I point at the two empty stools by the bar and ask if I can have them. The maître d’ asks if I am a guest, and I shake my head. She winks at me and leads me to the bar, pulling a chair out for me. The front bar at The Ritz is full. I am meeting a woman I have never met. A blind date for friendship.
The bartender smiles at me in a boyish, charming way and asks me what I’d like to drink. I slowly read through the menu to fill time and settle on the pinot noir. A soft, smooth and easy wine to keep me company while I wait.
It’s the first time that I am out at night in Paris since I arrived two weeks ago. It is getting cold, but I want to feel good and am wearing my favourite silk and lace mini dress that I thrifted in NYC in the summer and a dusty pink cashmere sweater that I bought the day before I left.
New York is still etched into my heart with pangs of nostalgia that I’ve never experienced before. But here I am in Paris instead and actually happier about it than I had imagined. My new friend arrives, dispelling my thoughts of the past few months, tiny and elegant, dressed in all black from bottom to top.
Black heels, a long black pencil skirt, a black cami, and a black sweater wrapped around her shoulders. She apologises for being late, orders the same wine, and we begin to exchange stories. She’s from Texas and, after a career in the oil and gas industry, has moved to Paris to be with her fiancé and embark on her ‘soft woman’ era. She shares some sentiments about learning to purposely drop some balls in her life to find true happiness. It was a slightly different argument than saying “you can’t have it all,” and it has stayed with me until this morning.
It was this summer, right after my breakup, that I declared to my friend, “From now on, I’m half-assing everything!”. I had poured so much of myself into the relationship, into the move to New York, into the life that I thought I had been building with someone that I loved.
All my life, I have given the things that I love maximum commitment and effort, but it has not made me happy. I decided that perhaps what I needed to do instead was to start half-assing everything and deciding that that is enough.
‘Enough’ has become a mantra these past few months when I consider aspects of my current lifestyle that feel messy or half-assed but are otherwise contributing to my day-to-day functioning. My lack of food in the fridge or of proper mealtimes. My haphazard attempt to consistently produce work that results in income. My uncertainty about where I am supposed to live. My attempts at staying in touch with the people I love, which had been discriminatingly narrowed down to only those who can meet me at a level of self-awareness and maturity that matches where I am headed. My insufficient sleep patterns as I slowly return my nervous system to homeostasis after the most activating few months of my life.
Whatever it is, my effort, care, patience, limitations, love, appreciation, hope… is enough. It has to be. Because I have realised that just because something could technically be better or done better or more efficient or more perfect doesn’t necessarily mean that it has to be. That better doesn’t make me happier. But that accepting an imperfect, messy life and letting that be enough does.
This morning, sitting in my bed looking out this window, writing these words to you, I appreciate how completely letting go and letting myself do things in this more lax and half-assed way has led me here. Living in the fifth arrondissement in central Paris in a beautiful two-bedroom apartment with high ceilings that I have sublet until the New Year, hopefully giving myself enough time for parts of my life to settle and replenish in ways I need them to before I have to make any further decisions about what is next.
It is writing and the art of noticing that have offered me the calming ability to see the agency I do have in my life. Writing has held a thread of self-respect for me in a time when it felt like everything I had had fallen apart. It has shown me that what is really happening is that my life is finally falling together.
grab your favourite drink and settle into your cosiest corner… this is a big update
It’s 18:25 (that’s 6:25 pm for my American friends) and I’m almost horizontal on the floor-level white sofa, laptop perched on my thighs, a handful of hazelnuts in my left hand, slowly popping them into my mouth while typing with the right. A glass of sparkling water with lime is within reach on the white square Ikea coffee table—a table I’ve met many times, in many different places.
The forecast says SUN 🌞 for the week ahead.
But I’ve been tired.
The dream-state of arriving somewhere new has started to wear off. I’ve been in Manhattan six weeks today. And while it is thrilling, trying to start a life in a brand-new place demands every form of resource: emotional, mental, financial, energetic.
Slowly, we’re finding our little rituals, the things that make a place feel like home.
The Bhakti Yoga Centre has been a saving grace, offering respite from emotional strongholds on most days. Sundays have become sacred: dropping off our compost at Tompkins Square Park, stopping by Cafe Christie for a flat white and croissant, then visiting the farmers market for locally-grown, organic produce.
