Congrats everyone, we made it through the first month of the year.
January sped by, jam-packed with a lot of moving parts. I, like many other have found themselves unsure and scared for the future. The ever present-feeling of existential dread is no longer existential, and we are met with it in very real and tangible ways.
I could give a summary of all these things now but, truthfully, I am not the best person to do that and I also don’t to play into the “shock the masses into numbness” strategy the current government wants us to fall for.
It is important to remain informed and, it’s important not to lose yourself in a black hole with no hope, creeping into pessimistic nihilism which helps no one.
To remain tethered to the world, I have been relying on one of the best things anyone has ever said to keep me going through these difficult times.
“Love has never been a popular movement. And no one’s ever wanted, really, to be free. The world is held together, really it is held together, by the love and the passion of a very few people. Otherwise, of course, you can despair. Walk down the street of any city, any afternoon, and look around you. What you’ve got to remember is what you’re looking at is also you. Everyone you’re looking at is also you. You could be that person. You could be that monster, you could be that cop. And you have to decide, in yourself, not to be”
-James Baldwin
I believe that now, more than ever, we have to remind ourselves that we are not alone. We are all connected and there really are more people filled with love than people filled with hate.
Because of that, I ask that you don’t fall too deep into despair and, when you feel yourself about to please take a walk, people watch, stare at the face of that fresh baby in her stroller, get coffee with a friend, take yourself out to a local, long standing restaurant, watch a really good movie, and remember the beauty that still runs rampant in the world.
With all of that flowery stuff out of the way, I am excited to jump into my first monthly wrap up. I’m hoping to stick with writing these monthly as a way to celebrate passing time. I think this will be more fruitful than the traditional Instagram dump, especially since it’s fuck Zuck ‘til the day I die.
I’ve been a people pleaser my entire life. It began with me tring to fill the shoes my grandparents laid out for me. Hugging relatives I did not know, shoving my head in books, and avoiding age-appropriate mistakes at every turn. It was a survival strategy, a way to avoid being iced out, punished, and disappointing those around me.
I was working on this blog post and, at first, it was going to be one big piece about how I am making steps to no longer be a people pleaser. This desire to stop shrinking myself arrived in the New Year, running through my body from the very center of the Earth. I can point to multiple moments where that change might have risen from but, in all honesty, it was a fairly sudden desire.
The post was going to be structured as: how I people please, examples of that, how it damages my life, and how it feels to “overcome” it. However, as I was writing, I realized just how complex and deep the tendrils of people-pleasing extended throughout my everyday life. Friendships, romantic endeavors, work, and surprisingly so, the way I show up for others in more complex social situations.
As I was writing, I had a revelation. The act of taking up space in my personal life is a radical of subtle rebellion.
We need rebellion right now, and if this is one of the ways I can engage in that I want to take it on full-force. I have decided to separate my would-be one body of work (an impossible task as, the more I wrote the more I realized that everything is connected) into multiple separate posts. These posts will be part of an indefinite series called, Chronicles of a Reformed People Pleaser.
Some of the thoughts and feelings I want to share with you will make you uncomfortable. Perhaps even cause you to question some things about yourself. It has done that for me, forcing me to face monsters I’ve been avoiding my whole life. I hope that these moments where your immediate instinct is to push back are met instead with consideration and self-reflection. Let’s dissect it all together!
Speaking of dissecting: I want to say outright that I am not perfect! I will say something wrong, something incorrect. Being wrong doesn’t scare me. I think a willingness to be incorrect is a step one must take to stop being a people pleaser. When you don’t find yourself constantly wanting to be perfect and palatable for everyone around you, you allow yourself to make mistakes, which are than easier to accept, and finally easier to grow and learn from. In short: Please correct me! Disagree with me! I want to learn! I want to be a better person!
I’m really excited to dive into this series with all of you! I’m not going to hold myself to a specific “schedule” and will of course be posting other content in the interim. I think this will be a therapeutic body of work for myself and for you!
Without further adieu, here is the first installment of my little series:
I was not raised to give grace before meals. We would sit around the kitchen table, local news on, and I would scarf down what I could while my grandparents yelled at the TV and my grandmother side-eyed my plate.
