Thank You Mr. Saint-Laurent for the Puzzle Pieces, Battling Existentialism, the Fragility of Peace, Gratitude, and My Future

Dear Reader,

Thank you for your patience. I’ve been integrating—truly sitting with the work—so I can speak from the body, not just the page.

When I started this project, it was the end of summer. I was looping my second divorce and navigating finances, running on survival. I coped with alcohol, a busy schedule, and over-exercise.

Then came the pulled back and the foot surgery. Bed rest. I pushed even harder: finished a certification, met with authors, started writing like mad, and wrote like it was a deadline I owed the world. If my body couldn’t move, then my mind would have to take over.

I borrowed Picasso’s “one piece a day” method, romanticized it and turned it into pressure. I loved every minute of that anxiety-induced flow state and challenge. But I needed balance. I wasn’t kind to myself. It was the survival strategy I defaulted to: If something went wrong in my life, I was 100% at fault. I would punish myself, and it was a way to keep myself from making the same “mistake” that hurt me again. Little did I know, that self-flagellation was the mistake to address all along.

I’m largely out of survival mode now. The air is clearer. It’s crazy how healing works. It truly does get ugly before it gets better. And now, it’s like whatever filter I saw myself and the world has, has seismically shifted. I feel peaceful. Shame has lifted. I have immense hope for the future. There is no more tension. I feel like doing what I set out to do daily is as light as simply reaching for fruit off a tree. I’m not resisting and fighting myself in my mind anymore.

Now, almost everything; existence itself is flow.

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I’ve recently gone back to being more involved politically, speaking up again about change in the workplace, and most importantly, being really grateful. I want to take a moment to talk a little bit about that. I’m not trying to advocate toxic positivity. Trust me, I know more than most when it’s appropriate to be disappointed and channel that frustration to advocating for change.

But I’ve been wrestling with some deep questions as of late:

1. Why am I here?

2. Do I truly forgive my parents?

The first question is something that fundamentally, I believe strikes us all in the quiet moments: existentialism. We need to create hope and meaning. After all, that’s what differentiates us from animals, who can live on auto-pilot.

It’s hard to find the balance of tying our identity, or giving weight to one pillar of our lives over another. For instance, for me, now, as a single woman: My day-job, versus writing, versus other creative endeavors. And holistically, do I have a North Star? Do I truly need one to go on? The dangers of being married to any one of these things is that if I have a bad day at work, I may feel more discouraged about life in totality than I need to be. I never liked living disgruntled, negative, and pessimistic. I attach a lot of meaning into most things I do, work included, because I’m a passionate person.

Thinking of it as just a paycheck just isn’t possible for me, although I’ve said it a bunch of times to try and delude myself and come off as nonchalant as possible.

I also believe that we create routine, structure, and add more responsibilities to manage the anxiety that surfaces for us all (unless you are a sociopath, I guess) when we lack direction.

Perhaps my North Star is to simply continue being curious and learning. I think often, what comforts me is the fact that there is so much unexplored, that I simply don’t know. I’ll never be bored, that’s for sure.

On the second question—

I will be honest: I do forgive my parents. But I hesitate to share that, because I also don’t want to advocate victim-shaming/blaming.

Let’s be very honest, here: They abused me. Mentally, physically, emotionally. That’s not right.

But I do see that in the grand scheme of things, they were in survival mode. My mother is dead now, but my father is still trapped in survival mode. Same with my Grandmother. Narcissism is usually bred from immense trauma. Over 30 years of my life, I’m 100% certain I’ve acted out in narcissistic ways. We all have. I believe that most people do not set out to harm us. It’s a capacity issue.

The solution is turning empathy inward first to heal and radiate it outward, but that requires a safe space.

My father does not have the opportunity to regulate his nervous system, and reflect. He simply does not have the tools to face his demons. How could he? He is an illegal immigrant working 6-7 days a week, with no benefits. As a Greencard holder (Permanent Resident), I was still referred to as an “Alien”. So what is he?

Particularly so in this political climate, he is a Second-Class, if not Third-Class citizen. Reminded of it every day.

I talked about overcoming Shame in my first ever post, which was appropriately for him: A Letter to My Father, and Every Dad Who Still Has Time.

I’d been turning it over in my head loads. Healing has taught me that boundaries are necessary for my well-being. So, I don’t really interact with him as much as I’m sure he’d like. However, there is no resentment left in my heart.

It took me a personal loan, moving away from everyone I know, and all of the expensive, painful and time-consuming solutions I’d detailed as my “Healing Cocktail” to reset my nervous system.

And when I fell into victim-hood, which happens to the best of us from time to time, I realized: I get to have this set of problems.

