Life is as Strange as a Dolphin in the New Jersey River

Sniffly noses, sore throats, and existential dread over the current state of America’s health care system go with the changing seasons in New York City like bacon, eggs, and cheese go with an everything bagel (toasted, obv).

One crisp August morning I woke up feeling less than spectacular with a painful chest cough, completely clogged nostrils, and sinus pressure so painful I was convinced my body hated me and was doing this on purpose. I rolled out of bed and thought that maybe it’s FINALLY time I go to a doctor.

I called my insurance company and found a nearby hospital. I bundled myself up in sweats, my fall coat that could only be described as Grizebella-esque (I’m talking about the musical Cats), and my trusty combat boots, and I set out on my way.

Trudging through the leftover rain puddles and garbage of the dirty streets, I took a second to look up around me while I was retying my shoelaces. I became overwhelmed with the beauty of autumn. The sparse brown, red and golden leaves, seemed to perfectly match the bricks on the old brownstones. I momentarily forgot how sick I was feeling and began to stroll with more of a pep in my step till I reached the intimidating, sterile, shoebox-shaped hospital. It was painted a muddy grey color, had an ominous vibe to it and it appeared to be built without any windows…” what kind of hospital doesn’t have windows?” I thought to myself stunned. 

I enter the building and follow the confusing signs that were adorned with Bugs Bunny stickers, I believe this was an attempt to make this place look more friendly, but as far I was convinced, I was walking into A) a secret undercover prison, or B) a cryogenic chamber where they trick humans into being part of their test studies with promises to alleviate their common colds. 

In the waiting room, I whipped out my iPhone to mindlessly scroll my social feeds when I was greeted with a LOW BATTERY pop up...great. I realized that without my tiny portal to the outside world, I’d have to sit in this waiting room and...wait...just like people used to do before cell phones with Instagram and Candycrush...how did they do it?

As I tapped my feet and looked around the room to find something to distract me, I made eye contact with another patient. She was a raisin of an old lady who could’ve easily been 200 years old, and she was shrieking in pain. She only spoke Spanish, but It doesn’t take Duolingo to understand what she was saying – “I’m DONE fam, let’s wrap this life stuff up already!” 

I wished there was something I could do...I break eye contact and look around elsewhere. A Highlights magazine sitting on the side table next to me caught my attention...they still make Highlights magazine? In this economy?

After thumbing through the tattered pages and admiring how this little magazine has survived all these years, I hear “BREAKING NEWS” coming from the dusty TV in the corner of the room.  

“THERE IS A DOLPHIN FOUND IN THE NEW JERSEY RIVER, THIS IS NOT A JOKE, A DOLPHIN IS IN THE RIVER.” On the screen was this adorable little dolphin doing flips and spins in the river water completely unbothered. While it may not seem astounding to most, there is no plausible reason why a dolphin should’ve been in the New Jersey river, especially one that seemed to love the camera this much, so how did it get there? "How did I get here?" I thought as I broke my attention from the TV to remember where I was. Are we truly living in a lawless land where anything can happen? Can dolphins just appear in a river? Can Highlights magazine really outlast the fall of print media? Can old women really live till 200? As I began to feel my sense of reality slipping out from under my feet I heard my name called, “HUGE, SAY-LEN HUGE,” (*siiigh* I really hate when people mess up my name).

Frazzled I gathered all my accessories that had been stripped off and I followed the nurse in the Carebear scrubs into a small room. 

She asked me for my weight, which I gave her (ughhh), and then asked for my height. I confidently said “5’2.” She looked at me with one eyebrow raised and said, “are you sure about that, sweetie?” This made me anxious, I could’ve sworn to myself that I’m sure that I was sure that that was my height? My mom tracked our heights growing up by having us line up with our backs against one of our closet doors. There were various ages and heights of my three sisters, and I written in different colorful pens. I was told at one point I was 5’2.5 and I just stuck with that all throughout my young adult life. I got nervous and thought that it wouldn’t hurt to have her double-check my height.