As I’ve grown older, I have found myself giving grace to others for varying circumstances, an individual’s closeness to those in poor health and/or being in poor health themselves, mental illness, work woes. There have been so many moments in my life where someone has hurt me and I have told myself, “You can not be upset, they are going through something right now.”
I would default to this mentality even when I had no idea what someone was thinking, only piecing enough evidence together to create an excuse for them. The number of times I have allowed someone to talk at me sideways, excusing it every time by saying, “They didn’t mean it! I’m sure they’re just stressed!” Or the worst, “I deserved that for xyz reason!” xyz equating to: a singular unwashed fork, advocating for a students needs, or canceling plans once in a blue moon.
The act of giving grace is similar to the notion of breaking bread. It is good for you to want to share, to ensure that no one is left starving. However, it is also important that you save some of that bread for yourself. If that runs out, you can starve to death or find yourself holding tightly to what you have left, keeping it under lock and key.
I remember recently sitting across from a friend who had promised me the world, different levels of care and companionship, a lifelong place in their heart. However, they kept coming up short, tarnishing my trust repeatedly, making me feel unwanted. I kept telling myself, “You know they’re going through it!” and they genuinely were. I still worry about them and wish them well.
However, I found myself reaching a point where even that just wasn’t enough. I was so strung out and lost, and the way they were showing up for me was bcoming more painful than healing.
It is tricky being a people pleaser and finally having enough, finally laying your foot down and making it clear, “I will not let that slide.” Nine times out of ten, the other person is so thrown for a loop that they become defensive, calling you selfish, uncaring, or they might beg for more, more grace, more excuses, please don’t make me see the person I’ve been to you.
My decision to step away from this friendship was due to one simple fact: I was all out of bread to break. I could not give them grace anymore, no matter how many times they begged me. I needed to extend grace to myself so I didn’t wither away.
I am not a very religious person but I do know that the God in the bible was referred to as “the Gracious One,” known for forgiving the darkest of sins and accepting those carrying these sins into those gorgeous pearly gates. However, even he needed some sort of reciprocation for the grace he was giving, some semblance that the person he was forgiving was trying to change and make things better.
The fact of the matter is this: you are allowed to ask for grace and to have grace given to you. And, you are also allowed to say, “No more.”
Doing that does not make you evil or less sympathetic. If anything, it brings you closer to God.
The timing for asking for what you need will never be perfect. Everyone is alwaysgoing through something, always in some sort of pain and. While it is always important to be sympathetic to the circumstances of others, it is equally important that you make sure you are sympathetic to yourself.
If you fall into the people-pleasing trap of giving grace to infinity, you are making it okay for others to give you less, to try less, to care less, to love less. And there is nothing more damaging to the soul than less.
There is beauty and strength in maintenance and reciprocation, breaking bread and knowing there will be bread for you as well.
I hope you all felt something from this and I am excited to go on this journey with all of you!
My first great love was Mr. Cursio’s Cat. Mr. Cursio was my next-door neighbor, a kind man with a complexion made by the Sun. Mr. Cursio’s Cat was a small brown tabby with deep amber eyes and a long slender tail. Her paws were dipped in white, and it amazed me how clean they remained no matter what she wandered through. She wasn’t really his cat, just a stray that he began feeding one day. She didn’t go inside his house unless the weather was bad (snow or heavy rain). Mr. Cursio would open his door and she would strut in, confident that this wasn’t his attempt to own her, but an attempt to care for her as she cared for him.
The relationship they had was so beautiful to me as a young girl. His love for her seemed to have no end, and still, she was free, only referred to as his because she couldn’t tell us her name on her own. She would delicately balance on the small wooden walkway between my grandparent’s garden and the rest of the lawn, stepping one foot in front of the other, prancing across a small patch of grass, and moving to strut on the stone separating our house and Mr. Cursio’s. She would lounge under the grape trellis in his backyard, stretched like a princess in the summer heat, watching and bathing as he took his green hose and watered the spindling vines. When he dug in the garden, pulling zucchinis and root vegetables out of fluffy soil, she would bless them with her wet brown nose before they were placed on our wooden steps. An exciting bundle of cat-anointed tomatoes and cabbage. My little mind could only comprehend her as a guardian angel, forming my life-long belief in reincarnation and soul ties.
