2025

vignettes

January

My concept of the quintessential American family includes gathering around the dining table to play cards, warmed by an honest-to-God wood fire and the ambient presence of children giggling and prattling in the other room. This is the setting in which I start the year, in a small town an hour or so outside of Pittsburgh, melancholic with the knowledge that our time as family is drawing to a close.

We take the Miata up the coast to Rockaway Beach for the king tide — the highest tide of the year — where everyone studies the ground. A ripple of excitement runs through our group at the discovery of a mutant starfish — six legs! — and we pass its body around for show and tell. Someone asks if it hurts the anemone to be stepped on, to which we surmise surely — but what can we do about that? We drive into the forest for beef stew at our friends’, which I let myself eat because I am not so vegetarian yet.

Brewster Kahle feeds me ice cream at the Internet Archive.

February

I practice saying ‘no’ even when I think the asker is worthy of a ‘yes’. I bow out of a party to be merciful, then fall ill for a week and bow out of several more out of necessity. I recover in time to walk the double-cross trail, a 15-mile route that provides a great vantage point for two things: 1) a stunning tableau of the city’s two bridges and 2) the uncomfortable fact that every single one of my eight friends who shows up is male. I resolve to befriend more women.

At my father’s birthday brunch, the waiter gives us free pancakes, which means we’re now flush with the abundance of pancakes and waffles. A feeling of plenty trickles into the evening, when we go glamping on the Russian River. Though there is not much to do besides swing in hammocks and walk our dog — and though we are incapable of starting a fire without lighter fluid — it feels nice to experience something new with my parents. I resolve to make more of this happen, too.

I full-body cry during metta meditation, then feel so whole-hearted that I immediately make friends with three strangers. For the rest of the night, I am magnetically charismatic — animated, lovable, so super shiny. Upon reflection, this spells the beginning of low-grade mania, but at the time, I just call it equanimity.

March

I fly to San Diego, my college town, where I am 18 again: aimless, sun-drenched, twitchy. I sample the same coping mechanisms I employed as a teen: gossip, shopping, Korean soft tofu soup.

I neglect to return a gesture, a critical misstep I spend the next several months agonizing over.

I fuck up some more, in 4K, unmistakably, and contend with my adolescence. It hurts to admit my carelessness, so I fail to do so with meaningful vigor.

April

I nurse my wounds with a girls’ trip across the PNW. When I’m not scream-singing pop hits or running through the redwoods naked, I’m mourning the lack of a bedroom door I can close. I waste the peak of my high weeping through the aftershocks of my recent separation — a real sin when my friends are convening with the Universe just outside. I make up for it later, fully present as we scrounge the Airbnb pantry for scraps, cobble together a meal of oiled pasta, leftover radishes, and kimchi, and squeal our way through Scattergories. Post-trip, we name our shared photo album “four beautiful women who got into a little car accident” to commemorate, as you may have guessed, our little car accident. In the months to come, as my dread ratchets, I reflect on this period as the last good time.

I start a new job.

May

I fly to Lisbon, where I try my best to feel Euro-chic, but mostly feel lonely.

I go on dates with an admirable, kind person who fades from my life within the season, but leaves a lasting impression nonetheless. Though our lives are not good candidates for intertwinement, the brief time they overlap is significant and rewarding.

I try to be a good friend and a good partner. I crystallize my belief that connection is the only thing that matters, which is why the pursuit and retention of it leaves me lightheaded — I am more aware than ever of what I am trying to preserve.

I meet a boy who excites me so much, I keep nervously dropping my belongings in front of him.

June

I fly to London, an okay place, then take the train to Oxford, an okay place made excellent by my cool friends who live there.

I have an incredible Vibegala — luxuriant, twinkly, vivacious — and only minorly hurt feelings in the process.

I make bigger mistakes and have harder conversations. My map of the city is pockmarked with reminders of lost things.

I shoot guns for my birthday.

July

I’m rattled by a breakup that feels both surprising and inevitable. Having made good on my intention to befriend more women, I have no shortage of girlfriends available to say the wrong thing.

I grow restless and indiscriminate, agreeing to ever more in flight from boredom and morosity. Over the summer, I try painting, bouldering, skinny dipping, spikeball, Topgolf, tabletop games, skateboarding, go-karting, chocolate making, tubing, kayaking, jewelry metalworking, cliff jumping, and skydiving.