As I stepped away from the measuring device, she scribbled on my chart and said aloud, “5’3 and a quarter.” ummm...wait wait wait, what? I wasn’t disappointed by this discovery necessarily, but I was a bit shocked to learn that there was an entire inch and a quarter of me that I didn’t know about. What other secrets is my body keeping from me? Can I do the splits? Are my “sensitivities to tree nuts” a farce? WHY IS EVERYTHING I KNOW AN ABSOLUTE LIE? 

Stunned, she leads me into another room to wait for my doctor. I sat on a bench lined with loud crinkly paper, and as I tried to get comfortable, *crinkle crinkle crinkle,* I sorta felt betrayed by the world that I thought I knew.

In walked a man who couldn’t have been taller than 5’6 (but don’t trust me on this because apparently, I’m not an expert when it comes to matters like these). He was young, bald, white (I later deduced he was probably from somewhere in Eastern Europe based on his accent), had a large scar underneath his crystal clear blue eyes.

I felt a bit uneasy, not because he looked like a Bond villain, but because I haven’t had a male doctor since my pediatrician.

While checking my temperature and listening to me breathe with his stethoscope, he asked, “Miss, would you say you are healthy?” 

I admitted to having an occasional social cigarette and daiquiri, and to not regularly exercising (does walking to and from Starbucks count?).

“Tssk tsssk tssk, no no, this will not do” he exclaimed while shaking his head in disapproval. “Do you eat meat, miss?” I shook my head yes because I am guilty of the occasional shackburger. 

“Miss, you should not be eating meat! You are insides are currently deteriorating as we speak! Me, I’m vegan. I run marathons, and have cleanest blood you ever seen.” I felt very cornered and couldn’t get anything out except an “I...uh..uhh…”

He then sat down in a chair in front of me, full man-spread. He ranted on “Americans, they eat such garbage. All these chemicals is ruining their life! For a girl like you, you should have a clean system. Help you live a nice long life, for your children and husband.” 

I chime in “oh, I don’t have kids and I’m not married.” 

He replied a little too eagerly, “So you’re single?!” was my doctor...hitting on me? Right after he told me I was actively killing myself every time I even walk past a Mcdonalds.

“You need to try vegan lifestyle, try for a week and come back to hospital next week so I can give you a piece of my homemade Ferrero Rocher vegan cheesecake.” wait...I thought I was supposed to be more healthy… 

While trying to figure out how to make sense of all this information that was just told at me, I remembered why I came to the doctor's office in the first place. “Oh, um sir, what about my sore throat, sinuses, and cough?”

“Oh, just take some lozenges,” he replied very nonchalantly.

Hold the phone...Wait wait wait...


Today I learned that dolphins can defy all science and logic by showing up and splashing around in the New Jersey river. I learned that you can live past 200 years old and that “put me out of my misery” can be understood in any language. I learned that Highlights magazine still exists despite print media being dead. I learned that I’m not the height that I thought I was, AND that everything I’m eating is destroying my internal organs. I learned that doctors can hit on you (doesn’t that seem unethical?) but most importantly I learned that I could’ve avoided all of this if I just picked up a bag of cough drops at CVS instead of wasting my time at this scary windowless hospital.

I was annoyed, shocked, overwhelmed, and mostly just confused. My world was ROCKED hardcore that day. I almost wondered if this was a bizarre Nyquil dream or was this actually real life?

I thanked him for his time and hopped off the doctor's chair. I paid the $12 copay and gave the hospital one last look before I left. 

Walking down the tree-lined streets of Clinton Hill with the crisp air hitting my face, I thought to myself, “f*ck if I know anything anymore,” and grabbed a pint of vegan ice cream at my nearby bodega.

*Based on a true incident of my life in 2015. *


Dust Yourself Off and Try Again

Hey friends, 

I'm almost 27 (can you believe I started this blog when I was 16!?), and I miss writing. Over the years that I’ve stopped blogging regularly, I have had a lot of realizations, experiences, and mistakes that I think I may be ready to share again with whoever reads this. 