She was my first tangible best friend. The first friend that existed outside of my imagination. With her, I felt no restraints, no fears, no doubts. I remember how she smelled, like lightly toasted tree bark, cinnamon, and warmth. I would imitate her, balancing on her pathway, jumping and batting at butterflies, digging through dirt. She would, in turn, watch me, imitating my movements, following me up and down the stairs, meowing back at me when I spoke. We were instinctually cognizant of one another’s boundaries and expectations. I never attempted to pick her up or plant a kiss on her head. I never asked Mr. Cursio if she could come into my house, be my kitty instead. I never asked if I could name her Penelope, give her a collar, or buy her new toys.
There were some days when I wouldn’t see her, she was busy chasing mice in the housing complex behind our homes, or I was busy going to ballet and playing clarinet. I always knew that after one or two days, I could go outside and call, “Mr. Cursio’s Cat!” and she would come, trotting to me, milky white paws pressing down patches of grass, and dancing for bubbles from my bubble machine.
However, one day, she disappeared. I don’t think I noticed right away until around day four. I was outside playing one day, watching ants crawl through the grass when Mr. Cursio stepped onto his porch and asked, “Have you seen her?”
I shook my head, “No.” and watched as his face became so full of sadness, a sadness I had never recognized before. It threw me for such a loop that I ran into my room, closed the door, and went on hunger strike for the night, wiping fat tears off of my cheeks.
I hope that she was taken in by someone and given extra love, a collar with a bell, and premium wet food. Of course, if the worst had come to pass and she had been run over, mauled by a coyote, or any other horrible fate that comes to strays and outdoor cats, I hope that she died knowing how loved she was. I hope that wherever she is now, she can see me crying as I write this, an ode to my very first friend.
Puss N’ Boots watching birds in the living room.
I’ve had cats my whole life. Puss N’ Boots (who would still respond to his very first given name, Chester) was a black tuxedo who was put through the absolute ringer as the first cuddle-able pet of a small child. My grandparents didn’t monitor my playtime with Puss N’ Boots and, while he was never jabbed in the eye with anything or poked with needles, I really tested his patience. I dressed him up in doll clothes, made him do tricks in my “circus” (usually somersaults), and held him in a forced embrace until he would wiggle free. However, even with all of these moments and more, he ended his life with me in my first apartment, cuddling into the crook of my arm and watching Adventure Time. Growing up, he would wait for me by the window in the living room watching as I made my way to the door. He sat there, yellow-green eyes wide, front paws pressed together, the white of his belly protruding, and blinked slowly at me, allowing me to lift him into my arms and carry him to my room. I took him to the vet for the last time on a snowy January in 2020. I walked the hour home, empty carrier in hand, crying to myself as the snow grew stronger and stronger.
My grandma and I agreed to call snow “Puss N’ Boots kisses” from that day on.
Love ya, Puddin’!
There was little Tony, a rambunctious guy we adopted from the veterinarian. My grandmother made the mistake of telling me that there were kittens up for adoption there after she took Puss N’ Boots to the vet. My immediate response to that information was, “Well, where’s the new kitten?”
Right after I had calmed down with Puss N’Boots, Tony came into play making him miserable all over again. Puss N’ Boots did not offer Tony the same patience he offered me, often swatting him in the head and glaring at him when he came to cuddle me. My grandparents adored Puss N’ Boots but they especially adored Tony, probably because he wasn’t as attached to my hip as Puss N Boots was. He would run down the stairs and his stomach would drag, adding more momentum to the front of his body. When my grandfather passed away, Tony spent the first couple of weeks looking for him, yowling. He grew old rapidly after that, quickly gaining a limp, his chubbiness turning into unstructured flaps of skin, and his eyes becoming glassy. We all agree that he couldn’t hear or see very well in his old age. He lived to be older than Puss N’ Boots was and hung around to cuddle my grandmother and eat all of her snacks. He was put down in my childhood home with my grandmother by his side.
