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Navigating the Space Between Dream and Reality
Before you dive into this emotional rollercoaster of sass, soul, and sarcasm—hit that subscribe button. Because healing is hard, but laughing (and maybe crying a little) through it makes it way more bearable.
I’m bored. Like, “should I cut my own bangs and start a YouTube channel about it?” bored. My job? A never-ending PowerPoint of beige energy. My life? A rerun of a show I didn’t even like the first time around. I write nonstop—because if I don’t, my brain might actually leak out of my ears—but that’s not enough anymore. I want more. Freedom. The kind where I wear a robe at 2 p.m., talk to no one until I’ve had my mushroom coffee, and still bring in a paycheck that doesn’t scream “LOL, good luck with that power bill.”
One day, that’ll be real life. Today? It’s “please hold while we connect you to a customer service representative who actually gives a damn.” Spoiler: that representative is off-duty. Permanently.
And no, I can’t just pull a dramatic rom-com move and storm out of my office while Destiny’s Child plays in the background. I need healthcare. I need stability. I need... tampons. So here I am, walking the tightrope between passion and practicality like some anxious circus act, juggling workbooks and cookbooks that sell about as fast as a tofu burger at a BBQ festival.
But let’s reframe, shall we? Maybe I’m not “stuck.” Maybe I’m just standing on a boring little stepping stone—one that pays for groceries, therapy, and the overpriced supplements I’m convinced will fix my entire life. Is it soul-sucking? Yes. Does it have dental? Also yes. And weirdly enough, I actually like my coworkers. Who knew?
Still, watching people “pop off” on social media like they’re confetti cannons of success while I’m over here elbow-deep in meal prep and cortisol? It’s a vibe. Just not one I subscribed to. I’m not chasing fame or a beachfront mansion—I just want the peaceful life I’ve pinned to every vision board since 2009. But that dream? Comes with risk. And subscriber-based income? That’s financial Russian roulette in yoga pants. One week, you’re thriving. The next? You’re ghosted harder than that guy from Hinge who said he “wasn’t ready for a relationship” (translation: just didn’t like you enough).
But here's the thing: even if no one buys my books, even if I never become some granola goddess guru on Instagram, I will never stop writing. Writing is my lifeline. It’s how I untangle the mess, scream into the void, and come out with a little more clarity (and hopefully a killer metaphor). I share my failures because someone has to. I’m not here to sprinkle stevia-coated lies about wellness on your screen. I want you to know better, do better, and skip the years I spent spiraling in supplement aisles and doctor’s offices.
I was diagnosed with POTS at 14—told “you’ll be fine” with a script and a shrug. Fast-forward through hormone hell, monthly pain that made me want to evaporate, and acne that basically bullied me into years of antibiotics, and guess what? Still not fine.
The solution? According to doctors? Pills. So. Many. Pills. Birth control at 14. Antibiotics like candy. Eventually, a uterine ablation because, shocker, band-aid solutions don’t fix deep-rooted issues. My gut became a full-blown dumpster fire, and I had to go keto just to function without bloating up like Violet Beauregarde.
Then came sobriety. The “glow-up” I was promised? Uh, more like sleepless nights, full-throttle ADHD, and the kind of weight gain that made my inner Mean Girl scream. Let’s just say body dysmorphia didn’t exactly pack its bags and leave the minute I ditched vodka. And now? I’m trying to heal through perimenopause, POTS flares, ADHD chaos, and mold detox hell… and yet the extra weight clings to me like an ex who still watches all your stories.
I’m doing “everything right.” Eating real food, moving when I can, getting sleep (sometimes), and embracing woo-woo rituals like moon water and mouth taping. And yet—my body? Still not cooperating. I’m exhausted, discouraged, and about one low-rise jean ad away from screaming into the void.
But that dream? The one where I wake up to sunlight, not a soul-crushing alarm? Still worth fighting for. I see it. I feel it. I taste it in every homemade broth and sourdough loaf. A life of writing, homesteading, healing—and maybe, just maybe, wearing slippers to work forever.
Right now? I’m in the in-between. Not stuck—just pre-launch. A slow burn. A quiet simmer before the big, beautiful boil. And if it takes 25 years until I retire into that dream? So be it. I’ll still be there—tea in hand, dog at my feet, garden wild and glorious, laptop open, telling stories that matter.
So thank you. For being here. For subscribing, sharing, reading my word-vomit essays, and cheering from the sidelines. Every like, every comment, every DM that says “same, girl” keeps me moving forward.
And hey—note to self (and you):
You’re not lost. You’re building. You’re not stuck. You’re rising. This isn’t a breakdown—it’s the middle of the plot twist. Keep going. Keep writing. Keep showing up. The ending’s not written yet—but damn, it’s gonna be good.
If this hit you in the feels (or made you snort-laugh through the existential dread), do a girl a favor and share it. Text it, post it, tattoo it on your forehead—I won’t judge. Every share is one step closer to the dream. 💻✨
Love my snarky takes on marriage, parenting, and the chaos of raising an AuDHD-fueled family—while still trying to live that crunchy dream, but do not want to upgrade to paid? Help keep the laughs rolling, the sourdough rising, and the wellness wisdom flowing. Toss a few bucks my way—because organic sarcasm and real talk deserve a little funding. 😉