The choice to begin blogging again could be a means of coping with the crushing reality that I live a fun, weird, but very normal life. Or maybe choosing to blog again will be a way of retaining all the crazy things that I’ve learned throughout my time off this blog? Or perhaps I’m just kind of tired of the current depressing social media landscape and crave solace elsewhere? 

Regardless – as I’m currently writing this, it feels right, so I’m gonna go with it. 

There are several reasons why I fell off the blogging universe. 
A) I had a big realization that I don't always like the process of writing. The labor of love that is writing and editing has always made me feel sorta anxious. Anxious to get everything that I’m thinking out as fast and as perfect as possible. I have ideas in my head, but I would get extremely frustrated when I actually put my pen to paper (or keys to the keyboard...lol you get it). Pair that with insecurity in my own technical abilities and the extreme pressure of my former dreams of fame and fortune, and BAM, my fingers became paralyzed while hovering over my keyboard. I would compare myself and my writing to Tavi Gevinson, and Helen Gurley Brown, and wallow in self-pity. I would ask myself questions like, “will I ever be a good writer? Will I ever make a big impact on the world?” But I never really took the time to realize that if I’m not enjoying the process, my work will reflect that.

B) It’s 2020 – let’s be honest, who blogs anymore anyway? 

C) I’m a 26-year-old “urban professional” (barf) living in New York, and honestly, I’m swamped and exhausted. ALSO, the perspective of a young white girl who moves to New York to pursue a career in journalism/writing isn’t necessarily a fresh one. 

D) I actually really like privacy. I’ve found that I'm very anxious that the things I say now, I'll find cringey or regrettable in a year, and that has held me back from publishing content. (I probably should’ve thought about this type of thing more when I was younger, but maybe that’s part of the fun of being 17 and writing a blog?) 

I have a lot of conflicting feelings at the intersection of my love of privacy and my equal love of sharing my feelings – there are things I want to share, but I also don't feel comfortable sharing. I don't want to put my ex-boyfriends, ex-best friends, or former employers on blast (although some of them deserve it). The more significant realization I’ve had is that I’ve been afraid to put myself on blast. Being vulnerable is HARD.

Humans are flawed, and we make mistakes, and we’re pretty dumb most of the time, but we’ve set a standard on the internet that we need to portray our lives as PERFECT. This isn’t a new thing either when I read my old posts, I often wonder who I was I even writing to? I think I was writing from the perspective of another fake, “perfect” version of myself that was an authority on anything and everything I wrote about. In reality, I can safely say that the only thing I’m an authority on is the Sabrina The Teenage Witch magical universe, and externally processing my feelings.  

I've tried to move past the days where I pretend my life is perfect, although we’re all guilty of making Instagram our highlight reel. I've grown and learned more in these past 5 years in New York than I did throughout my college years. And just because I didn’t publish anything to this blog doesn’t mean that I didn’t write stuff down throughout these years. 

Maybe I’ll share some of these stories, adventures, and mistakes with you all, or perhaps you won’t see another post till I do an update in 2030. Either way, this blog is as clunky and cringey, and emotional as I am, and I think it’s time I brush the dust off this baby and give it some love. 

Till next time!


The Smell of The Summer

This is a post I wrote in a blog writing class of mine during the summer of 2016 (the summer with the broken foot lol).

As I hobble down the cobbled and uneven streets of SoHo with uncomfortable crutches and a medical boot on my right foot, I’m hit with a sweet, filthy scent of nostalgia. Carefully walking over a subway grate, a cloud of subway exhaust that smells vaguely marshmallow-y surrounds me. It’s so strange that this dirty, chemical-filled puff, that is actively destroying my lungs, will without a doubt always bring a smile to my face.

This specific scent instantly brings me back to my first summer in New York City. I was a 14-year-old metal-mouth who convinced my mom to allow me to tag along on my sister’s journey to theatre school all the way from Honolulu. My mom and I would wander around the city without much to do, while I soaked in every New York minute imaginable. "Showtime" kids on the subway dazzled me, I coveted my yellow metrocard, and the bright lights of Times Square had me in awe (the colorful smells, not so much).