The face of a guy hanging onto the good things in life. Love you, Tim-Tam!
After my grandfather’s passing in May of 2020, I went home to spend the month of June with my grandmother. I look back at that time with a genuine fondness. It was nice to reconnect with her in a way I hadn’t and to live in my childhood home again, although it was jarring not having my grandfathers… complex presence there. Tony was still alive at the time, and he would sit by my feet while I taught my first graders on Zoom. I think he found it as ridiculous as I did, forcing first graders to sit down in front of computers and hammer letter sounds. I wish things had just stopped, period. Time slots for chatting with classmates, teachers, and coworkers you’ve missed, and lots of time to process.
Around the last week of my stay in Connecticut, an old friend posted a photo of an all-white cat with beautiful green eyes and grey dirt covering her body. They were asking if anyone would be willing to take her in.
Ms. Diva!
Much to the chagrin of my grandmother, the night I came home to Brooklyn, I grabbed Puss N’ Boots’s old cat carrier (his name still pressed on it with sparkly red stickers) went to my old friend’s basement, and wrangled Bianca, with her dazzling green eyes.
She spent the night in my bathroom, and I remained, cuddled up in the corner speaking sweet words to her. She was the most “cat” cat I’ve ever encountered in my life. Standofish, particular, and clumsy as all hell.
She was also incredibly pregnant and covered in fleas
Look at that belly…
She gave birth one steamy July to two black cats. I was making a Quiche Lorraine and I named them in that order. Quiche (the girl) and Lorraine (the boy). Quiche has a small white cravat under her chin and dustings of white beneath her armpits and on her belly. Lorraine has what looks like a flurry of white beneath his chin and a white “collar” around his neck if you look closely.
Watching the two of them be born, watching Bibi raise them, and checking all of the milestones off of my list has honestly been the highlight of my life so far. It was more impactful than my first dance recital, my first time reading my writing in college, and getting into grad school. I mean it when I say that nothing has come close to the experience of watching them grow. There were nights when Bianca would come to me, carrying her babies, placing them on my bed, and curling into a tight white ball, her two galaxies wiggling around her stomach for food. There were nights when I would have to hold Quiche in my arms, keeping her small body warm, trying to get her to latch onto her formula as Bianca watched intently and Lorraine… did whatever he did.
I was supposed to give Lorraine away but, with the fleas, and the length of time they spent together, it felt cruel. A Google search will tell you kittens become bonded after about three months and I was still battling the fleas at month four. I was relying strictly on Dawn Soap baths, as all of Google was filled with horror stories about kittens and flea medication, and Bianca had a horrible reaction to a medication I tried her on. I also struggled with the feeling that I was picking favorites, bouncing between abandoning one of these three creatures who took over my heart. Who had relied on me for so long.
Lorraine: Post-Bath
Of course, in hindsight, I could have separated them. It would have been the smart choice, less expensive. I will admit here and now that I was being selfish. I loved seeing the three of them together. I had grown so attached to them, and they had morphed into representing something abstract. I was living alone during 2020 and, while I had my pod, I came home to nothing but them, six eyes staring at me, three bodies keping me warm, reminding me that there is hope, that there is beauty. No matter how bad things get, there will always be kittens!
So, instead of making the smart choice, I asked my grandmother if she would like to take Bianca in, making it clear she didn’t have to but hoping that she would.
And she did.
I will say, to my credit, I also knew that Tony was beginning to get up there in age. With my grandfather’s passing and, Tony’s imminent passing, I wanted her to have a companion in the house with her. I felt that Bianca would be perfect.
Her arrival became a catalyst for a long list of drama between myself, my grandmother, and my uncle. Tony began to pee and poop outside of his litter box, a habit that my uncle attributed to Bianca, no matter how many times I said, “I never see Tony use the litter box when I’m home!” Things reached a crescendo when, after I made arrangements for Bianca to move into one of my friends’ homes, my grandmother retracted saying, “Tony is getting old, and I want to have company.” Miscommunication caused threats to call animal control and have her sent to a shelter. Thankfully, this was cleared up and Bianca is still with my grammy keeping her company, and trying to eat her bedside jelly beans.
