel the sun seep into me the same way anymore. That was a special feeling created by the balance of heat and the lack of humidity and awareness of the realities of the world.

I am now a professional working girl, and I fold up my preppy denim skirts, my short floral dresses, knowing that they’ll be there for me at the end of the work day.

I believe it is abnormal of me to not like wearing jeans. This discomfort I describe is odd to others. For as long as I could remember, with fashion trends coming and going, one thing stayed the same - throwing on jeans and a t-shirt is just what people do. So, I buy pants. I buy jeans and leggings and cropped trousers because I believe that I can be normal, and I can fit this requirement. I know I can tolerate wearing them when I try hard. And, when I wear them consistently, it becomes easier and easier.

As months pass in my new job, I find myself growing comfortable with wearing pants. Jeans are still my least favorite, but the softer blue trousers with the elastic waistline start to feel tolerable. Still, irritation my towards certain clothing persisted, and it was the worst in the beginning and end of the day – both times where I would sit alone with my thoughts, wondering what in the world was I doing.

It's Monday, and I encourage myself to wear the jeans today. I make it through the day, meetings go on, people talk, meanwhile I push down the dull irritation of the fabric that encompasses me. In the meetings, we talk about the same topics as the day before, and the day before that.

It’s difficult to deal with different personalities. I feel hurt. I wonder if I have done something to upset someone, and how long it will be until I succumb to the same games.

I make it through the rest of the afternoon, and on the way home I feel excited to change into a more comfortable outfit. As I enter my apartment, I place my bag in its spot, and take off my sweater and jeans with as much grace as I can manage. I slip into what I think are the softest shorts to exist, from American Eagle.

Suddenly, all is forgotten. I forget there was a time where I wasn’t comfortable in my clothes, and I take the evening for granted. I flow through my apartment as if I am a if I’m the star in my own play. I make a simple pasta for myself, and after eating, I end the night painting autumn leaves with my new watercolors. I’m watching Schitt’s Creek in the background, and it’s the moment where Alexis has a decision to make – to take a job that requires her to deal with an old friend, but will help her escape her current worries of living and finances, or to commit her focus into her own business, and build something from scratch. She chooses the latter and my eyes well up and I let the tears fall. It’s such a wonderful evening, and not once do I think about the weird pants I wore all day. I feel so grateful.

One day, I’m talking to my aunt and she shares a memory of some time we spent together when I was young, around three years old. My parents had some errands to run, and they dropped me off to her house for the evening. She noticed I was so calm and quiet, and so well behaved, for a child of my age. She was surprised at how subdued I was, and how sweet and peacefully I sat, not causing any trouble. She fed me dinner and it was time to get ready for bed. She helped me change from my jeans to my pajamas, and then, I went crazy.

I hopped up and down on the bed and I laughed so much. I was so happy and super giggly; I became a whole different person. My aunt had no idea of my particularity with my clothes then or now, and hearing her recollection of this memory was validating. It made me feel like I hadn’t imagined this hatred of denim – it was something real, maybe even something biological. It was a trait that had existed as part of me before I even knew myself.

When I return to work, I think of myself as three years old, sitting quietly in my aunts’ house. The story felt like a memory. I wondered, at that age, did I anticipate the moment where I would get to change my clothes? I imagine remembering, even at three, that I felt happy when my aunt complimented me. I know that I felt good being recognized as well behaved and proper. I remember feeling that there was something of value in me, even if it was just when I was wearing jeans.

I sighed and looked out the window to see the gray sky, so full of clouds that I couldn’t actually make out any of them. I had spent an hour waiting in line at FedEx the night before, just to be told that I wouldn’t be getting this machine off my hands. Not only was this laptop heavy and clunky, it also carried the weight of my existence in a team I was departing from. Ridding myself of this machine would be the last physical thing tying me to the toxic culture I was finally going to leave behind.

“I don’t know, they said there’s nothing they can do without either a QR code or an account number.”

“No one can get access to the account number, it’s impossible. This is a huge company; they don’t just hand out the number to anyone. I don’t understand why everyone else had no issues- did you explain that everyone the others were able to ship their devices with no issues?”

“I was adamant about it, and I explained verbatim what you are saying, but they said there’s nothing that can be done without a QR code. Are you sure there’s no way to get one, or could you check to see if one can be requested?”

“Hmm. Girl, you need to be stronger.”

I chucked awkwardly. I had talked to Erica a few times before, but I didn’t know her that well. We mostly corresponded by email or messaging each other, this was probably the second time I had heard her voice. I guessed that Erica, one of the few women on our team, was just trying to watch out for me. I suspected she felt that she saw something I didn’t and was trying to go out of her way to make sure I didn’t get pushed over. Though I didn’t think this really applied here, I didn’t want to disrespect her by voicing this.

“I want you to go back, be a strong woman and stand up for yourself. Don’t let them talk to you like that, to take advantage of you. You need to go again, and don’t come back until they take the laptop. Be strong, and don’t take no for an answer.”

“Okay”, I agreed, feeling somewhat energized from this pep talk. I figured; I could have probably been more persistent. I, too, was confused why others were able to ship company equipment without this conflict.