I dreamt of a life where this was my reality. It was easy you see, in my dream life I would have an amazing job that made me tons of money, a boyfriend who looked like a Jonas Brother, and an apartment on top of a Dunkin Donuts, it would all be perfect.

While I currently struggle to walk from my Brooklyn apartment (with no outlets in the bathroom) to my customer service job (where yes, I do wear a headset), it’s very easy to be discouraged. This clearly wasn’t the New York that my 14-year-old self would’ve signed up for. And while I constantly worry that New York is turning me into a jaded asshole, every time I get a wiff of the smelly ole subway exhaust I’m reminded that New York can occasionally be pretty sweet, and no matter what, 14-year-old Caelan would be totally “freaking excited” to be here, crutches and all.


How I Broke My Foot and Found Happiness (sorta)

Dear Pussycats,

Long time no talk. I know that I always say things like this, but I'm human, I'm sorry, and I think it's time we get down to business.

I haven't posted in a long time because I've been really battling what I want to do with this blog, and frankly, what I want to do with my life (omg, I'm a millennial, what else is nu).

Not feeling particularly inspired or inspiring, I've been very distant with this blog.

In my heart, I truly miss blogging and I really miss creating. But if I'm being total honest, I think it's because I've been battling with sad vibes and a bit of happiness-entitlement.

I've been applying for opportunities; I've taken writing classes and even dyed my hair. I bought into this work-out/diet program that involves shakes, color-coded measuring cups and going to sleep hungrier than the hour before Thanksgiving dinner is ready.

On Sunday, I was attempting to better myself by bopping and sweating to a work out tape (you know, the kind where the girls are aggressively hot and aggressively aggressive) wearing a worn-out sports-bra, multi-colored floral bike shorts and my hair in a sloppy bun. And then it happened...*Crack*...I broke my foot.

I was chasing happiness and perfection like a tiny raccoon with a roll of oreos and some garbage dangling in front of my face. It felt like every tiny way I was pushing to better myself came to a crashing halt both emotionally and physically.

At first my boyfriend and I didn't believe it. Yes, I was in pain, but, clearly I couldn't've broken my foot.

The next day, I ubered myself to the Hospital (as one does when she is living alone in Brooklyn) to learn my unfortunate fate. Hobbling to and from different hospital rooms to get various x-rays, with what felt like hours in hospital rooms without any human interaction (let's just say I'm on level 100 of Best Fiends and Ira Glass is my good pal now), then they told me that my foot was "definitely broken."

I honestly couldn't believe it. They also told me that I wouldn't be able to get a cool cast that people could sign (literally my biggest kid dream), and that I would have no choice in my right foot, foot-wear for the next 3 to 4 weeks.

"What kind of sign was this from the universe?" I thought to myself while I was lying ass-up getting my foot coated with a weird-make shift cast.

I hobbled in crutches to the wrong floor, then I had to get dragged around in an wheel chair by the employees who felt bad for me (which was embarrassing because I am able-bodied and everyone in the waiting room looked at me like I was the most dramatic person ever). But hours later, I finally ended up on my boyfriends couch, in a boot, sobbing to my mom on the phone.

"WHY ME?!" Is another thought I actually had (remember, I told you I was garbage). Now don't get me wrong, the media completely lies to you, because I think it's sometimes awesome when people feel sorry for you – you feel like a tiny princess who is being cared for and adored. This is the same kind of the reason why I love birthdays! I live for the attention and affection because I have low-self esteem and it feels good to be liked and worried about (sue me!).

Speaking of low-self esteem and general self pity - earlier today I found myself curled up in a ball comparing my life to beautiful people on Instagram and thought: "why am I not happy?" "why is my life not grammable?" "why is everyone happy but me?" and I felt more and more alone.

Trust me, I know I sound SO dramatic right now, but I just realized that while it's fun getting attention and feeling cared for by others when you are down and out, it's actually pretty gross when I feel sorry for myself.

Yes, it's true, I've been trying really hard to make my life the best it can be. And yes, it's true that I've been rejected from different opportunities. And yes, it's true I broke my damn foot – but I'm not entitled to happiness. Happiness doesn't have to do with deserving it. Happiness has way more to do with your own personal outlook.

