momentary connections

wednesdays are for lovers and transformations

My friends, my friends, my friends.

It is a Friday night. Adele is playing, I have a mug of wine beside me. I believe that a mug of wine is a right of passage when you move into a new apartment and have no kitchenware. My summer clothes are sprawled out on my bed. 3 suitcases are open in the living room, and I have decided that I have done enough unpacking for one Friday evening. Hanging up 2 coats and 3 dresses was more than I thought was going to get done anyway. 

I don’t know where to begin with this letter, so I will just start and see what happens. And as always, I am going to try to write this without shedding a few tears, but you know me and the promises that I make to myself. I never keep them, and I never learn. 

In my last letter, I talked about how I’ve been in a writing rut lately (and I apologize because I’m going to be talking about myself this entire letter - I will try to use “we” when I can). And I’m sure this is normal - where, as a writer, you sit down at the computer and hate every sentence that you start typing. I’d read old newsletters and the anxiety spiral would start - “Omg - will I ever write anything like this ever again? Will I ever feel anything like this again?” etc. etc. etc. 

But, I am the biggest believer of divine timing. Of the universe sending you people. And specifically, the universe sending you angels in the form of strangers. Via Instagram + Substack (aka divine intervention), I was able to meet two very special strangers in Florence who both read this newsletter. 

I have never wanted to be defined by grief. I have never wanted people to look at me and feel sorry for me. To look at me as the alien that grief oftentimes makes us feel. 

And then you meet people - who understand. And all of the sudden, you’re not an alien anymore. Or you’re a group of two or three aliens, which to be honest - is better than being one. And that’s the why. That’s what makes writing worth it. 

And what I’ve learned to love about grief - is that it isn’t just about the person who died. It becomes about the transformation. It becomes about your new life and the new journey and about the risks that you took in order to get to where you are. It becomes about the story, it becomes about what we’ve leaned in to, in order to heal. And oftentimes, it’s art and it’s travel and it’s expression and it’s expansion. 

There’s also a similarity I’ve found within people who have experienced that certain type of pain. I think it fosters this independence, and this way of looking at life that’s a little bit lighter and a little bit more beautiful. Humour also plays a huge part, and you both can laugh at the way human beings can complicate things. 

So, we have this shared experience. And it’s horrible on so many different levels. But you have someone to look at and to say to each other - I’m so proud of you and your story. Look what you’ve created from the cards you were dealt. And instead of being defined by the one person who is missing in your life, you become defined by the transformation. 

So, while we’re on this topic of connections - I’m going to try my best to weave a story into this letter.

Can I be honest with you? I love, love. And I really love writing about love. And I realized that part of my writer’s rut was partially tied to this FWB situation I have very lightly mentioned in the past few newsletters. Very lightly because we do not know who’s eyes will fall upon this letter. 

I have decided to call myself a realistic romantic. In the sense that - you can adore love, but you can also be very aware of the situations that you are getting yourself into.

We have to bring it back to the object of our past newsletters. Our muse. The first time he left my apartment, I bawled my eyes out for an entire afternoon. And this was after, maybe 2-3 hours in total we had spent together. And we had content, baby.

And maybe not every connection has to last or stir something up inside of us, but I kind of wish it did. And maybe that was the cause of my writer’s rut. Looking for a deeper meaning in a space that was just meant to be as it was. 

Am I in love with this FWB? With this lover? Absolutely not. Do I bawl my eyes out when he leaves my apartment? Also, absolutely not. The only things I know about him are the name of his dog and his favorite outdoor activity. 

And what does he know about me? The names of my two cats. And I guess also everything because I share my life on my Insta stories. 

I’m still trying to figure out his purpose, if I’m being honest. And maybe it’s not meant to be complicated or layered or complex. He wasn’t meant to be the cause of many sleepless nights or the subject of a summer’s newsletters. 

He messaged me while I was in Florence, asking if I missed him. I fucking wish I did, I wanted to say. I really, fucking wish I did.

Maybe he was just meant to be another lover. But we’re lucky to say “another”, aren’t we? 

I think those who have left everything behind will understand. How lucky it is to find people to connect with in a home that wasn’t always yours.

Maybe some people are meant to be, just that. A connection for an hour or two, three if you’re lucky. Not exactly a muse, but more of a Wednesday afternoon or Saturday evening. People who stroll into our lives and remind us that we can breathe again. That connections can come in different forms and for different reasons. Born from different things. From someone seeing you through words on a page, or at a crowded bar on a Thursday night. 

We’re lucky to love. And we’re lucky to almost love. Lucky to be seen, to be recognized. Lucky to connect. Even if we can’t figure out their meanings, just yet. 

And I’m lucky to have you, my writing community. Our community. That’s really the only thing that matters at the end of it all. 

I love you, I really, really do.