Thirty-two is choosing rest without guilt.

It’s choosing softness after years of armor.

It’s understanding that healing isn’t linear—

it’s negotiated.

I talk about turning 32 and feeling down about not having a traditional job, being single, and having no kids. I discuss how society celebrates major life events like pregnancies and promotions differently, often overlooking smaller personal accomplishments. I reflect on my past relationship where my ex pressured me to work full-time despite it affecting my health, and I express frustration about feeling like I have nothing to show for my life at this age.

Blog:

Still Alive (No Footnotes Needed)

I wake up chronically ill,

which is a polite way of saying

my body sends error messages

before coffee.

I’m disabled—

not broken, not pitiful,

just fluent in pacing, pain scales,

and canceling plans without guilt.

Hard-earned skill.

I vote blue,

because compassion isn’t a personality flaw

and facts don’t care who’s offended.

Wild concept.

I’m a cat mom,

meaning I live with a fuzzy gremlin

who screams like the world is ending

and then turns down the food I offer.

Honestly? Respect the audacity.

I have an ESA—

not a loophole, not a gimmick,

but a warm, breathing anchor

that keeps my nervous system

from free-falling into chaos.

If that bothers you,

take it up with biology.

I carry a lot of “too much”:

too tired, too sensitive,

too honest, too political,

too aware of my limits.

Funny how “too much”

is usually just “not convenient.”

And still—

I’m here.

Still laughing when I can.

Still resting when I must.

Still loving fiercely.

Still showing up imperfectly.

I wake up every day and think,

“Okay. Still here.

Let’s see what we can do with that.”

No medals.

No inspiration speech.

Just gratitude, grit, and a cat

who thinks I exist solely for snacks.

And you know what?

That’s more than enough