She Writes in Ink and Screams in Italics
There’s no graceful way to say this, so let’s just rip the band-aid off: I have the hormones of a college girl, I’m emotionally cracked wide open… and strangely? I’m okay.
This week was a whirlwind of contradictions — like reading four books with a morally grey, questionable dominant male main characters, while simultaneously having a therapy breakthrough that made me question the very foundation of how I view myself in this life. Which is probably the worst way to dive into this — but here we are.
So let’s start there.
I’ve been in therapy long enough to know the dance — surface, avoid, intellectualize, circle back. But this week? We went there. Back into some of the trauma. The hard stuff. The times I didn’t get to react the way I wanted to. The times I was too busy surviving to process anything. And as we talked, something clicked in my chest in a way I haven’t felt in a long time:
I’m just so damn tired of being unhappy.
Drew and I have a life people would kill for. Dual income. No kids. Freedom. Weekends filled with shopping, movies, and brunch. I can nap. I can write. I can get railed on a Sunday afternoon and not worry about who needs a snack or a screen time limit. And I think I’ve been so caught up in chasing what we don’t have that I forgot to sit in the joy of what we do.
Somewhere deep in the corners of my brain — or maybe in the folds of old societal conditioning — there’s been this fear that if we didn’t have kids, Drew might eventually leave. That I might not be enough to anchor a lifetime. That kids were the cement. The lock. The insurance.
But this week, I finally heard what Drew’s been telling me all along:
He chose me. Not a future. Not a milestone. Me.
And suddenly, I believe him.
That belief has opened up some new doors — ones I didn’t even realize were bolted shut. We’ve had some incredible conversations about sex, desire, and how we want to explore more together. The kind of “what if” chats that require honesty and tenderness. And he met me there. Fully.
Marriage isn’t just hard. It’s a fucking mirror. And the hardest part of it isn’t loving the other person — it’s being honest with yourself in front of the other person. I’m learning how to do that better. And it’s showing.
Also, just for the record: Drew is a triple threat. He’s got that 666 energy — the height, the income, and… well, other things. Let’s just say the devil knew exactly what he was doing when he dressed this one in a suit and taught him how to say “mine.” I knew it the moment I met him. I saw the danger, the charm, the slow-burn smirk — and here I am, only eight years later, finally realizing I have it for the rest of my life.
And that realization? It’s emboldened me.
It’s been really hard not to brat my way into punishments lately.
(Okay fine, I’ve absolutely been bratting. Sue me.)
Fuck, he loves it. Mostly.
Except when he’s trying to sleep and I’m poking him like a little goblin whispering, “Spank me, coward.”
AHAHAHA — okay, okay, we should probably move on. But thanks for coming to my TED Talk about my husband.
In other news — I had my annual OBGYN appointment and surprisingly? It was lovely. I really like my new doctor, even if she has that clinical, emotionally distant vibe. She actually sat with me. Talked through the infertility path. Validated where I was. Suggested a break until our September appointment with CCRM. It felt like a reset I didn’t know I needed.
Pap smear? Normal.
Only concern? A small lump in the left boob that she wants checked with a mammogram — scheduled for the end of August. Fingers crossed it’s nothing. Just some good ol’ fashioned boobie smashing to round out the summer. 🍉
Work has been kind of amazing too. I got praised by one of the leaders in the PMO office and added three new clients to my roster. I’ve finally hit a stride — one where I’m not just surviving the day. I’m thriving in it.
Creatively? I moved my novel into an app called Obsidian. I have used it for work and it’s the best note taking app in my opinion. I’m rewriting chapters. Building out the lore. Naming every little alien creature and flower and ceremonial dagger. It’s finally starting to feel like a series — something real. Something I’m allowed to pour myself into without guilt.
This weekend we’re shopping for a wedding at the end of August. I don’t need a new dress, but I want one — something flirty but classy, fitted but comfy. Drew needs a new suit. And then we’re going to the movies. Just us. No diapers. No nap schedules. No soccer games or babysitters or forgotten water bottles.
Just me. Just Drew.
And for once, I’m letting that be enough.
Maybe it’s not about giving up the dream.
Maybe it’s about remembering we’re still living one.
