The phrase, “there will come a time” has been repeating itself in my mind over and over and over again, throughout the course of the past three weeks. And I can’t tell if it’s the beginning or an end of a thought. Maybe it’s just a stand alone. Or maybe it’s the fact that I like to pretend I'm starring in my own movie, which, I guess, isn’t really pretend. Because everyone is the star of their own life. I think a lot of people just forget that sometimes.
Anyways, the narrator inside my head keeps repeating those five words to me.
There will come a time.
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I’ll give you a life update. I’m currently back in my Toronto apartment. The heat is blasting, I’m wearing my favourite vintage oversized crewneck (the grey Marlboro one) and wool socks. There’s a decaf latte from my favourite coffee shop and a bowl of yogurt and blueberries beside me. Suki’s Model, Actress, Whatever plays in the background. I did my glycolic peel last night (linked my favourite - highly recommend this 1x/week) and have already done an entire facial yoga/gua sha routine twice.
My beauty routine is everything to me. Trying out different masks on a Friday night. Talking to the experts at the skincare boutiques around the neighborhood. Learning about different ingredients, and learning about brands that are more aesthetic versus brands that are more medical grade. Figuring out what combination of ingredients will make me retain and maintain a glow the longest.
I know people equate beauty to vanity, but I think a beauty + a skin-care routine might be the equivalent to therapy. They’re investments in your well-being. And when you feel beautiful, when you feel healthy, when you glow - you naturally want to put yourself in more situations and give yourself more opportunities that match that energy. It has to be science. Or it’s an Emily Mais science.
And I’ll tell you something else.
Last week was probably one of my favourite weeks ever. I went to visit my beautiful Internet-Turned-Real-Life-Friend,
in her hometown of Kingston, New York. It was magic. It was creative magic. I don’t know how else to describe it other than that. Kingston, to me, feels like a place where everyone feels like they can be themselves. It gives small-town hallmark movie x artistic haven x a 1970’s music festival. It gives “My boyfriend’s pretty cool, but he’s not as cool as me”. We listened to love songs and love stories, wrote poetry on typewriters, crafted and embroidered, and watched bands play in old churches. It was girlhood, it was creativity, it was all of the best things.You know that feeling? When you go on a trip, or when you go somewhere new - and when you come back home, and when walk through that front door - you realize that something has changed?
It’s almost like - Oh. The girl who walked out of this door 10 days ago is not the same as the girl who is walking back in.
The last time I had that feeling was when I had my impromptu four day-turned-five week trip to Rome in August of 2021. And the commonality between both of those trips were that they were both driven by spontaneity. A week of not planning, not knowing what each day would bring, or who we would meet. Just trusting. This is very much a pro to being a Type Z person.
And that spontaneity, I realized, reminded me of something. The importance of acceptance. Of my freedom, my autonomy, my creativity, and my individuality.
It takes courage, to do what we do. To do what artists do.
All of the artists and performers and writers that I met over the last week had something in common. There was a great loss that had influenced some sort of aspect of their work. And it made me think back to my new favourite quote about grief (that I tell everyone who will listen - so apologies if you’ve seen me quote this one million times but PLEASE READ Sloane Crosley’s “Grief is for People”):
“Sometimes I hear it in the rivers, sloshing against the stone, or in the subway screeching to a halt. And then, because I cannot call you home, I call it home.”
And I think about the way grief lives inside of us, inside all of us. And it’s the artists who choose to keep them alive. Because it’s a way for us to feel closer to the love we had.
And I think, that at the end of the day, it’s really as simple as that. We’re all just looking for people who understand.
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Back in the city, I do my routine. I brew my morning coffee, pour a teaspoon of collagen in. Next up is my morning skincare. My face wash, my oil, my gua sha, my moisturizer, my SPF. I make a mental note to pick up more probiotics. All of the things we’re told we should do, all of the things that I believe will help me feel better. I stop at one market to get blueberries for 2.99, and have to stop by the grocery store to pick up the rest of my groceries.
Chicken, kimchi, lettuce, tzatziki. My list. I missed my spicy-chicken lettuce wraps.
And because this grocery store is directly beside OFM’s apartment, there is no way around it, there is no way around him. It doesn’t matter if I make a left or a right. He will still be there. The memories from that night will still be there. How I watched as the steam from the shower filled his bathroom. How he held my head in his hands and how he told me to look at him.
There will come a time.
A time of what? I wonder. The sky is grey, and the February snow blows around me.
Where it doesn’t hurt? Where the street corners stop haunting me?
There will come a time.
A time of what? I want to yell at him from the sidewalk.
Did you mean it? Any of it? I want to know. I need to know. Why did you hold me like you were losing me?
There will come a time.
If this is what you wanted, I’d tell him. You win. Tears fill up my living room. This is where we live now.
Acceptance.
And then, because I cannot call you home, I call it home.
The opening paragraph here is exquisite 👏🏽❤️