Queen of the castle!
Right now, Quiche and Lorraine are lying on my bed. Lorraine is curled into a conch shell and Quiche is licking her underarms, revealing her white armpit hair. She likes to stay awake while her rambunctious brother is asleep, a chance for her to get whatever is on her to-do list done while he’s out of her way. She is extra happy today because I stayed home with a sore throat, and have been available for endless cuddles. She especially likes to curl up next to me when I’m in my papasan chair, the both of us drifting to sleep immediately. She’s a funny girl, coming off as indepenent but ultra-affectionate when no one is watching.
Lorraine is in shock and Quiche is seducing you ;3
No cat is the same. Some are chatty, some are lazy, and some are straight-up aloof. One thing does ring true: when they love you, when they feel safe with you, when they follow you around your house, when they meow at you for treats, when they disappear to sleep for hours and emerge with a stretch and a chirp, life feels pretty okay. I want to live as long as I can and meet as many cats as I can. I don’t care if that sounds depressing or stupid, because on the hardest of days, the coldest and loneliest nights, it’s them that keep me going.
It’s been years since I’ve opened you, Scalped you, Run a knife down your sides, Splitting you into fours with a satisfying Crrrrack. I pick you apart. Your juice stains my fingers and sprays upon my clothes. I wore white just for you. Your ice bath is ready, And I submerge you, White membranes floating to the surface, That spin and twirl as I message them loose. I remember someone once said that the white of your fruit was certain death, But now I know it only kills in bitterness and large doses. When you’re cleaned, I drain the soft pink water And devour you in hungry scoops, Shoveling seed after seed in my mouth, My tongue turns hot pink like strawberry taffy, My lips are a frost-bitten rabbit’s nose. I’d imagine that this is what a serial killer feels like. You’re the closest I’ll come to ritualistic cannibalism, In season and on sale, 2 for $8.
I’ve been eating so much pomegranate lately. The process of opening them gives me some sort of twisted release at the end of the day that I’ve come to really appreciate. What an amazing little fruit!
Now that we’re not friends I don’t have to hold back my pen I don’t have to cushion and spoon feed the truth I don’t have to be gentle I don’t have to pretend Now That we’re not friends I don’t have to find reasons to like that loser I don’t have to be gentle with my discomfort The only one interested in what he says The only one who hides their doubt Now that we’re not friends I don’t have to think twice Second guess and memorize Make sure how I’m feeling isn’t totally wild Talking to myself in a shot of tequila Now that we’re not friends Your choice, not mine I can move on with the memories Of you leaving me Confused Alone And begging
2024 was a year of major shifts and unexpected challenges. Everyone ran for their broom the moment the clock struck 12. I had my own share of problems, interpersonal struggles, work problems, and a handful of questionable beauty buys.
I’ve gone through a lot of different products this year, things that bubble, pinch, burn and flat out don’t work. While I swept those out the door, there were some things I couldn’t get rid of. Here are five beauty buys I’ll be bringing into the New Year!
To say that I’ve been exhausted this year is an understatement, and my under eyes have not been kind enough to let me fake it behind heavy concealer and Cuban coffee. Dark circles, puffiness, and wrinkles have made long nights and tough mornings impossible to hide. When I can’t put up with the raccoon look anymore, I reach for my Topicals under eye masks.I keep these patches on for a max of twenty minutes. Immediately after removing them, my eyes are much smoother and plump, the niacinimide coated patches smoothing out any fine lines.
I usually put them on before bed, and, by the time I wake up, the hyperpigmentation that made me look like I was two steps away from my grave is back to a manageable level.
It’s recommended to use these patches 2-3 times a week, and I keep them stocked in my fridge next to my homemade pistachio cold foam (more on that in a future post).
I’ve always thought that Toners were a gimmick. Make a big bowl of some mysterious liquid, put it into a pretty bottle, claim that it has some sort of miracle power that you have to add to your routine, and make lots of money.
The TirTir Milk Skin Toner has changed my mind completely.