Felice (pronounced fe-LEE-che, FYI) scolds me for paying $10 for two large heirloom tomatoes, so I refrain from telling him about the $11 yellow zucchinis. But supporting local farmers is the dream, no? Isn’t that what we believe in, as small business owners?
A quick note on F: he’s more private than I am. So, out of respect, you won’t see him in my content. From here on, I’ll refer to him as F because typing “my boyfriend” or “my partner” too many times feels… effortful.
Fridays, we explore somewhere new. In between, life rolls on with both of us tapping away at our projects in different corners of our Lower East Side studio. Me, on the sofa. Him, at the little kitchen table. I’m grateful. We landed a place in a city where housing is notoriously hard to come by.
F knows the owners, so we’re subletting. But it’s a downgrade in quality of life. We’re paying the same to live here (where the shower is in the living room (!?)) as we were in our separate one-bedroom apartments.
And as someone who thrives on solitude (want me to be happy? leave me alone for 6–8 hours), this transition has been… bumpy. I’ve been mitigating it with long walks (including to Whole Foods, where I can wander in peace), and by tucking into the sanctuary of yoga classes.
But what really makes it hard to relax? It’s not clean. The dust on the radiators is a finger deep. If I wipe the floor after dropping something, the cloth comes up black. I spent days scrubbing the toilet to stop its smell from permeating the whole flat. It’s tidy, and it’s cute. But honestly? I want to ask if we can deep clean the entire place in exchange for a month’s rent. Wash the sofa covers, clean the rugs, scrub every surface.
Have I become my mother? Maybe.
Soon, we will have to leave again. This weekend, we started planning the summer.
As part of our visa process, we’ll need to return to Europe for an embassy interview in Vienna. Since I’m a saltwater-and-sun child, I gently requested that we make the most of it by working from somewhere in the Mediterranean for a month or two.
But before that: London!
I’ll be there for five days — June 26 to 30 — and I’d love to connect with those of you nearby.
taken on my analog camera in 2022 while on a date near London’s Kings Cross
her way club picnic — you’re invited! 𓂃 𓈒𓏸 𓇼
Saturday, June 28 on Hampstead Heath Bring a blanket, some snacks to share, wine or cider if you like, and let’s have a sweet, easy picnic together. Partners, besties, furry loves — all welcome. A casual hangout, IRL connection, and a little midsummer joy.
I have one spot open for a half-day business intensive while I’m in town. These used to book out months in advance! If your name is being whispered by this invitation, reply and I’ll send you the details.
One of my recent IRL clients said:
“I worked with Vienda for support in my writing coaching business. With her guidance, I reached a new height, achieved a long-held goal, and signed a $6k client in just a few weeks. Throughout the process, I felt seen, heard, held, and safe. Her trust in me helped me trust myself more — the definition of a believing mirror.”
london-based brand? let’s collaborate! ☼✧𖦹
I’ve got one free day in London and would love to team up with a local brand for a collab. I’ve got a list of ideas… if this sparks something in you, reply and I’ll send them over. Let’s make magic together.
let’s collaborate — online & in real life ˚⋆𓇼˚⊹
At the start of this year, I lost my Instagram account — a space that had been home to a decade of connection, creative expression, and community. It was a weird kind of heartbreak, but also a gentle push in a new direction. One that has reminded me of something essential: we are meant to build things together.
Since then, I’ve felt a deep desire to actively rebuild — not just my online presence, but the relationships and creative kinships that make this work so meaningful.
For the first time in years, I feel ready and excited to stretch back out into the world. I want to collaborate. I want to guest post. I want to be on your podcast. I want to create shared magic — whether that’s through art, words, events, education, slow business, or joyful things we haven’t dreamed up yet.
No one is too small. If you’ve got a fledgling Substack, a niche brand, a soulful offering, a quiet podcast, or a burning idea, let’s talk.
I’ve kept a lot of myself close since my burnout in 2023, but now it feels like the season to reach out again and co-create with people who care deeply and are doing beautiful, thoughtful things.
Whether you’re based in London, NYC or somewhere I’ve never heard of… whether you want to do something online, in person, or somewhere in between… please reach out. I’d love to hear what you’re working on and see how we can support each other’s visions.
Let’s build this new era together.
other work-related news:
Running The Art of Noticing recently and now The Way She Knows has reinvigorated my desire to bring women together in soft, sacred, expansive ways. They have both been such special containers and Her Way Club is starting to take on a shape of her own making. Meanwhile,Plannher is having a sweet renaissance (only a few hundred final copies left!), and The Mentor Training is getting a full upgrade: a new teacher, deeper content, more accessible than ever. Becasue leadership with heart and integrity feels more important than ever in a world of half-human robots.
