Welcome to the crawl
Hello. I’m 37, in the middle of a divorce, currently in the spontaneously-tears-up-in-the-supermarket stage of healing, and vaguely nauseated but hopeful to be here.
As a former student of History, this is my attempted documentation of my slow, clumsy wobble toward okay-ness after what can only be described as my trashfire years.
My person of 11 years cheated on me (office affair! how retro), and my career decided to go on autopilot and made some questionable choices. I didn’t so much hit rock bottom, more like politely slid into it and asked if it had WiFi and snacks.
If you're expecting a triumphant phoenix-from-the-ashes tale with F45 subscription and #gratitude, I’m sorry. That’s not this. This is more like the emotionally constipated cousin of Eat Pray Love who never booked a flight and spent way too much on GrabFood. There's no fortune teller in Bali, no spiritual awakening via ayahuasca or God, no finding love in a hopeless place. Plus, I got out of my crystal phase already ahakz. It’s just me, trying to remember how to be okay again—and maybe occasionally laughing at the wreckage.
This is my attempt to write my way through the chaos with the same energy as my TikTok FYP: unfiltered, occasionally about shopping, deeply unserious and completely sincere.
Everyone is welcome here, whether you’re also crawling, twerking, or signed up for a half marathon or whatever. Let’s struggle in solidarity!
More soon.
that self portrait is high art
hope it’s not diarrhoea