Vienna, Last Night: 2025 Wrapped

When I started my divorce, my ex and I both agreed: the rest of 2025 would be the worst year of our lives. But it didn’t end up being that way.

Tonight is my last night in Vienna. I’m stuck in my hotel room with semi–food poisoning (a glamorous ending, as always), and somehow I’m still in love with this city. Vienna did something to me. Of all the places I’ve been so far, this is the one where I healed the most. I suspect it’s the art.

Tomorrow I’m off quite early for a day trip to Budapest. At least the long ride will give me some time to deep work. And hopefully, I don’t shit myself again.

After that—another country, TBD. Unfortunately, I’ve been receiving an influx of creeps on Substack, but that’s okay, because the block feature exists.

But before I keep moving, I needed to take inventory. I needed to re-cap my year.

Because when I look back now… yeah. I’m pretty fucking tired.

But I’m really happy. And I’m really proud of myself.

In 2024, I fell in love with someone who was still figuring out who they were. And I truly gave it my all, to a younger person I wanted to see fly. No matter what happened between the beginning and the end, I know our intent was good at the start. I’d spent years caretaking for others, and I still opened myself up to a second marriage. I’m proud of myself for that.

And when we split—when he had his family, and multiple properties, and a whole infrastructure to fall back on—I’m proud of myself for being brave. For packing up all my things from the ghost of our marital house, grabbing my Big Ass Dog, and taking a chance on myself to go to Austin, Texas… for a job opportunity that wasn’t even guaranteed.

I’m proud of myself for ending that chapter with a final act of forgiveness and kindness.

In Austin, I’m proud of myself for taking that Big Ass Dog on a seven-mile walk/run every day, promising to give her a better life. (And actually doing it.)

I’m proud of myself for going back to Pilates after years of no contact with any human being other than my ex-husband. I’m proud of myself for showing up every day—even on the days I felt like collapsing.

I’m proud of myself for filing that divorce and not missing a single deliverable on the way. I’m proud of myself for taking modeling gigs, working hard at that not-guaranteed job, and still growing at it. What was supposed to be a 3 month contract ended up being a year and a half so far. And I’m still absorbing, learning, and growing.

I’m proud of myself for walking into the doors of trauma therapy and admitting I had a serious sleep problem. I’m proud of myself for telling my story in front of veterans, even as my voice shook. I’m proud of myself for keeping up email relationships with the people I met in both Divorce and Trauma groups—because connection is medicine, and I’m learning how to take it without overdosing.

I’m proud of myself for using myself as a human guinea pig for PTSD healing—trying everything, paying for the expensive modalities, collecting the data, and still staying honest about what worked and what didn’t. I’m proud of myself for starting to write. For sharing what I learned with the people I met in those groups, even on the days I doubted myself. And every time I see one of those vets on Instagram, posting, enjoying their life, I tear: because even when one of those old-heads post 50 photos in a single day I get it, man. It feels real good to enjoy life again.

I’m proud of myself for getting my citizenship.

I’m proud of myself for finishing half of the certifications I set out to do this year. I didn’t do it all—but hey, I did my best. That’s okay. Perfection is just another nervous system habit pretending to be ambition. And I slowed down. I think having over 20 certifications is enough for a little while. Plus, we all have new AI tools to learn every day.

I’m proud of myself for taking the leap into sharing my story, little by little: first on Instagram, and now here—on Substack—where the truth has more room to breathe.

I’m proud of myself for putting myself out there in Austin as my full self. For sitting with stranger after stranger and building friend groups that will last a lifetime. For letting people see me without auditioning.

And I’m proud of myself for breaking up with all the friendships that didn’t work for me. I’m proud of myself for stopping to take so much responsibility for other people’s lives.

I’m proud of myself for all the volunteer work and donations I’ve done this year, even while I was struggling financially. I knew in my heart things would work out, and they did. I refused to let fear make me selfish.

I’m proud of myself for trying to date again—and giving that my all, too. And I’m proud of myself for realizing I deserved better than the people I was choosing. For walking away with kindness.

I’m proud of myself for flying to Greece and meeting Ali. I’m proud of myself for the Substack group I started with and . I’m proud of myself for never missing a day of therapy—even when there were days I physically couldn’t get out of bed.

I’m proud of myself for realizing neurodivergence was nothing to be ashamed of. For realizing I had to start speaking up about it, because me “avoiding the label” meant I was really, actually ashamed. And more people need to know we have so much to offer—under the right environments. For every person who’s ever heard, “But you don’t look neurodivergent,” I want to be the one who says: that’s called masking. And it costs us.

I’m proud of myself for starting this World Tour, because I’m not running from anything. It’s the opposite: I’m running toward myself. I’m proud of myself for crying at the airport when I got Global Entry—hugging the TSA agent that used to scare the shit out of me. Even when I got my green card, traveling was still deeply traumatizing. I never felt safe until I got my citizenship.

I’m proud of myself for going up to strangers in Mexico and Panama, and also, making Travel Friends that will hopefully last a lifetime, just by being as silly as possible.

I’m proud of myself for refusing to collapse when the world bet against me. I look back at this Memoir I’m stitching, I look back at this year—and last—and the years before that—and I see how every time something happened, I said, “Bet.” I picked myself up and went back at it the next morning.

But most of all?

I’m proud of myself for how much I’ve been crying while traveling. Properly grieving it all. My lost childhood. My failed marriages. The years and years of memories coming back to me that I refused to avoid.

Because wherever you go, there you are.

There are two things that are very true about me right now:

I am a work in progress.

I am a fucking masterpiece.

And no matter what happens next, I’m ready.