There will always be a set of problems for us to face and work through. That is life. Existentialism and inner child healing? Where I want to travel to, or live next? What career pivots I may want to make in the latter half of my life? If I want a partner and family, and if so, when? If I would rather bartend, model, or write outside of work? If I want to go back to school with more intent?

These are not things my father, and most illegal immigrants can ponder. He doesn’t have the luxury to.

And as insane as it sounds, I really didn’t know better as I made many life decisions before this year. I ran on empty; on survival mode, because that’s what survival does. It’s why I got married both times.

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After writing about Wulf, I paused on purpose. In that space, an important memory resurfaced.

I have a friend back East—Yves (real name), whom I endearingly refer to as Mr. Saint-Laurent. He’s engineering-minded; I’m the emotional free spirit who somehow still lands on her feet. We’ve taught each other a lot over the years: he slowed me down and protected my peace; I asked him to lean toward feeling and spontaneity.

He imparted well-earned wisdom he’d collected over the years about the fragility of peace, and numerous times challenged me to revisit the connections in my life. I convinced him to jump out of a plane with me.

When he first met me, he was moved: How was it, someone living so against the grain ended up living in the same apartment as he? Was his prescriptive way of living truly the way? Or was there another way? What even is success? Were we both in survival mode, but executing different strategies?

Over a year ago now, after he ended a whirlwind relationship, he said something to his ex that has followed me into sleep:
“I know you need a puzzle piece to feel whole. This could work if I gave that to you, but I can’t take a piece of me to complete you.”

I understood it in my head at first. After almost half a year now of intense trauma therapy, I understand it in my bones.

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So, reader I care about: I can’t give you a piece of me to complete this Memoir—not right now. I won’t open further the details about Wulf and me. Our pets are tender. The deaths in our families stay private.

I haven’t spoken to Wulf in a while; it may stay that way. I’m not upset with him at all, and I will always be here for Wulf. I just think it’s time to not only process the past, and let it stay there.

I realized I’ve been handing out puzzle pieces from my body my whole life. I’m done. I’m resting, integrating, and planning a softer life that actually belongs to me—travel, goals with my name on them, and picking up old hobbies I put down. Most importantly, more time to simply be.

The cost? Almost my entire previous orbit.

I sat with every connection I had. Some I ended cleanly, because I knew that staying in that connection meant that I would have to be stagnant. Others I tested for repair. If a relationship couldn’t become equitable or emotionally safe, I let it go.

My filter was simple:

1. Is this equitable?

2. Do I feel emotionally safe?

I moved in May to Austin with a promise to myself: nothing comes before my healing. Not money, not momentum. Safety first. Any trauma therapist will tell you cPTSD loosens in safe environments and safe relationships.

Where conversations with people failed, I didn’t. It hurt, but I know what I bring to the table. If roles were reversed, I would meet the other with empathy and a willingness to look at myself. When that wasn’t returned, I chose me—without resentment. I let go with love. I didn’t allow myself to be guilted to stay; to give; to understand. To give so much leniency and space for the other party to be messy, and live in a small corner, accepting scraps.

Some relationships are chapters, and I honor them.

That’s adulthood: as children we needed people (our caregivers) to stay, in order to survive. But as adults, we have the luxury of choosing who stays and goes, and what kind of connections we foster.

We do not own people; we simply experience them.

What’s next: interviews for the Four C’s begin this week. As I weave the complexities together, I may share personal essays when they’re ready to stand on their own.

Peace is fragile. I won’t break off a piece of myself to complete anyone else. I’m going to move slowly, keep what must be kept, and not miss this life. I can’t look in the rear-view mirror and cry for the times I’ve lost; I have so much life left to live. I have so many people I’ve yet to meet, transform, and be transformed by.

I won’t break off a piece of myself to complete the Memoir faster than it can organically materialize. Just as a healthy relationship of any sort can’t happen without me being healthy, the Memoir, the physical, tangible representation of my life, needs space to breathe. It’ll take years and years for me to do my life justice.

I won’t break off a piece of myself to promise you a cadence. Art will bloom as it should. I want to say a post a week is doable. What if I have a bad week? Or even more appropriately, what if I’m too busy living my new life, now?

I’m so grateful that I did this project as 1:1 as I can: When I started, I said I’d bleed on paper if I must, and that truly reflected who I was at that time, even if it was just a month or two ago.

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Reader,

I never believed in “finding yourself”—perhaps that’s a symptom of cPTSD: My whole life, was not fully mine. But I do believe in building myself from where I stand today.

Thank you for being here. I’m excited to start telling you the story, for real now, next post.

But I will say, while I dearly love Austin, I think I need a change of scenery soon…