joy lives here too

Saturday, 7/11/26

I wrote a single page of rage in my journal this morning. Of recognition to how I'm feeling right now.

I'm feeling frustrated. I'm feeling protective. I'm feeling defiant. I'm feeling unkind and I'm afraid if I speak I'll say something mean, something that will only exhaust and not make any real difference at all.

I'm letting Suki Waterhouse's album drown out my feelings while I vacuum. While I make a smoothie. While I wipe the dust from around the record player. Loud, I want everything loud, so loud that it drowns out every last inch of space in my overly crowded mind.

I'm not mad at my anger I'm mad that the anger that sits in my chest and tugs at my heart and wants for more than she can have — pulling me away from the joy that I know lives in this moment, too.

All I can do is hope that by giving it (me) space to feel, to expand, to take up as much space as it (me) needs, I will learn to make more space for the flowers I pick and the pottery I make and the quiet satisfaction of working alongside my mom, of sometimes talking for hours straight, sometimes not at all, both of us knee deep in another project, hands covered in clay.

Sunday, 7/12/26

I stand in the kitchen and eat spoon-fulls of peanut butter out of a jumbo-sized jar, it's delicious and pretty much the only thing I consistently crave these days with my appetite being so intrinsically tied to my emotions, to my medication, to the world outside of my control.

Now I'm on the bench between the table and the big window with my cat curled up in a tiny ball on my lap, occasional pausing to do that little chirping thing she does at the birds out the window. For all she knows, this is what hunting is.

Though they're now fuzzy and quickly fading into the background of the day, last night I had a series of bad dreams. Unfortunately, my body did not wake me. Unfortunately, my mind stuck to them like glue.

Something I know about myself: no matter how big and all consuming life's worries are, I will fixate on the small stuff. On the 'I need to respond to that email' and 'I'm not sharing enough, writing enough, making enough' and 'did I say something during that conversation that might have been offensive or unkind?'

But really though, who cares? Who actually cares that I haven't responded to that email or how I came across while conversing with someone in Aisle 4 of the grocery store? Likely no one but me, and even if they did, it doesn't have to be something I hold onto.

I’m good at highlighting the obscure, the background noise, the opinions of other’s, as well as what I already know to be most important, like telling someone I love them or inviting a friend over to sit on our new back patio or spending time with my family or going to doctor’s appointments with my mom or making food for my good friends who just had a baby.

Somehow, my mind has enough space for it all.

Tuesday, 7/14/26

I just finished a book called Tangerinn, by Emanuela Anechoum, unexpectedly devouring the last few chapters while I waited for the ferry off the island, content with having gotten here early. Ok with the ferry having been late.

This morning I picked a small bouquet of sweet peas and put them on my parent's kitchen table, amazing me how joy exists everywhere, in the tiniest slivers of time in between this moment and the next one.

Wednesday, 7/15/26

I’m feeling anxiously attached to my phone today, which isn’t a great long-term plan since I need to save my phone’s battery for my day of navigating San Francisco.

The woman at the airport cafe asked if I was ok after I told her I was traveling to a doctor’s appointment, I responded with something like, “not really, but I’m getting there,” to which she said, “I’m so sorry, I hope you feel better soon.” It wasn’t until I was settled in at my gate that I realized how much softer and more present I felt after the encounter, like she were a good friend seeing me off on this important trip, not a stranger whom I’ll likely never see again.

My pelvic floor therapist taught me how to breathe through my stomach. I really have to think about it, putting one hand on my chest and the other on my belly, the goal being to only have the hand on your belly rise and fall, while the one on your chest stays still; I’m doing this now as I sit at the cafe across from my doctor’s office, watching as someone hauls their trash bins to the edge of the sidewalk, insides still knotted and tense.

Observation: me telling the woman at the airport cafe that I am “getting there” feels like a verbal promise to myself, to not abandon myself (and me writing it out now, double affirms it).

There’s a group of three older woman sitting at the table beside me talking about how expensive everything is. I tune in and out, not fully committing to my usual eavesdropping ways, instead, my mind is caught in some kind of web of overwhelm, of thinking about everything at once and nothing in particular — reading a paragraph of my book, setting it down, reading another couple of sentences, setting it down again.

After my appointment, which took all of five minutes, I wound my way through the hilly streets of San Francisco with my clunky messenger bag stuffed with books and snacks and writing supplies. I have about four hours before my flight and very little motivation to keep wandering without a destination, so I looked up a nearby park, chugged some water, and carried on in that general direction.

Fifteen-or-so minutes later, I was calling a Lyft to the airport after arriving at the park’s entrance to see what it was closed for an event. I’m glad today was not about sightseeing my way through the city, otherwise I would have gone home wildly disappointed.

Thursday, 7/16/26

I’m waiting for the ferry again after another pelvic floor therapy appointment, this time with the sun beating down on my legs as I stretch them out of the car’s open door, trying desperately to catch some of the (very infrequent) cross breeze.

While staring out the window, I notice that the crow hopping around on the grass beside me found a shaded patch, relief visible in it’s open beak and fanned out wings.

Suddenly, feel very strongly that we are in this together.