Speaking of robots…
On Sunday one of my besties from London sent me an AI prompt to do a holistic health analysis based on a recent photo. I normally avoid AI, but this was fun and surprisingly spot-on.
Here’s the prompt if you want to try it too:
Analyse my face as a professional: physiognomist, nutritionist, psychosomatologist and women’s health expert. Please tell me:
How old I look visually
What deficiencies and internal conditions are visible through facial features
What to pay attention to for women’s health
What psycho-emotional state may be influencing my wellbeing
What character traits or conflicts are expressed in my face
What lifestyle/diet/rest/belief changes you recommend, and a suggested plan.
I know it’s a little ironic to take personal health advice from a robot but honestly, it offered some unexpectedly valuable insights. Nothing groundbreaking, just gentle reminders I already knew, but really needed to hear from an outside perspective. I’ll definitely be weaving a few of them into my days.
ok, one last (also fun) thing!
F (who is 8 years younger than me and doesn’t remember the pre-emoji era — jk, kind of) asked how I decorate my digital world with symbols. I told him I keep a running list in my Notes app. So here it is—for you, and for him (hi F!).
CURRENT FAVOURITES
← ↑ → ↓ °C ½ ⤵ ✓ ◯ ◠⋒≋ 𖦹☟ ☼ ✧ 𓂃 𓈒𓏸 𓇼 இ 🝦 ஐ ˚⋆𓇼˚⊹ 𖦹 ⁺。° ☾ ☀
Phew! Is there anything else? Probably lots, but this is not my secret diary entry, so some things must remain close to my heart.
Thank you for being here with me. You, who make up this community, who have become my readers, allys and viewers are so incredibly thoughtful, loving and kind and it means the world to me.
The task is simple and deceptively difficult: What did you do yesterday?
We have always been curious about the lives of others.
Long before television and tabloids, we craned our necks at windows, imagined stories behind closed doors. That impulse to know, to glimpse, to understand is ancient. We are, all of us, secret witnesses, seeking reflection, seeking difference, seeking the tender knowledge that we are not alone.
“Ah,” we think, “so this is how another human moves through the day. How strange. How ordinary. How marvellous.”
Most of us, if asked, would call our days unremarkable. We would point to the routines, the errands, the silences, and shrug. But presence alters the lens. What once seemed plain is suddenly flooded with texture:
The amber glow of morning through the blinds. The brief pleasure of a spoon against the roof of the mouth. The idle reaching for a book, for a thought, for another hand.
A life, it turns out, is made not of milestones, but of minutiae.
It was this quiet revelation that shaped this week’s assignment in The Art of Noticing, the six-week writing club I am leading. The prompt is borrowed, with gratitude, from Aisling Marron of Notes From New York, who herself was inspired by a podcast of the same name.
The task is simple and deceptively difficult: What did you do yesterday?
No digressions. No rewinding or fast-forwarding. Only the bare, shining truth of a single day, as it unfolded.
Here is mine:
7:00am My boyfriend’s alarm goes off, the buzz slicing through the heavy fog of my sleep. I roll onto my side, eyes gritty, my head thick and stuffed with cotton wool. Regret clings to me immediately. Regret for the ambitious plans I agreed to, for not protecting the softness of this morning. But I am an adult and adults honour their commitments, so I climb down the ladder from our loft bed, bare feet pressing onto the cool wooden floor. I pull my aligners from my mouth, soak them in their cleaning agent, put the kettle on, and drop an ‘immune support’ Yogi tea bag into favourite mug. I find my tiny jar of Egyptian Magic and bring it and the tea to the sofa. My face aches, pulsing with the imprint of too-little sleep and the too-salty dinner from the night before. I settle into the cushions and begin to massage my lymph nodes slowly — chest, neck, jawline, cheeks, scalp — coaxing the fluid back into its pathways, feeling the swelling subside little by little. These small, tender rituals make me grateful for everything I’ve learned about how to tend to myself.
