The Art of Being Honest

There’s this Tate McRae song I’ve been listening to, and she says at 22, it's a little sad, but it's fun, and I could not agree more. 

Well, I would use it to describe 23. I’m about a month away from turning 24, and I wanted to share my biggest lesson this lap around the sun.

Because I do feel like I lived 9 lives this go-around.

This past May, I stopped asking “why me” and finally sat down and got honest about what I actually wanted out of this stage of my life.

When I started telling people I was leaving NYC or that I was moving to Atlanta, they looked at me as if I were insane.

So why did I move out of NYC? People only see your life through the lens of what you post on social media, which is rare for me anyway. The truth is, I hated it.

When I graduated in 2024, I convinced myself I wanted it because NYC was trendy, exciting, and there was always something to do. And don’t get me wrong, I loved living in New York, and I will visit many, many times in my life. But I hated living there. It was expensive, I love driving, and the work culture is very ugly (for lack of better words).

People always think I’m talking it up when I say my solo trip was life-changing, but for me it genuinely was. I truly believe that March was my month of clarity. To go back a little further, I vividly remember having a terrible day at work in February and walking to St. Francis of Assi Roman Catholic Church in the pouring rain before my Junior League meeting.

I consider myself to be a cradle Catholic and a “light Catholic.”

I’ve had my battles and mental struggles with the Church growing up, but that’s truly a post for another day. 

It was Ash Wednesday, and I was bawling my eyes out in the pew. I remember asking God, Jesus, the Virgin Mary, and any Saint that could hear me for guidance on what I should do. If you’ve ever had a condescending manager from hell, you know that feeling of knowing you have to get the hell out of there.

I believe it was that night I booked my trip to Punta Cana, because I knew I needed some sort of break to figure out what I wanted to do.  I was in the middle of interviewing for new jobs in NYC when I had a light go off in my head. Why am I doing all this when I don’t even want this? 

To me, NYC always felt like a transition period instead of actually living. I felt like I had to stay in New York because of the friendships I made, the dues I paid for Junior League, and this idea of life that I had in my head.

Part of me felt like I had to survive a few years at a toxic agency, so maybe I would have enough experience to land something in a city where I actually wanted to be. If you’ve worked in PR, then you know it’s hard as hell to land entry-level jobs outside of NYC, Chicago, or California.

But I decided fuck it, I’m going to try.

After choosing to leave NYC, I was scared of being perceived as a failure. My first job was hell on Earth and not the fabulous experience I wanted. So my dad and I packed up all my stuff (well sold most of it), and I moved back to Louisiana to figure my life out. Something about going to Howard has always made me put an insane amount of pressure on myself to be the best. But I realized looking like “the best” isn’t worth it when you are unhappy or crying every day because you hate your job, which is consequently making you hate your life.

More than anything, I learned the art of being honest with myself.

I thought having a gap on my resume would be the worst thing in the world, but now I’m so grateful for it. That time gave me space to sit down and think about what I actually want out of life instead of constantly rushing to the next thing. I’m grateful for all the trips I’ve taken, the time I’ve spent with my family, and so much more, because without that pause, I’d probably still be in a tiny four-hundred-square-foot apartment, crying on the subway to the World Trade Center every morning.

Living in Answered Prayers but I Still Feel Like I’m Drowning

You can feel overwhelmed and still grateful.

To say the past two years of my life have been a whirlwind is an understatement.

I graduated from college, got a job, moved to a new city, hated that job and living in that city, moved back home, traveled, got a new job, moved to a new city, like whew.

I don’t know if writing these words can fully articulate how I feel, but I will try my best.

Moving to Atlanta in November was the best decision of my life. I missed driving, shocker to most people I know, being in a city full of Black people, and most of all, having a thermostat and a washer and dryer in my apartment.

The way everything has clicked here lets me know I am in the right space. After my last job experience, I am eternally grateful to have a great team, but especially to have a manager who cares about me not only professionally, but personally as well.

But even though I know I am where I am meant to be, the little inconveniences of life keep piling up.

For me, one of the biggest things I am trying to come to terms with is the fact that you have to work hard in your twenties to live a life of luxury and ease in your fifties. Believe me, I would love to live like a fifty-year-old retiree right now. But unfortunately, that is not reality.

Anyone who has worked in agency life knows it is a lot. You learn a lot, but it is extremely overwhelming at times. One of the most overwhelming things is realizing you are working forty hours a week in billable hours, but everyone knows you are probably working closer to fifty.

I love my job. I really do. I love thinking creatively and strategically, and I don’t think there is a field that fits me more.

But after my unemployment era, I realized I love my time more, but unfourtnately no job equals no money, but having a job equals no time. How does one win?

I do not know if degrading is the right word, but it feels that way when you are going to work early in the morning and getting back home, and it is already seven o’clock. Because, of course, on paper it’s only eight hours, but when you factor in your commute and those tiny last-minute requests, you have probably given at least eleven hours of your life to that corporation.

When are you supposed to have time for yourself? Because it feels like I have none.

If you want to wake up and go to the gym before work, you probably need to go to sleep by nine to wake up at five, but is that really a way to live? Especially when you are exhausted and getting home after six?