That is so much easier said than done (especially for a wine-glass-mostly-empty kind of gal). But just like how my damn foot snapped, I also snapped. I'm tired of feeling sad for myself. I'm tired of not creating content because I'm scared people won't like it or won't read it, and I'm tired of not being my truest, most authentic self.

Lying in a huge dirty pile of clothes on my boyfriends grey, couch that doubles as a cat scratching post, I sat up. I put on this gorgeous dress that I purchased recently, that didn't fit at first – but on a day like today it magically did!

While this may be a tiny tiny victory, it is still a victory, and I hope to use the blog to share more personal victories with you!

So I'm back, with no promises, no expectations but instead with a lot of excitement!

I missed you friends!

What is a little victory you've had recently?

Keep it sassy pussycats,


How I Woke Kurt Cobains Spirit at Soul Cycle

I’m not the most athletic person.

When I say that I mean, I told my gym teacher in 7th grade that I had asthma so I wouldn’t have to run as many laps as everyone else. A lie I maintained all the way through my senior year in High School.  I’d quit just about every sport I ever played, and recently gave up my gym membership because I wasn’t going - even the allure of maybe seeing a glistening, t-shirted Michael Shannon once in awhile wasn’t enough.

And while I usually consider all the walking I do to and from subway stations in New York exercise - emerging from winter hibernation mode, I realized that I barely fit my favorite clothes and that maybe it was time to find an exercise that I don't totally hate. 

Every day on my way to and from the subway, I pass a SoulCycle. One day, I pressed my nose to the big glass windows and saw the hustle and bustle of young, yoga-fit moms wearing color coordinated Lululemon workout gear, and the super happy employees giving out water bottles and smiles. Blerg. Staring at these women made me low-key feel like I was that 7th grader again, sitting on the sidelines watching my classmates run without a care, while pretending to breathe asthmatically to avoid the wrath of my gym teacher. Despite these thoughts, I decided that this would be my starting point.

The morning arrived for my first class and after a cup of coffee and a banana, I slipped on my yoga pants, wore two sports bras because one can never be too prepared when it comes to booby-bounce - slicked my hair into a ponytail, and put on my converse (I need to get some grown up work-out shoes).

I skipped over to SoulCycle 15 minutes early, and was welcomed by the friendly staff. I will say, it felt a bit strange to be on the other side of the window. Suddenly, I was surrounded by the swarm of women with glowing skin, shiny hair - all of them looking like extras from a Shakeweight infomercial. I did notice that on the inside of SoulCycle the attendees seemed a bit more aggressive and less carefree, then what I imagined. Regardless, they all operated like a school of fish, going to their lockers, stretching and waiting patiently outside the class, all together, all in sync, yet not acknowledging each other at all.

The staff checked me in and gave me my first pair of cycling shoes. The cycling shoes were red and black vinyl with three pieces of Velcro to strap your feet in, and had these big scary, square metal plates on the bottom of the shoe. They looked like some kind of posh, prison-issued bowling shoes.

After I put my things in a locker and went up the stairs, I waited outside the class with the other women, while I awkwardly fumbled to put these shoes on without a proper place to sit. I apologized to two different people who bumped into me and without my cell phone for comfort I was left to wonder what women did before a Jazzercise class in 1995.

I was nervous that I was going to be the only stumbling noobie in the bunch, that I would get a side pain, or worse, that I would pass out mid-cycle and need the jaws of life to separate me from the machine to be later whisked away on a stretcher. But just as I began to plan my escape, the employees in matching yellow shirts opened the doors to this dark room that was blasting T-Pain’s “Bootywerk (One Cheek)” and motioned us to come inside.

Again, in unison, the participants moved to their bikes, adjusted them gracefully, and began cycling before the class had begun. It was apparent that I would not be leaving this machine for the next 45 minutes.

The class was illuminated with four huge burning candles in the front of the instructors’ bike and the red emergency EXIT sign. I did wonder if the candles were a fire hazard, but then I whispered to myself, “just go with it, Carol.” I call myself that in times of need.  