7:30am My boyfriend finds me curled up on the sofa, kisses me. “How did you sleep?” he asks, and I reply “Fine”. I stretch my arms overhead and yawn, “The problem with making plans ahead of time is you never know how you’re going to feel when they arrive.” I splash warm water on my face, wipe off the leftover balm with a soft cloth, and brush my teeth, waking myself up bit by bit. He laughs and mixes creatine into two glasses of water — one for each of us. We sit shoulder-to-shoulder as I quickly scroll through my social apps, answering urgent messages and uploading the next The Art of Noticing lesson for my writing club. “Let’s go for coffee!” he suggests, and I peel myself away to dig through drawers in our little walk-in wardrobe, finding black leggings, a soft, sky-blue yoga tank, and my favourite Free People fleece that still smells of Portugal.
8:15am As we descend the narrow staircase of our building, he tells me in hushed tones about how he heard someone fiddling with our lock in the night. A chill prickles up my spine; New York feels wild and unpredictable. We agree to tell the landlord, unsure how concerned we ought to be. Our favourite coffee shop is tucked just under our building, but he’s craving a vegan croissant, so we detour to Essex Market, the morning still crisp and pale. When we arrive, the market is shuttered, the gates still pulled down. Even New York, it seems, has its limits. By the time we return, the coffee shop has filled with people; there’s a queue spooled inside. We squeeze in, order two coffees and a few treats: a tahini cookie and oat cappuccino for him, a flat white and buttery croissant for me. I’m still hollow from yesterday’s hunger and bite into the pastry peeking out of the paper bag before the coffees arrive.
9:00am I log onto Zoom for a meeting with an alumna from The Mentor Training. As we speak, my sluggish mind lifts into a higher orbit, buoyed by the energy of possibility. I remember — oh yes — I have built things, beautiful things. I have made worlds out of ideas. It’s so easy for me to forget, to always chase the next horizon without pausing to admire the view. Having it mirrored back to me reignites a quiet fire inside.
9:45am We end the call with a plan and a few fresh objectives, and I scramble around our tiny LES apartment gathering keys and my phone, throwing back a glass of water before running to yoga class. I arrive breathless but just in time. The teacher welcomes me warmly: she’s tall, with a fluid grace, long stretchy limbs, and a soft accent that feels instantly soothing. She gestures for me to grab two blocks and a strap, and I find a space right at the front. A man plops down beside me at the last moment. Round-bellied, bald, but adorned in a pink ballerina-style outfit, bright red lipstick and nails to match. I smile to myself: we’re all girls here today.
10:00am We begin on our backs, breath deepening, bodies sinking into the earth. The teacher’s style is light and casual, her voice weaving through the room like a ribbon. As we move into slow sun salutations, I feel the two decades of practice unfurling in my muscles, a familiar dance. Movement practices like yoga are an anchor for me, a home I can return to no matter how much the outer world shape-shifts. By the end of class, every inch of me feels stretched and rinsed clean. I thank the teacher quietly, wipe my mat with a lemon-scented towelette, and slide my Birkenstocks back on, feeling the earth a little closer beneath my feet.
11:30am A 10-minute voice note from my bestie is waiting, so I pop my headphones in as I wander home, the city buzzing around me. I duck into a small beauty boutique and marvel at the rows of glass bottles and creams before finding my beloved Italian leave-in conditioner. $42, I am willing to invest in. As I browse, I send her a stream-of-consciousness voice reply, not to inform but to process; our sacred girlfriend ritual. It’s therapy in miniature, given and received without expectation.
11:45am By the time I get home, I’m ravenous. I find my boyfriend deep in work at the tiny kitchen table and ask if he wants to share a picnic. He nods silently as I pull guacamole, purple corn chips, and baby carrots from the fridge. I slice tofu, arrange everything on a big plate, and pour coconut water into tall glasses. We carry it all to the coffee table and sit cross-legged, eating with our fingers and laughing about nothing in particular. I love how easy nourishment can be when it’s shared.
12:30pm The shower is in the kitchen, a relic from the building’s pre-plumbing past. The hot water washes the morning away: tea-tree scented soap, a razor across my legs, a shampoo bar in my hair and afterwards my new leave-in conditioner combed through and coconut oil slathered on my skin with slow devotion. Fridays are for beauty, for romance, for the small Venusian acts of pleasure. I leave my hair to air dry, slip into shorts and a loose lounge top, and tidy the apartment, vacuum humming underfoot. I can’t sit down to work until my space feels clean and peaceful.