That evening, I made my way back to FedEx, and this time, there was no line. I made my way to the counter and placed the clunky laptop and the shipping label on the counter and tucked a few strands of hair behind my ear.

“Hi! I was hoping to ship this laptop using this label.”

The woman looking back at me had pale skin and her face was covered in freckles. She was wearing slacks and a printed blouse, the blue in her top bringing out the blue in her eyes. Her name tag read Rebecca. I wondered if she had a nickname like Becky, and if she did, did she prefer that most everyone used it, or if just those close to her do?

“Hey, sure, I can help you with that.” Glancing at the label she added, “You will need to pay separately for the packaging though.”

“Actually, the group administrator at my company explained that this shipping label includes the information to bill my company directly for everything related to the shipment. Several of my coworkers were able to do the same just last week.”

She frowned, and I felt like I knew what she was going to say before she said it. “Do you have a QR code or the account number for the company?”
I told her no, I did not, but also that I was told specifically that I didn’t need one.

She clicked around her computer and tapped on her keyboard, presumably searching for a way to make this work. She looked up at me and emphasized that there was nothing she could do. I repeated my query, my explanation, – and she, her response.

I held my breath; I promised Erica I wouldn’t take no for an answer. Though the frustrating part was that I wasn’t standing up to the man – I was standing up to this woman who was just trying to do her job. I bit my lip and looked at my hands which were now fidgeting with the machine.

“Can I speak to a manager by chance, maybe they can just take a look as well? I am only asking because I triple checked with my group administrator and she was really persistent that there is nothing more than this shipping label needed.”

“Sure” she said and disappeared to a back room.

I let out an exhale and looked around. There were cleanly organized office and packaging supplies to my left, as well as an enormous gray printer. Though the supplies were colorful, the whole store looked so very gray. From the carpet, to the walls, to every piece of furniture, the interior designer of this place had pulled together the room with many different shades of gray, that somehow fit together. The more I stared, the less I could make out the items and the more they all seemed to blend together.

I wondered how a center like this came to existence, how humanity transitioned into this system to transport items. Probably, long ago, items could only be transported if you knew someone who was going somewhere. Then, someone decided to monetize their efforts. And then, there were likely tons of small businesses that decided to do the same. Until finally, somehow, just a few of them prevailed and became the brands we trust today.

I wondered what the key factors in a business like this were required to turn a profit. After all, it must be expensive to rent this space, and the many other locations from which I had selected this office. There were three locations just in downtown. But, since there are now just a few big chains in the shipment for the common person, and the demand runs very high, making a profit was likely not an issue. Especially when you factor in not just the common person’s needs to ship items they personally fund, but the corporations which sponsor returns, or leverage these companies to provide work equipment for employees.

My mind drifted to thinking about who was making this money really? I assume there was no commission for Rebecca or her manager. But, I am sure someone in middle management created a process to ensure employees couldn’t take advantage of the system to let things ship without the due diligence of accurate pricing.

Maybe I was standing up to the man – the man who made the money here. The CEO, the board, the higher ups of this corporation that I didn’t need to look up to know would be composed primarily of men. After all, I too worked for a corporation.

A few minutes later, Rebecca appeared again with another woman by her side. This new woman looked tired and was wearing an outfit almost identical to Rebecca’s. I figured this had to be a coincidence as there was no way FedEx added blouses to the uniform rotation. Rebecca got Nicole up to speed, and without saying anything to me she clicked and clacked on the computer. Nicole finally looked up at me and said again, they needed the account number or a QR code to scan and the shipping label wouldn’t cover the packaging.

I re-explained myself. I corrected my posture, and as kindly but unwaveringly as I could manage, I explained that I was very sure this shipping label had what they needed and that others from my company were able to do the very same with just the label. She frowned and apologized – but made it clear there was not a solution here.

“I am not sure why you were told that this shipping label would be enough, or how others proceeded with the label alone, but there really isn’t anything that we can do.”

I sighed. Both Rebecca and Nicole were patient with me, and they didn’t snap at me even though I kept repeating myself.

Here we were, the only three people in the store. Three women who were just trying to do their jobs – now staring at each other silently. Four, if we included Erica, who was there in spirit.

Finally, I responded, “Got it – in that case, I can just pay for it now.” Rebecca nodded and processed the transaction. I paid with my phone and as I was signing the receipt, I said “I am sorry for the trouble here, thanks for being so patient and understanding.” She responded, “Not a problem at all”, but I didn’t believe that it wasn’t a problem. I assumed that a large part of her job was dealing with customers, and now I was just another one of the annoyances who refused to trust her judgement, called for a manager, undermined her authority.

I wondered if maybe, I should have been stronger with Erica – maybe Rebecca and Nicole were in the right and Erica was mistaken. Though, then, I would no longer be the young, naïve woman that Erica had to protect, I’d be just another engineer that treated the admin with disdain and mistrust.

She gave me my final receipt with the tracking code. I said thank you, and another moment passed where we all silently looked at each other. Pushing back, and forth. On the same side, but also against each other somehow.