In walked this burly, bald, tattooed man in his late 40s. He was wearing a black do-rag and tiny gym shorts. He scanned the room, hopped on his bike and sorta screamed into his headset, “Brooklyn, are you ready to rock?!”

I was a bit scared, but my adrenaline started pumping once he began the class with Nirvana’s “Smells like Teen Spirit.”

He proceeded to play a very diverse playlist of the Killers, Nirvana, Eminem and some old Motown jams, while coaching us on different cycling positions - who knew there were so many ways to
sit on a bike? 

Everyone in the class hooted and hollered as he told us to turn up the resistance (I never did figure out how to do that), while bopping their bodies and swinging their perfect ponys to the beat, their legs
cycling at warp speed. I don’t know if I’m extremely rhythmically challenged or if I was just that new, but everyone seemed to know what they were doing except for me. And how did all of those women know all the words to Eminem’s B-sides?

What got me through the class were five parts adrenaline, and two parts constantly contemplating if the class was half an hour or an hour.

Towards the latter half of the class, our instructor proceeded to extinguish the candle flames by whipping his tiny towel above the candles. When there was one candle still lit, he proceeded to pick it up and take it to a beautiful girl in the front of the class, and he said to her “blow it out, baby.” At that moment, I wondered if I was participating in a cult-like séance trying to bring Kurt Cobain back from the dead through the power of synchronized cycling.

My face was beet red and I was drenched like the winner of a wet t-shirt contest I never entered. But there was something really liberating about this experience. Loud music forced me to get outside of my head, the dark lights allowed me to get outside of my body, and the cherry on top was that no one was giving me judgey gym-eyes.

Also, my feet physically strapped into my machine was a great incentive to not give up after 20 minutes like I normally do on an elliptical machine. I didn’t even want to totally die when they made
us do the Macarena, while cycling, with 3-pound weights (okay it wasn’t actually the Macarena, but I don’t know how else to describe it).

Once the class was over, I followed everyone in the room in touching palms and bending at the waist in a bow, as he said some sort of weird Soul Cycle mantra that might as well have been“Namaste, bitches.”

Then the large door swung open and I wanted to hiss like a vampire when light filled the room.

“What just happened?” I wondered to myself as my jelly-legs led me one foot in front of the other to my locker and out the door into the crisp spring air. 

Whatever it was that just happened, I realized that I wanted to do it again. And somehow I knew, something awoke inside me. I think it was the spirit of Kurt. 

I have my next session booked.

Have you ever been to Soul Cycle?
Have you ever joined a cult?
Tell me about it in the comments down below!

Keep it Sassy,


Disposable Diaries: Jenny Lewis Fall '14

Dear Pussycats,

For this #DisposableDiary entry, I need to tell you about my most religious experience ever - the time I saw Jenny Lewis live.

I first encountered Jenny Lewis in the film Troop Beverly Hills, which, lets be real is TOTAL aesthetic goals. Not only was I a Daisy (didn't quite make it to Girl Scout) but also I share a deep love of uniform inspired fashion, cookies, and of course, diamonds! This movie was such #goals for me as a small child, and to this day I look to this film for fashion inspo, guidance and strength when the going gets super tough.

Then, during my 90's-revival, Pacific North West-Indie band phase of high school, I discovered Rilo Kiley.

I was listening to a mix-tape my internet pen-pal Kimberly made me while driving home in my mothers, old, beige, station wagon after seeing a friend. I was cutting through the Ko'olau mountains, and it was one of those afternoons where it had just rained and the clouds hung so low it felt like I was driving through them. Through these puffy clouds were pierced with streams of light and the beginning of "Arms Out Stretched" began, and everything changed for me.

Rilo Kiley's music saved my life in more way thanks one. In fact, I wrote an article all about how much they've saved me on this very blog in 2013, click here. Rilo Kiley and Jenny Lewis's music has been the soundtrack throughout my life since first discovery.

