Maybe ten people read this blog. One of them is my best friend, another is one of my dad, probably with the help of some translation software. And that’s fine. I’m not quite ready to put this out into the world in a bigger way. Whoever finds it, finds it. For now, this place remains what it’s been: a quiet corner for writing as therapy, a kind of little memoir for me.
So here are a few things I’ve brought, moments I want to remember, either because I learned something from them, or because they helped me stay (more or less) sane through everything lately.
The color of the sky over Manhattan as we crossed the Brooklyn Bridge with Georgi.
The quiet relief of the first night my puppy slept without choking, after the pneumonia.
The screenshot of my best friend’s flight ticket from Budapest to New York, no words, just the date.
Saying I missed my Converse, then finding a pair on the street: my color, my size.
The taste of a salted caramel latte in my mouth when I realized I already had a favorite café here.
The bitter knot in my stomach that crept into my joy when I found out Geli and her partner are finally getting married, but I won’t be there.
The overwhelming love when I found out they’d FaceTime me into the ceremony.
The vast emptiness I felt when I saw cold cruelty in the eyes of someone I once loved, and realized they were exactly who my gut told me they were that very first night.
The pain of truth when I realized I’d been squeezing my eyes shut so tightly it actually hurt, just to keep myself from knowing what kind of person he really was, and that I did this to myself. Again.
Sitting in the grass with four Hungarian girls the universe accidentally placed in my path, feeling the first sun on my face after weeks of rain, knowing my favorite jeans would turn that gross green, and being genuinely happy I didn’t care.
The quiet awe of my puppy offering her paw, full of trust and her ridiculously cute little face, letting me pull out the thorn, knowing I’m her whole world.
Crying on the treadmill while staring at skyscrapers, because I’m going to the gym in the city of my dreams.
The soft ping of my phone when the airline refund came through, for the ticket I’m not using to go home.
The tightness of the hug when I said goodbye to my first New York friend, because me staying doesn’t change the fact that she still has to go.
The cold shock of realizing how alone I really am when I fainted and no one knew, and no one cared.
The strange pride of feeling like a real adult when I finally quit Ozempic, because if I feel this awful from it and something happens to me, no one else is walking or feeding the dogs.
Getting so lost in my book that I missed my stop and rode the subway all the way to the end of the line.
Running after a squirrel with my dogs, then spending fifteen quiet minutes gazing up at the tree it vanished into.
An hour on the train just to visit the shop I loved back home, to breathe in the scent I’ve missed, and buy a small slice of home.
Sitting beside a stranger on a private membership event, and realizing within two minutes that we’re dealing with the exact same sh@t-just when I thought I was completely alone.
Going on a hopeful date with a doctor-lawyer, listening to him talk absolute nonsense for three straight hours without saying a single word myself, and bursting into laughter when he said how great our “conversation” was.
When a homeless woman turned to my friend and, with a kind of quiet, childlike wonder, started talking about me-how my smile had brightened her whole day, and how he should hold on to me forever-and we both just stood there, shy and stunned, staring at her, staring at each other, staring at the ground, blushing and unsure what to say.
Presenting my business plan with shameless confidence and quiet devotion, and seeing people tear up when I spoke about my why, my mission. Crying with them.
That furious, impatient waiting right before liftoff, when everything is glowing and bracing and ready, and all that pressure that’s been boiling in me for weeks is just about to erupt. The stillness before the storm.
Feeling that beautiful, quiet power that comes only after vulnerability, the kind of strength only the cornered can summon, when there’s nothing left to lose.
To discover the side of me that I didn’t know existed. The one that doesn’t just plan revenge, but actually relishes every secret step along the way. Drawing strength from the image of their dumb smile fading the moment they realize…
Teaching myself patience, marshmallow test level 500. Saying nothing, staying silent, just doing the background work, the invisible parts, so that when the time comes all I have to do is sit back and take in the beauty of the avalanche I set in motion.
The lovely warmth of our morning ritual with old Angel out front smoking, my dogs wagging like crazy to greet him, me sighing, “You’re smoking again,” and him smiling through the smoke, “Morning, Mamma.”
Yes. These are the things I want to remember. On good days, for the humility that keeps me grounded. On bad days, for the strength and resilience that keeps me standing. And every day, every single day, for the unbreakable bond that ties me to those who are far away.