I pick stone fruit with my parents on a sunny day and make cobbler with our harvest.

August

I fly to Guatemala. On day two, I trip while running and puncture my shin on the cobblestone. It bruises purple, which softens to yellow over the duration of the two-week trip. I cry from stress during the day and from laughter at night. I appreciate the levity of our 20-person group, even though it feels far away at times. By the trip’s end, I feel ready to face life again, steadied by time and distance, cleansed by the exertion of hiking at 13,000 feet, and comforted by evidence of the enduring nature of friendship.

September

I start to really like the boy I met in May.

We celebrate my best friend’s birthday with a big group trip to a cabin four hours north, which includes spraying mystery liquid up our noses, spending hours in the hot tub, eating berry pie, and listening to EDM while watching fishtank videos intended for cats. The vibes are excellent — the days feel carefree and endless, like we are the children of rich, absent parents who’ve bought us all the gadgets we could ever want. Though there’s still enough tension between us to warrant fighting until five in the morning, there’s more than enough love to make the weekend one of the best of the whole year.

October

I fly to New York, a pretty good place, then take the train to Jersey City, an okay place made excellent by my cool friends who live there. On our mutual day off, we drive upstate to pick vegetables and traipse through a sculpture park, then come home to make pasta pomodoro and pet Lucky Charm, the cat.

I don’t play when it comes to Halloween, so I force us to clock in for a twelve-hour shift at the costume-making factory. We bicker all day but without any malice, and reward ourselves for a job well done by splurging on bubbly drinks at dinner. It is a joyful, silly time — I can’t help but dance through the grocery store aisles.

We dip from work early, jumping on the I-80 at 4 p.m. to journey toward the largest corn maze in the world. The maze is pleasant — impressive, even — but the real star of the show is the corn bath: a giant pit full of dried corn. I take off running into the bath and hear a voice behind me go, “Oh, she’s off!” followed by peals of laughter. Reunited in the corn, we make corn angels, bury ourselves up to the neck, rub our faces into the kernels despite the germs. We’re the only adults playing instead of supervising, and I am beaming with hysterical glee.

November

I fly to Barcelona, where the color returns to my cheeks. I am moved to tears by the Sagrada Familia, I take another big step in learning to love the club, I eat at least two pastries every day. I tweet something wholesome and upbeat in an attempt at virality, but sense that I actually mean it.

We go backpacking in below-freezing Yosemite. It’s gorgeous and immersive: we see a rainbow, we pump water from a stream, we poop in holes we dig ourselves. On day two, we finish our summits (Eagle Peak, El Cap) by 3 p.m. and make a last-minute call to hike out instead of camping another night. For a few hours, I feel invincible. Then we hit the downhill, and the fear of falling to my death slows me to a crawl. When we finally finish our second six-hour stretch of walking, I enjoy five minutes of elation before a wall of depletion hits me. My friends ask how I’m feeling, to which I respond, “Organ failure.” I am revived by a bean burrito from the Taco Bell drive-through. A few weeks later, I put “more backpacking” on my 2026 bucket list.

We have a magical day complete with pickle tea, antiques, a glowing red sun, spreadsheets, and a legitimate Mongolian yurt. I’m aware, even as it’s happening, that this day will stick with me.

December

I have my second first day of work at a new old job. I am assigned a certain project because it seems “Britney-shaped”, which delights me to no end. How incredible to be known — and at work, no less!

I spend a weekend in Mountain View playing dress-up and eating regional Asian food, experiences that feel foreign and familiar at once.

We take over a beautiful home in the Mt. Tamalpais forest for two nights, where I make full use of my senses: eating, playing, snuggling, circling, getting my pressure points beaten into release. I am charmed by old friends and charmed by new friends. When it’s all over, I wish we had one more day to relish the cozy bubble we created.

In my most impressive scheduling feat of the year, I line up seven holiday events seven days in a row, a period my boyfriend(!) nicknames “Britsmas” (the evening I spend with him doubles as Johnukkah). For Christmas, he gives me the experience of making a giant, foot-long waffle cone at two in the morning, a gift that honors 1) my preference for consumable presents, 2) my love of ice cream, and 3) my belief that food should be big. I am giddy with affection.