16-year-old day-dreamer Caelan never thought she would ever move to New York, or would have maintained this blog for 5 years, or would ever see Jenny Lewis live. But 21-year-old Caelan made it happen.

My amazing friend Misha extended the invite and I of course said, "HECK YES." Misha and I scurried after work, wearing our ginormous rabbit fur coats, big hats, and huge beers in hand...we were ready.

We bought matching sparkly, gold "Voyager" necklaces from the merch booth and busted our way into the front row. Misha has this amazing way of cutting through a crowd, and surely enough we were front and center.

The crowd was annoying and didn't seem to want to put up with Misha and my dancing, but who cares! Our goddess was right in front of us!!

Her firry locks were as shiny as I imagined and her voice was even more than I could've ever imagined.

She played every song that I blasted in my teen bedroom, songs that I listened to while I was getting my wisdom teeth removed, and every song off my NY subway playlist. I was overwhelmed with nostalgia, but it was also one of the most present moments of my life.

Seeing Jenny Lewis live was one of the first nights in New York that I really felt like I belonged here. And to vibe and connect with my ultimate queen and one of my dearest friends was a euphoric experience.

Misha and I danced and cried and gave no fucks about the total squares behind us. We gave into the music and into the night and it felt so liberating.

And pussycats, I have the opportunity to see this babe in concert again on February 4th! Also all these photos are from Misha!

Have you ever had a concert experience like this?
More importantly, have you ever seen Jenny Lewis in concert?

Keep it sassy,


Disposable Diaries: Hawaii '14

Dear Pussycats, 

I absolutely love this series. It's so perplexing to me that I've been documenting my life via disposable cameras for over two years now, and I'm still only discussing September of 2014 on this blog. This post in particular is about my mini trip back home last summer.

To this day, I think my decision to uproot and move to New York was one of the most naive and stubborn things I've ever done. I really put a lot of my personal relationships and my finances in jeopardy over "my dream," which lately has been feeling as distant as it felt when I was day-dreaming in Honolulu. 

Every time I'm feeling melancholy (which is often, lets be honest), I remember that I moved here, I did the damn thing and that I'm a lot stronger than I give myself credit for. 

These photos are from a quick four-day trip home, on what was supposed to be my return ticket after my summer interning at Bust Magazine. 

I tried to schedule as much time with friends and family as I could in the span of four days. I also tried to schedule as much delicious food as possible. 

Here I am with my brother in law Rob and my seastar Devon. And the second photo is with one of my dearest friends, Sharice. 

Sharice and I met while working at Betsey Johnson together, She was my manager and I was at the bottom of the totem pole, but our love of fancy dresses and our long list of inside jokes has bonded us to this day. 

Then, of course I had to stop at Leonards to get a malasada. God, I think about these and I want to cry. There is nothing more delicious in the entire world than a leonards malasada. 

Quality car-selfies with Kelsey.

Then, quality cat-selfies with Kelsey. 

Then I met up with one of my sweetest friends, Sofi. When Sofi and my eyes locked during a journalism class during our first semester of college, we knew we were going to be life-long friends. I miss this girl so much. 

Then there is Jhune! Ugh I hate this photo of me so much, but I love her even more so I guess I have to post it. Jhune is another one of my soul mates. We support each other and are here for each other all day long. I'm also completely in friend-love with her and I hope we're friends until we're really old and wrinkly and eating chicken adobe while listening to Fetty Wap.

Man, writing this post and going back down memory lane, I can't help but think, "what the hell was I thinking leaving in the first place?" 

Maybe I'm in a weird head space, but living in New York for over a year and a half has changed me. I'm not the bright-eyed dreamer anymore, I'm depressed, my dreams of writing have been squashed, and despite having a sweet boyfriend, I desperately need more friends. 

The good news is, it was my enthusiasm and tenacity that got me here and has kept me here so far, so why wouldn't those two things bring me the life-success I crave?

This year I want to document those things more, how to make friends when you're some place new! 

Have you ever had this kind of difficulty moving to a new place, even a year and a half later? Have you ever had a malasada? Let me know down below!

Keep it Sassy