1:00pm I curl into child’s pose on the sofa to write emails, tucked into myself. Eventually, my legs go numb, and I unfold with a sigh. I tick through admin tasks for The Mentor Training, refilling my water glass now and then. Around 3pm, I hand my boyfriend a glass too, scolding him lightly for not drinking enough. We giggle about something small and silly, and suddenly, at the same time, blurt out, “I love you.” He pulls me onto his lap, wrapping his arms around me tightly. “I love this,” he says, forehead against mine. “Working quietly together. Laughing. It’s precious.” I press my palm to his heart, and we both turn to admire the little pot of spring flowers blooming vibrantly in the window, as if blessing the day.
4:40pm He has plans to meet a friend at 5:00pm, and I decide to tag along, craving fresh air more than another minute of screen time. I waste most of my twenty-minute warning scrolling, then throw on a dress and sneakers, and wipe a lip tint on, and we’re out the door. We meet his friend at Essex Market and order drinks — matcha latte for me, iced decaf for them — and wander through the golden slant of late afternoon. I find myself distracted by the light bouncing off the buildings, the life vibrating in the streets. We wander through hidden galleries, a park filled with wildly competitive ping pong matches, and a tiny poodle who decides to befriend me. On a tucked-away corner, I discover Casetta, the sweetest wine bar, and instantly decide we must return for date night.
Casetta
6:00pm We stop at a market to pick up a baguette, some hummus, pico de gallo, and tiny, perfect avocados. Bread in NYC is standard stale (why?) but we take our bounty home for a second, casual picnic at the coffee table, layering pesto and arugula and salt on thick slices. We eat quickly, laughing and stealing bites from each other’s plates, knowing we have to leave soon for our night at the Whitney.
7:50pm The Whitney is alive, packed with people, more than we expected. It’s a little overwhelming trying to see the art through the thick crowd. Still, some moments shine. I overhear a girl say to her boyfriend, “You have marathons, I have stairs,” as we climb to the rooftop, and I laugh in solidarity. And at the top the whole city stretched out in luminous twilight. He pulls me close, kisses me with a rare, wild tenderness, and I feel something invisible and important shift between us.
8:45pm We meander back downtown through SoHo and into LES, the streets thick with nightlife now, music spilling out of bars and windows flung open. New York shape-shifts after dark, but I don’t feel the pull to join it. I feel full already — full of the day, of the hours stacked like soft, golden bricks inside me.
9:30pm We tumble onto the sofa and watch the latest episode of Severance, my body warm and heavy with tiredness. Afterwards, I move through my nighttime rituals: wash my face, brush my teeth, click my aligners back in. We climb the ladder into our loft bed. He wraps himself around me protectively, and I sink into his warmth, into the safety of our tiny kingdom, asleep almost before my head touches the pillow.
Was it a good day? (They always ask that on the pod.)
Yes — it was an excellent day. A day stitched with small joys: pastries and coffee, sunshine on skin, a body stretched long and sweet in yoga, easy laughter shared across a tiny kitchen table, a museum kissed by sunset, the heavy, sore satisfaction of a life well-lived inside an ordinary Friday.
This is a story about my cat who is the love of my life and if it’s not your thing I suggest not reading it but it’s the only way I can process my broken heart right now.
MAR 28, 2025
I wake at half past six in the morning with tears. I try to brush them away but they quell under my closed eyelids and start to wet my face. I get up and go to the bathroom to dry them and blow my nose. Not right now, I think to myself and get back into bed, chest rampant with grief.
Half an hour later the alarm goes off and my boyfriend stirs. He’s leaving for New York this morning. I curl up into his arm and we cuddle in silence for a while exchanging few words. I can tell he is distracted with his day ahead. I don’t mind.
I have my own inner world to tend to.
He gets up, dresses and places the final things into his already-packed bags. We embrace and kiss a few more times, and I ask him to keep me updated on his journey. “I’ll get everything ready for you for when you come”, he smiles tenderly. “Ok,” I reply, “I’ll bring all the fun”. We kiss one last time, and he walks out the door.
Finally, alone. I can grieve.
I can’t believe I let go of my baby!!! I sob out loud to myself. The waterfall of sadness that has been pressing against the edges of my body begins to pour out. I had cried, but in more restrained ways, up until now.
My baby, I keep saying between waves of tears. I’ve lost my baby. I start to clean the house. A well-meaning friend sends a photo from when he really was a baby, and it sets me off again.
I take the rug off the floor, put it in the washing machine and cry. It’s full of cat hairs. I wipe the surfaces, move the furniture around, and vacuum the remnants of cat litter sprinkled on the floor and cry. I strip the linen from the bed, mop the floors and cry.