It’s more than a toner. It’s a critical step to keeping my skin plump, moisturized, and smooth. I was struggling with so many little bumps all over my face, hard comedones that I spent thirty minutes picking at in the mirror. While there are still a few on my cheeks- it is nowhere near where it was when I bought the mini size.
Similarly to the Topicals patches, the TirTirMilk Skin Toner includes niacinamide (2%), which helps with plumping the skin. On top of that, there is panthenol, a humectant that helps to keep the skin barrier healthy and strong. I think the rice bran extract really adds an extra kick, and has been proven to calm inflammation and sooth irritated skin. I suggest that if you’re someone who suffers from stubborn bumps and combination skin you should give this a shot.
I always felt a bit insane for being the only one in the world that did not like Glossier You. It did absolutely nothing for me, and I assumed their two new releases would leave me disappointed as well. However, as I was in San Francisco searching the aisles of Sephora for something to tame my frizzy leave out, I saw their new releases. Their marketing team really works hard when it comes to their advertising and I am not immune to pretty flowers.
I’ve had this bottle since October and it still has quite a bit of product left.
This fragrance reminds me of hiding in between long coats and pressed slacks hanging in my Grandma’s closet. She always wore Samsara, a perfume with very similar notes. The difference with You Rêve is that it pushes the gourmand edge with the toasted almond and a touch of milkiness that makes it super unique. I finally understand the whole “smells like you but extra” thing and this scent is not leaving my rotation any time soon.
For my first big girl trip in 2024 (it’s never too late to start) I decided to get a sew in. Something 90s inspired with face framing and bumped ends. In the past, I had the perfect anti-freeze leave out blending combination that worked like a dream. This time, none of my go-to products were helping me blend my leave out.
I ended up spending most of my trip paranoid about frizz, hiding my hair under a hat, tucking it behind my ears, and stuffing it under a bandana.
This was about 20 minutes after I left the salon after my first install
The salon I go to, offers something called an STS treatment. I did a little bit of research, paced around my room, and said, “Screw it! Hair will always grow back.”
I was Elaine from the Love Witch for Halloween lol. This was maybe a week after my treatment!
I am so happy I made that decision. Not only does my leave out blend and remain blended even in the highest of humidity, but my hair itself is way more manageable. I know it’s a chemical treatment, and I know that patch of hair will be different until it’s all grown out, but right now it is all about convenience, and I don’t feel ashamed of that decision. I currently only have the treatment on my leave out but, I am considering going for it and applying it to my whole head for ease of styling.
I absolutely love the Milani Fruit Fetish Lip Oils! I didn’t realize how much of a staple they’d become until I was buying my third bottle.The shade range is wonderful, classic clear, bubble gum pink, and my favorite: a cocoa brown. These aren’t just my favorite lip product from this year but are my favorite lip oil/gloss period. My go-to colors are Coco Cacao, Lychee Nectar, and Honey Fig.
It’s on the thicker side in comparison to traditional lip oils, but I think the added thickness helps with its staying power. It doesn’t leave my lips feeling sticky, which is why I gravitate toward lip oils in the first place. They are also my most-complimented lip product in terms of taste which is a lovely bonus heh 😉
I’m excited to see if anything new enters my rotation this upcoming year! If you end up trying any of the products listed, let me know what you think 😛
It’s hard to write an “about me” when you’re still figuring out who you are. Instead of making a list of things to expect, or a quirky paragraph about my upbringing, and how it inspired me to get to where I am now, I decided it would be better to talk about why I am starting this blog in the first place.
There is no better feeling than listening to a song, reading a poem, or watching a movie, and feeling that artist peer into your soul, putting something into words you’ve struggled to communicate for God knows how long.
I don’t know myself entirely (and I am hoping to discover that through this outlet) but, what I do know is that I am a person who is perpetually lonely (no matter how loved they are), and so full of hope that I’m often pushed to naivete. I have always wanted my writing to reach those that feel similar to me, those lonely souls who have never been number one on anyone’s list.
I am going to be selfish, riddling my blog with random poetry, reviews, and generally disconnected whimsings. I am going to write because people care about what I have to say, and what I have to say needs to be heard.
This is a love letter to all of you and, most of all, to me.
gigi’s corner 