I have always been a planner, and I have been thinking about my future a lot. I know I want to be a homeowner, but how is it that the same house that is half a million dollars now was 150K twenty years ago? Literally no renovations or anything. Like it makes homeownership feel impossible, and horrible builders (I’m looking at you D.R. Horton) make it feel more impossible.

Why does it feel like all my money is going to bills?

It feels impossible to save because not only are house prices high, but everything is high. It literally costs money to breathe, whether you are in New York City or a middle-of-nowhere town in the USA. It is annoying to work so hard all week and not even be able to comfortably afford to decorate the apartment that was on your dream board or buy yourself a nice top.

I guess I say all this to say that I know I am where I am supposed to be, and I am so grateful for all the blessings in my life. My beautiful apartment, my boyfriend of almost three years (which is crazy to say), my job, everything.

But I still feel like I am drowning.

Struggling while your life is good does not make you fake, dramatic, or undeserving. It makes you human with limits. I do not know exactly what I am supposed to do with my life at every moment, but I know I do not want to spend the next thirty years wasting away in an office eighty percent of the week.

I am still figuring it all out and coming to terms with the fact that the Earth doesn’t stop spinning. Though I am dramatic, I’m working on giving myself grace and remembering that not every season of life lasts forever.

Like seriously.

The things I was crying about a year ago don’t matter anymore. So if you’re stuck with a shitty boss/job, in a waiting season of life, or you just feel down, know it’s just that, a season.

I also hope this makes someone feel a little less alone, especially in the age of social media, where people only post their highlight reel.

You can be grateful.
And be exhausted.
And be financially stressed.
And be emotionally overwhelmed.

Everyone should solo travel

Everyone should solo travel

For my 23rd birthday, I booked a trip to the Dominican Republic by myself to celebrate my 23rd lap around the sun. Everyone thought I was crazy. But honestly? Best decision ever. I had the most incredible time, and now I fully believe that everyone should travel solo at least once in their life.

Here’s what I learned:

Slow travel is the best kind of travel.
There’s something so special about waking up and deciding what you want to do without having to check in with anyone else. No pressure, no plans you secretly don’t want to do—just vibes. I literally did the same thing almost every day. Eat breakfast, sit by the pool, sit on the beach, lunch, lounge somemore, eat, repeat.

And it was amazing.

It’s not as lonely as you’d think.
I thought I’d be in my feels the whole time, especially since it was my first time being by myself on my birthday. But turns out, people are so friendly when you’re solo. You end up talking to strangers more, making connections, and having real convos. I never felt alone or lonely. There was always a bartender or other travelers to talk to you.

Spending time with yourself is powerful.
If you can’t enjoy your own company, how is anyone else supposed to? Solo travel teaches you to romanticize your independence which is something I want to keep in mind as I get older. 

The world is not as scary as it seems.
Yes, be smart and safe. But also, there are so many kind, interesting people out there. I learned more Spanish in three days than in three years by forcing the locals to only talk to me in Spanish. I loved learning Dominican slang (Que lo que?!) and things I should do on my next trip to the DR.

Start with an all-inclusive if you’re nervous.
It’s the perfect low-stress launchpad for your first solo trip. Everything’s taken care of, and it gives you the confidence to venture out more. Now, I can’t speak on this too much since I’ve only solo traveled once, but now I’m itching to go somewhere else.o

You are the main character—always.
This trip reminded me that I am the only constant in my life. My happiness, my decisions, all start with me. 

And now? I want to do it again. More countries, more solo dates, more growth. 

Thank you to Punta Cana for the memories and my first sunburn.

I Hate Pink

When people see me now, they know I love pink. Everything is pink—my nails, my phone case, even the towels in my apartment.

But at 10, I hated pink. Not because I actually hated it, but because it wasn’t cool to like pink. So I said my favorite color was blue instead. (To be fair, blue is still my second favorite—I love a good coastal grandma aesthetic.)

By 17, I had reclaimed pink. Every time I looked in the mirror, I saw the 12-year-old girl who had once swapped her pink princess room for Tiffany blue because, in 2014, Breakfast at Tiffany’s was the pinnacle of cool.

And then, suddenly, I was 20. And I hated pink again—not because I really hated it, but because I had convinced myself I had to. I let myself fade into a world of greys, blacks, and neutrals, believing that was the price of belonging. That was how I proved my commitment to fulfilling a family legacy.

I look back now and realize I thought I was at my happiest. I thought I was at my peak. But all I see is a 20-year-old girl so desperate to impress that she lost herself in the process.

My two-year, neutral-toned world came crashing down one night. I had stripped myself of everything that made me me—and for what? To be seen? To be chosen? When I wasn’t, I felt like a failure.

Or at least, I thought so.

Now, at almost 23, I sit in my pink-alicious one-bedroom apartment in the city I dreamed about at 17. I hear people talking as they pass by my window. I use the creativity I once poured into my pink childhood bedroom to fuel my dream job. I just shipped a PR package to Hailey Bieber.

10-year-old me would ask, “Who is Hailey Bieber?” and wonder why my last name isn’t Bieber. 17-year-old me would be screaming, freaking out, telling me this is so cool—before realizing that for me now, this is just normal. We send cool things to people we love.

What I once saw as failure was really just me needing my pink back. So believe me, your rejection was God’s redirection.

Because I got my pink back.