I clean to move the emotions through my body. I clean to change the energy of my space after a week filled with big feelings. I clean for self-care to help stage my own letting go process. I clean, and I cry big, loud, ugly, sobbing tears.
We met almost exactly 6 years ago in Mexico.
There was a construction site where a big resort was being built between the old town and the jungle where I lived on the Pacific Coast. Walking home one day I heard high-pitched cries coming from inside the site which was taped off. The tape read ZONA DE PELIGRO. Danger Zone. The tiny squeals continued so I ducked under the tape and followed them. Between tools and sheet metal behind concrete bags, there was a tiny paw poking out.
“Hello, little baby”, I said softly as I crept closer and squatted down to see a tiny cat, ginger and white, with a bloodied nose and an injured front leg. I couldn’t leave him there like that, so I wrapped him in my sarong and placed him inside my basket, holding it closed to prevent his escape.
At home, I let him out where he carefully inspected the perimeter. A habit he kept every time we arrived somewhere new. I called a friend of mine who knew a vet. While I waited on the sofa, this tiny furry being jumped up and curled up into my arms. I’d never had a pet before, and I wasn’t planning on having one. I was too nomadic. It didn’t make sense.
The vet came almost immediately with cat supplies and food, and every day after, for seven days. Repairing his sprained leg and giving him protein shots and antibiotics to help him mend. I planned to let this little creature heal and then find a home for him. I named him Danger Zone for fun in the meantime in ode for where he had been found.
That first night, I put him to bed on the sofa, kissed him good night, went to my bedroom and closed the door. Moments later, I heard his tiny baby cries and paws pawing at the door. I laughed and let him in, surprised. Do cats normally want company this much? I thought to myself. We both settled into bed, me on my back, him wrapped around one of my legs and fell asleep.
Weeks passed, and then months.
I haphazardly looked for a home for him but in a country filled with stray cats, no one was particularly interested. Also, I was falling in love.
He had this endearing need, always wanting to be close, our bodies always touching. His presence was a gentle balm, softening a part of my heart that had calcified after my last breakup. His love was unfiltered and unconditional.
Separation triggered anxiety in him, his cries echoing up the street as soon as I turned the corner. I reshaped my life around him, trading some personal freedom for care, time together, and presence. My maternal instincts, once dormant, found new expression through him, one of nurturing and connection. Men I dated bristled at my devotion, struggling to compete with a bond they could neither understand nor replicate, a connection that prioritised his needs over theirs.
A year later, I knew it was time to leave Mexico.
I had career ambitions and dreams that couldn’t be met in the humid jungles I resided in. And I had him. Danger Zone Honey Bear. More Honey than Danger.
For a while, I toyed with finding him a home. Again. One day, on the phone with a friend who had noticed that I had become sullen and sad in our calls, he pointed out that I was likely depressed because I was thinking about separating from my cat. He was right, though I did not want to admit it.
Defying all logic, a decision born of pure emotion; impractical, perhaps even selfish, I decided to take him with me. I don’t regret that decision, even for a minute. I don’t think I would have survived what happened in the past five years without him.
We moved to Brighton in the UK for eighteen months and then to Mallorca, Spain, for another eighteen months, and then back to the UK for another eighteen months, where we toured the country for a while before settling in a cute little village in the forest. He loves being outdoors and having space to roam, so when the opportunity came to live in a cabin surrounded by nature, I jumped at it to give him a home that made him happy.
But I was not fulfilled.
There was so much more life I wanted to live and experiences I wanted to have, and being tied to a home for a cat made those things impossible. Though I tried. There is something in my makeup where my external environment and my internal journey are inexplicably intertwined. They always have been.
Different places activate different parts of my being, and I cannot access them without this key. I read so many articles on people judging this way of being as if I am seeking happiness in someplace new. But I am under no such illusion. I know that ‘better’ and ‘happier’ don’t exist out there.
That’s not what this is about. It’s that the essence of my soul is made up of everything on this earth, and to access those parts, I need to collect them in all the different places.
And so I tried to do it with him. Because I wanted to. Because however hard it was it was worth doing together. I put him through so much. Including a terrifying two weeks on a sailboat in an attempt to get to the other side of the world, together.
Because every time he is in my arms, he’s good. I’m good. Everything is good. Nothing else matters. Together, we were always fine. We have a secret language, this invisible thread that connects just the two of us.
In our six years together, he was my greatest teacher.
