Coffee, Chaos & Capital Views

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  • Bring out the Bravo Cameras…make it all worth it

    My dating history has gotten so ridiculous it looks like I’ve been collecting professions like Pokémon. I’ve dated a firefighter, a deacon, an NFL player, a police officer, a soldier, a doctor, a lawyer, a truck driver, a tow‑truck driver, a barista, a finance bro, and a semi‑pro (unvalidated) bowler. At this point, I could host my own career fair and hand out tote bags. And I swear I’m not bragging. This isn’t a flex. This is a prank from the universe. I feel like the universe is playing “Guess Who” with my love life.

    And the wildest part is these men seem to fall in love FAST. Not “aw, this is sweet” fast. I mean “five weeks in and they’re talking about joint bank accounts, kids and where we should retire” fast. It’s not love. It’s lust with a clipboard and a five‑year plan. Meanwhile, everyone around me is so supportive of them. My friends are like, “He’s so sweet!” My coworkers are like, “You better not mess this up.” Even strangers nod like I just announced I won a scholarship. And I’m standing there thinking, “Is it me? Am I the only one seeing the red flags doing synchronized choreography?”

    FLAGS I CLEARLY IGNORE

    Once there was a deacon. Lord!. We were barely getting to know each other. I didn’t know his middle name. I didn’t know his favorite cereal. I didn’t even know if he liked dogs. That’s how early we were. So he tells me he planned something special for us. Cute, right? Wrong. This man takes me to a couples massage. A couples massage. I walked in thinking we were getting facials or foot scrubs. Next thing I know, we’re in a dim room undressing behind towels (at least one of us was), and he is lying there like we’ve been married for 14 years, and this is our quarterly “reconnect” session. Body parts out. JUST OUT. On display. Like a museum exhibit no one asked for. I was stunned. My soul left my body and hovered above the massage table like, “Girl, blink twice if you need help.”

    Afterward, I met up with my friends, including my best friend … one of the key members of the  “Aw, just give him a chance” bunch. I told them what happened. And do you know what they said?  “Wow, he’s really into you!” “At least he’s making an effort!” NO ONE thought it was weird but me. Not a single person. I’m sitting there like, “Did I hallucinate the whole thing? Am I the only one who thinks a couples massage is a Level 12 relationship activity and we were on Level 1.5?” Maybe I am the issue. Maybe my boundary radar is too advanced for the general population.

    But wait. Because the tow‑truck driver said, “Hold my beer.”

    We were dating (using that loosely) during covid and one day he shows up with a bag. Not a duffel. Not a backpack. A full trash bag of clothes. And he says, “Hey, can I leave this here for a few days?” I should’ve said no. I should’ve asked questions. But something about me must scream “Sure, please squat at my house,” because I said okay. Then I go into my garage and see ANOTHER bag. Behind my car. Like he was staging supplies for a long winter. I literally ran over one of the bags because I didn’t know it was there. I called him like, “Sir, why are your belongings multiplying in my home like gremlins?” And he said, “Oh yeah, I just needed a place to keep some stuff.” SOME STUFF? Sir, this is not storage. This is not U‑Haul. This is not a climate‑controlled facility. This is my house.

    He was nesting. He was setting up a satellite location. He was one bag away from forwarding his mail.

    So here I am 12 years in the the DC dating scene and failing. The common denominator in a lineup of men who are adored by everyone except the person actually dating them. Maybe I’m picky. (not maybe I am) Maybe I’m cursed (PROBABLY). Maybe I’m just waiting for someone who feels right to me, even if the rest of the world shrugs. (I just want some who can read and knows what they want…and is many a touch bit handy) At this point, I’d settle for someone who doesn’t require a background check and a LinkedIn endorsement just to date. DC dating is trash.

  • It Could Be Worse…or It Could Be Exactly What It Is … and THAT CAN SUCK TOO

    For most of my life, I’ve lived in a body that doesn’t always cooperate. Chronic illness and chronic pain have been my baseline for so long that I learned to minimize it. I told myself the same things doctors, friends, and even my own inner critic echoed: It’s not that bad. Other people have it worse.

    It could be cancer.

    That phrase became my perverted version of resilience. A mantra. A way to grit my teeth through symptoms that were dismissed as “normal,” even when they were anything but. My illnesses primarily affect my mental health and reproductive system, and because the average person experiences a version of what I go through, it became an unspoken (often one-sided) competition in the oppression Olympics of pain… Who has it worse. Who gets to complain. Who deserves care.

