Every October teaches me how to let go. This year, it’s fear I’m shedding — fear of not being enough, of being judged, of wanting too much. Because joy, I’m learning, doesn’t come from certainty. It comes from trying.

Some wounds take decades to surface. For me, it was a single moment in middle school — a cruel comment that left a crack in my creative self-worth. Twenty years later, while working through The Artist’s Way, I realized how deeply that memory still shapes my fear of being “too much.” This essay explores the messy middle of healing: belonging, validation, and what it means to finally offer my 12-year-old self the safety she deserved.

The cold sea licks at my feet, and I ache with yearning—for a cottage by the sea, for salt air and harbor walks. But yearning is not absence; it’s an invitation to live the dream life in the figs already ripe before us.

My childhood bedroom is now my office. A wooden desk sits where a twin bed once was, cameras and computers where Barbies once lived. Some days it feels like my past self is still here, just out of reach. This essay is about memory, leaving and returning, and what it means to live beside her again.

I spent years living in the when-then cycle: When I get this, then I’ll be happy. When I reach that milestone, then my real life begins. I chased dream after dream, but every time I arrived, I’d already set my sights on the next. It took an unexpected pause to see the truth — the in-between isn’t a waiting room. It’s where the becoming happens.

I never met my great-grandmother, Concetta. But somehow, she keeps showing up—in my mirror, in my kitchen, and in the quiet rituals passed down through generations. This is a story about memory, family recipes, and the invisible ways we’re shaped by the women who came before us.

When crisis cracked my life open, I learned that friendship doesn’t always look how you expect. Some people fade. Some root deeper. This is a love letter to the ones who showed up and a reflection on how I’m learning to do the same.

Somewhere between 26 and 32, I started shrinking my desires, believing I was too old, too late, too much. But I’m learning that wanting isn’t dangerous—and naming what we want is its own quiet rebellion.