He taught me how to be present no matter what else was happening in and around us. He helped me heal my inner child by teaching me that his needs — for routine, for comfort, for affection, for attention, for safety and for stability — were also myneeds. He taught me boundaries by modelling a no-f~*ks-given attitude towards what he likes and doesn’t. He helped me heal my unhealthy patterns in romantic relationships by being so securely attached and available for love that anything less was no longer accepted.
When we ended up in Portugal, I was content for life to show me the next steps, as I always do. And it did. I met a man, fell in love and chose to build a life with him. Paid subscribers know the intimate details of this story so I won’t go into it here. Danger and I sublet a friend’s apartment, he grew fat because he had no outdoor space to run around in, and we were happy together.
When my boyfriend invited me to join him in New York I had to make a decision. In February, when I decided that, yes, I would go, I revisited something I had thought about before but wiped from my mind.
I went to work to find him a foster family. I posted on local community groups and asked friends to post on theirs, and a few weeks later, I met a lovely Mexican woman who was enamoured with taking him in as he, too, is Mexican. We met, and he met her and hated every minute because, of course, it was a strange new person in a strange new environment, but nonetheless ideal. She agreed to take him. Happy and relieved, I booked my flight.
Two weeks later, late at night, she sent me a text. She had gotten cold feet and wanted me to find him another home. My heart sank. I understood. Accepting an animal into your life is a big responsibility. I appreciate not taking it lightly. But it meant that I had less time to find something suitable.
I tried all the same methods, reached out to every friend I could think of, and asked everyone I knew locally for help, but no solution materialised. Stressed by both the decision and the process, I started looking up local organisations that could house him and found an animal protection agency in Lisbon with a promising reputation.
We email back and forth, have a phone call, and they offer to take him and find him a home and agree that I would bring him the day before my flight. A few hours later, an email landed in my inbox that said that if I wanted their help, I had to bring him the next day. Something about having space now and not later. When I read those words, I fell apart. It was too fast and too soon. I want as much time with him as possible. But I also need their help.
My boyfriend offers to go with me several times, gently reminding me that I don’t have to do this alone. I love him for wanting to be there for me, but this thing, I have to do alone. This is between Danger and me.
That afternoon I pack up his toys, put his favourite food in a plastic container and cuddled with him as much as I could. That night I hold him in my arms and try to imprint every detail about him into my memory.
His soft, silken hair. The way he places his paws on my hands. The way he sneaks up and puts his face on my face. The way he closes his eyes with pleasure every time I kiss him. He soft mews when he wants something. The quiet purrs when he’s nestled into my body. Every sweet gesture breaks me and makes me grateful for the time we have had together.
The next morning I get up, call an Uber, kiss and hug him one last time and silently put him in his carrier. I can’t speak. I cry the 45-minute drive to the agency. Once there, they get me to fill out some forms, pay for his medical requirements, and take him away. The process is sharp and painful. I hear him cry in alarm in the back somewhere, and my heart shatters. Empty and distraught, I walk out on shaky legs, sit on a concrete block and weep deeply. A woman comes down from a nearby building and touches my shoulder to comfort me. I am beside myself with grief and unable to remain composed. I call an Uber and cry the 45-minute drive home.
It’s been three days. Waves of grief bring me to my knees. I wonder if I made the right decision. I feel so much shame and doubt. But mostly shame.
It’s the little things that destroy me now.
The little flutter of excitement to see him that I get in my heart when I’m heading home. The little cat hairs he has left as souvenirs on every item of clothing. The little pitter-patter of his paws that followed me from room to room. The way I leave the bathroom door open a little because he always demands to come in. Sitting down anytime, anywhere, and immediately becoming his human cushion. Getting into bed and waiting for him to jump right in after me. But now he doesn’t.
Noticing is my favourite art form. It’s how I find beauty in the ordinary, meaning in the messiness, poetry in the in-between moments.
Writing has always been my way of capturing it all… of making sense of the world, of holding onto the fleeting magic that might otherwise slip away.
Starting on Sunday, April the 13th with the Full Moon 🌝 I am leading a 6-week writing club as an invitation into that practice. EB prices end on Sunday.
kind of, maybe, not really…? I really wanted to write that to see how it feels in case it turns out to be true
FEB 18, 2025
I’m sitting on the Ikea sofa in his living room, laptop balanced on my knees, pretending to work. Through the open door to his office down the hallway, I can hear his voice, steady and methodical, as he speaks with the electricity company to cancel his contract. Each call makes his impending departure feel more real.
