Under That Skinny Jeans

Lately, life has felt blurry. The days move fast, and even when I want to sit still, I find myself trying to catch up with everything happening around me and within me.

I’ve been learning how to live with routine again. Work, coffee, playlists on repeat, late-night thoughts, weekends that pass too quickly. Some days feel productive and full; others feel distant, like I’m only moving because time keeps pushing forward. There are quiet moments, yet my mind still feels restless—constantly occupied by thoughts that refuse to settle.

Still, there are small things that make everything feel a little lighter. Familiar songs. Good conversations. The comfort of coming home after a long day. I think I’m beginning to understand that not every season of life has to be exciting to be meaningful—that peace is not always found in silence.

My first audio post in a while.

I was here during Body Talk, and here I am again with Sexistential.

What lingers isn’t even the black and white photos—it’s the narrative. The way these lives are told, plainly and without excess, makes everything feel closer than I’m comfortable with. It’s not distant. It’s not abstract. It stays.

I find myself sitting with a quiet kind of helplessness. There’s not much I can do in that moment but acknowledge, and hope, and pray—for the people whose stories are carried in those pages.

During mass, the priest asked when we last saw God’s face. It made me pause and look back.

I’ve met Him in moments when I wanted to react badly, when anger or exhaustion tempted me to become someone I’m not. Somehow, I was always pulled back to my core. To choose empathy over harm. To walk away instead of adding more damage to the world.

I’ve met Him in my team. People willing to grow, to listen, and to move forward even at different paces. Leading them never felt like a burden this past year. If anything, it felt like grace at work.

I’ve also met Him in the simplest forms. Every cat I meet on the streets and the ones I call my own at home. They bring pure joy and remind me that life does not have to be complicated. Their quiet presence, their purrs, the warmth of their fur sometimes feel like God’s embrace and healing.

I want to acknowledge myself this year not just for what I achieved, but for what I survived. I showed up even when I was tired, uncertain, and emotionally stretched. I questioned love, work, faith, and purpose, and instead of running from the discomfort, I sat with it. That wasn’t easy, and I won’t downplay it.

I grew in quiet ways. Ways that don’t always show on paper. I learned when to speak, when to stay, and when to walk away. I loved deeply, doubted honestly, and kept moving even when the path wasn’t clear. Growth didn’t feel graceful this year, but it was real.

A journey that’s painless, but hurts like hell.

Sometimes, it feels almost impossible to notice the beauty this world still holds. Chaos drowns it out—political turmoil, climate disasters, poverty, and countless struggles that people endure every day. The noise of destruction and the hunger for power seem louder than the gentle moments of peace.

I find myself wrestling with this contrast: the earth offers us wonders, yet we often choose to destroy them. We forget that beauty exists not only in sunsets or oceans, but in kindness, in compassion, in love. These should outweigh the darkness. But instead, greed and hate take center stage, leaving us blind.

"Once you've met someone, you never really forget them. It just takes a while for your memory to come back to you."

What hurts the most is how you now act like nothing ever happened. Like I imagined it all. But I didn’t. I remember every promise, every moment, every look that made me feel like I mattered. And now I’m left carrying all of it, while you walk away so easily.

It hurts—God, it hurts more than I want to admit. You made markings on my heart you’ll never take accountability for. Maybe you’ll forget, but I never will.

I’m grateful for the friendship and for the times we spent navigating the complexities of adulthood together. Now our knees and toes ache, but there’s a certain wisdom in how we’ve embraced life’s twists and turns. Those nights of going home drunk every weekend didn’t kill our dreams; they taught us to live fully, with a connection to what matters and a vision of where we want to go.

We’ve each had our share of ups and downs, but there’s pride and joy in seeing where we are today — happy, growing, and still carrying that bond that started it all.

I stand in a barren wasteland—

a deserted place no one escapes.

The air is dry, the ground unending,

and my own feelings

slip through my hands like sand.

The past feels heavy with shame,

the present like a quiet death.

I don’t know why I am here.

Chaos swirls so thick

I can’t see the horizon—

only waves crashing,

thunder that splits the sky,

lightning that blinds.

I’m trembling.

I want to scream,

but my voice is trapped

beneath the weight of my own silence.

My soul is a compass with no north,

my heart splintered into pieces.

Someone—

please,

wrap me in your arms.

See me as I am,

stand beside me

so I will remember

I am not alone—

before I vanish