I haven’t posted in a while.
In broad strokes… I had some wildly important things to do.
I said goodbye to Rusty.
That last morning, I looked him in the eye and said: Don’t come anymore, if you can help it, because the new neighbours won’t be kind to you.
He hadn’t shown up in a few days, but that last morning— I knew he’d come to say goodbye, and he did.
I looked at those tiny diamond shapes on his feathers, and I told him I love him. We even made a
joke about that, that now, if he is a male, he definitely won’t come again after I said that, and I cried-laughed as we said our final goodbye.
I found a home.
Not just a place to stay, but a home. Mine, finally.
And here, I take my dog Eliott out without a muzzle because I’m no longer afraid someone will poison him.
I don’t rip my trash into unreadable scraps anymore because no one digs through it here. No one tries to decode my life from behind the curtain.
When we walk, no one watches, no eyes follow us.
Here, we are uninteresting. And that is safety, that is freedom.
Still, some nights, I wake up gripped in that old fear, the stomach-tightening, throat-closing kind.
But now, something incredible happens:
When I remember I’m not there anymore— that I’m far enough away— that he no longer has access—a tiny miracle happens: I fall back asleep.
I don’t feel brave, and that’s because I’ve mastered fear; it’s just because I don’t need to be brave anymore. Here, I am just simply not afraid.
I believe the past eight months have made me a better writer. Because what doesn’t kill you sharpens the pen, right? Breaks you open in just the right places to let the light leak through the page.
But here’s the thing— I don’t want to become a better writer anymore. This is enough. Thank you for the training, but it was f-ing enough.
Tonight, I watched the sky shift from fire-red to soft, rosy pink. Tonight, even the sky is on fire.
From now on, I want to write from a place of joy, lightness, and freedom, love, and all the feelings I haven’t had to feel in a long time.
Let me be just a little bit of a giddy, cliché love story writer. Let me enjoy this breath—this moment— right here in my very own New York apartment.
Of course, it’s not a fairy tale. On my very first night, I met two cockroaches, and the next day, I saw two more. I called pest control, asked them to use a pet-friendly method, and when I talked to the guy, something inside me broke again. I wasn’t sad, but he kept trying to comfort me— “Don’t worry, we’ll fix it, it’s not that bad.” I wanted to say, if you could ever imagine what kind of cockroach I had to deal with in the past months, you wouldn’t believe that I’m actually scared of the real ones… but I couldn’t explain to him that this wasn’t stress; on the contrary, it was joy.
I was nearly crying because I was happy, as this was now my biggest problem. It wasn’t fear, being watched, hunted, or exposed; it wasn’t the endless fight for safety. It was just a bug. That’s it. A small, definitely ugly but harmless creature, and that’s the only thing that rattled me.
My nervous system doesn’t know how to compute this yet, but slowly, it’s starting to learn.
Tonight, I ran with Eliott. In the dark, just us and the city. Yes, we actually went out after sunset, and didn’t scan every corner of the street before I even dared to exhale.
Eight months. Eight months of holding my breath.
And now, I just stepped out of a two-hour soak with a Lush bath bomb—again, the first in eight months. God, I missed that feeling of sinking into warm water, as if it were a language only my body understands. Of letting those eight months melt from my skin. I watch the soft folds of my fingers dance across the keys as I type.
From the bath, I purchased a virtual business address to protect my actual address. To guard my sanctuary, to claim my actual home as sacred.
I stacked all the books I’ve gathered into a Christmas tree shape, wound lights and baubles through it, and placed it right in the centre of my living room. Now, I have a book Christmas tree at the beginning of November, because why not? Nothing makes sense anyway.
After the run and the bath, I called my dad and showed him the view; we stood together, staring out the window. I cried, he cried, because I’m safe, his only daughter, 8000km away, alone, and finally—safe.
After the death of my Ellise, I used to say, “Now I just have to get through life because everything I could lose, I lost.” I no longer believe that. My heart still breaks, and I still grieve Ellise. I still carry the ache, and I would give everything, absolutely everything – literally, I would give my whole life just to be able to spend one more day with her.
But I don’t just get through life now. I want to live it.
And what I still have now, I want to keep. Please let me keep it. Please, don’t take this from me.
To be able to keep what I have, you won’t see photos of this new life. I wish I could show you the view, the books, the lights, all the cute homie stuff I created here, but I’m not allowed to post from this place, from this area. So, I won’t post a picture, but, as always, I invite you to join me through words. You won’t see it, but I promise, you’ll feel it.
Come with me.
Let’s lie on the rug, wrapped around Eliott; he is snoring softly, dreaming of something I’ll never know— his little paws twitching, like we’re still running. Stroke his soft little head, his sweet, floppy ears, let’s soothe him together. Let him feel it— that he’s safe now. That we’re here. That we’re not going anywhere. We’re not running anymore, my sweet boy. We’re not running, we’re not escaping. Not anymore.
Come sit with me by this wobbly, glowing book-tree I built right in the middle of my living room—this messy little tower of stories and stubborn hope, laced with fairy lights and magic—and try, just gently, to pull one book from the middle, just one that calls to you by the feel of its spine, and do it slow, like the whole real-life Jenga tower might collapse if you breathe too loud. Let’s see which story finds you.
It’s the book-tree glowing in the evening. It’s the city lights, it’s the sky burning pink-gold just before sleep.
It’s laughter, it’s soreness. It’s tears cried from genuine joy. It’s freedom. It’s grief. It’s rebuilding.
It’s nothing perfect, but everything real.
So come on in. Be a little weird, a little broken, a little hopeful, a little loud, a little still lost, but partly found.
Be with me. Be in it.
I wanted to say, this is the end, but f@ck no, it’s nowhere near. It’s just the nightmare that is over now, and this is the after.
I am free. This is what happened. That’s why I didn’t post, and that’s why I post too long now.
Thank you for being here. 💛 And…Welcome home.