The day we met he told me he was moving to New York in the new year. At the time it meant nothing. I was talking to a stranger on the wooden bench outside a cafe window.
But as coffee meetings evolved into sunset walks through cobblestone streets, as dinner dates transformed into intimate evenings on his sofa, as casual conversation turned into “Will you be my girlfriend?” – that once-insignificant sentence took on a weight I hadn’t anticipated.
He’s preparing to leave the country at the end of March. I’m not built for long-distance relationships – I’m either fully present or completely absent. So I am joining him a few weeks later.
One day, a few months after meeting, he was excitedly speaking about New York as we wove our way through the alleys to our favourite Saturday breakfast spot for coffee and cinnamon rolls. In my luteal phase, my emotions already simmering close to the surface, when tears welled to the surface.
We had discussed it before.
He had asked me to join him with such natural ease as if it were the most obvious next step. I had always dreamed of spending three months in New York – to live there permanently? I wasn’t certain. But to discover its hidden corners and explore its endless possibilities? Absolutely.
But that morning, as my hormones conspired against me and left me feeling raw and vulnerable, all I could focus on was how this was his adventure, his dream. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I might be merely a footnote in his story. In that moment, I grieved for something I hadn’t yet lost.
I tried to compose myself in private, but the wave of emotions was too powerful to contain. Through tears, I confessed that while I was genuinely happy and excited for him, hearing him talk about New York made me feel like an afterthought. Unused to and ill-equipped for such feminine displays of emotion, he panicked, genuinely confused – because in his mind, there had never been any question. We were going to New York, together. That was the only version of the future he had envisioned.
I needed reassurance, more than I wanted to admit. I found myself losing an internal battle between soaring excitement and crushing doubts.
Now, as our departure date approaches and our relationship has deepened with time, I feel more secure in the future we’re creating together. Today, when he looked at me with bright eyes and said, “I can’t wait to see what we create together!” I felt my heart lift with joy.
Still, I oscillate between hopes and fears. Perhaps you, dear reader, if you’ve made New York your home, can offer some guidance.
My excitement and hopes bloom:
I dream of losing myself in the halls of the Met, discovering hidden galleries in Chelsea, hunting for treasures at Brooklyn flea markets, and immersing myself in the vibrant, multicultural tapestry that is New York City. Every corner holds the promise of inspiration.
The thought of the connections waiting to be made sets my heart racing – the artists, writers, dreamers, and doers all within reach. I plan to approach each day with intention, cultivating a diverse and inspiring circle of kindred spirits.
I envision this new chapter expanding my creative horizons, opening doors I never knew existed, and forging connections that could transform my work and life in unexpected ways.
Each morning will bring new possibilities – a different neighbourhood to explore, a new face to become familiar, another layer of the city to uncover and make my own.
I believe in a kind of magic that happens when you’re perfectly aligned with your path. I’m curious to discover what shape that magic takes in a city of eight million stories.
Yet my fears and doubts cast shadows:
As a highly sensitive extroverted introvert, I quickly become overwhelmed by excessive stimulation. When surrounded by too much input – noise, movement, energy – I need a quiet space to decompress and reset. I worry about finding that sanctuary in a city that famously never sleeps.
My soul craves warm sunshine, the gentle rustling of leaves, and the rhythmic sound of waves – none of which New York is particularly known for. Where will I find those moments of natural peace that keep me grounded?
In a city consistently ranked among the world’s most expensive, I fear financial pressure might force me into a “hustle culture” I’ve intentionally avoided. I believe in working with purpose and alignment, not from desperation.
The heaviest weight on my heart is finding a new home for my cat, Danger. This separation might be temporary, or it might be permanent – the uncertainty makes it even harder. He’s been my constant companion, but I can’t bring him with me, and I can’t let his needs become the anchor that holds me back from this adventure.
If you’re reading this in Europe and have space in your heart and home for a loyal ginger cat who gives his affection selectively but completely, please reach out. He needs a peaceful environment, ideally with a garden, and he’ll reward you with unwavering devotion.
Life has a way of surprising us with unexpected turns. Moving to New York after my lease ends in April wasn’t part of my plans (though a psychic I’d quickly dismissed had predicted exactly this last August). But I love to embrace life’s kismet redirections.
I don’t live by carefully crafted plans but by my unwavering belief that “something will happen.” Something always does.
Vienda Maria 