    For years, the medical advice I received boiled down to two options: get knocked up or learn to live with it. So, I learned to live with it. I pushed through. I adapted. I canceled plans and felt the sting of friends who didn’t understand, who thought I was being flaky or dramatic. But every missed outing felt like a small betrayal not just of them, but of myself. I often worried that if I didn’t keep pushing, I’d lose my people. So, I kept going. I’d go out, often over drinking to numb my physical and mental pain. Trying to rally and find outfits suitable to conceal belly bloat and diapers to look cute for a day-long DC brunch event. Minimizing my responses when friends asked, “how are you?” down to “doing ok, work is crazy” or ‘I’m fine” for fear of always feeling like I’m complaining.

    And then last September, everything shifted.

    Three days after my sixth surgery, someone I love; someone who has always championed my well-being, someone integral to the story of my life was diagnosed with cancer. One day we were talking about weekend plans; the next, their body had turned against them in a way that was sudden, violent, and terrifying.

    Suddenly, the phrase “at least it’s not cancer” wasn’t a coping mechanism. It was a stark reality staring me in the face.

    Watching them navigate fear, treatment, uncertainty, and the betrayal of their own body cracked something open in me. I know what it feels like when your body refuses to cooperate, when you beg it to just hold on or behave or let you live normally for once. That familiarity pulled me into support mode allowing me to offer strength, encouragement, and reminders to rest, to breathe, to savor the present moment because none of us know how many more we get.

    But in showing up for them, I had to confront a question I’ve avoided for years:

    Why do I believe everyone deserves care, rest, and compassion… but me?

    Why do I treat my own suffering as something to be minimized? Why do I feel the need to push myself to the limits to “earn” love and compassion from friends. Why do I only allow myself empathy if my pain reaches some imaginary threshold of legitimacy?

    Why do I feel like my life’s value only has meaning measured against someone else’s tragedy?

    That question has lingered with me, uncomfortable and a bit revealing. My friend’s diagnosis didn’t just shake my world; it forced me to reevaluate the way I’ve been living in my own body. It made me realize that waiting for a crisis to justify caring for myself is not resilience. Its self-neglect dressed up as toughness.

    Their journey so far has taught me something I wish I learned long ago:
    You don’t need a catastrophic diagnosis to deserve care.
    You don’t need to be the sickest person in the room to rest.
    You don’t need to minimize your pain to make others comfortable.

    I’m still learning how to internalize this and turn this into actionable daily practices. Renegotiating how I chose to show up for myself and let friends show up for me. Being more intentional with my health.

    And maybe that’s the quiet gift hidden inside all this fear and grief…the gentle reminder that our bodies, even when they’re difficult, are still worth tending to. That our lives, even when busy and messy, are still worth living fully. That we don’t have to wait for something worse to happen before we finally choose ourselves.

    And am I thankful for the friends that do get it, and that show up for me when I let them… and those that are trying but fighting their own hidden fights. I hope I provide the caring space for them; I’m striving to create for myself.

    PS. Sorry if this is wordy or flows weirdly…someone was cutting onions while I was typing.

    P.S.S I take back my sorry …enjoy this for what it is.

  • Looking Up

    Welcome.
    I’ve been thinking about how to start this for a while, and it turns out the beginning wasn’t a grand moment at all. It was DC traffic.

    I was riding home, stuck on 395, as one does, surrounded by brake lights, concrete, and the quiet collective sigh of Washington, DC commuters just trying to get through another weekday. My mind was doing what it’s done for the last few years, replaying emails, deadlines, responsibilities, and that constant internal checklist that comes with working for the government in a city that never really powers down.

    And then I looked up.

    Not metaphorically, literally. I looked up at the sky.

    It was one of those sunsets that feels almost intentional. The kind where the clouds, light, and color come together so perfectly that it looks like someone took their time painting it. Soft pinks and oranges, a little gold, a little drama. The whole thing felt expansive and quiet in a way that caught me off guard.

    What stopped me wasn’t just how beautiful it was. It was the realization that I hadn’t really looked up like that in a long time.

    For the last two or three years, my head has been down. Not in a defeated way, but in a survival way. Like many people in DC, I’ve been scratching, striving, pushing, managing, achieving. Doing what needs to be done. Being capable. Being responsible. Moving forward because standing still never feels like an option here.

    Somewhere in all of that, I stopped pausing long enough to notice the sky.

    That moment on 395 felt like an “ah ha,” not because it changed everything instantly, but because it reminded me that I want more presence in my own life. More noticing. More reflection. More honesty about where I am and how I got here.

    This blog is my space to do that.

    It’s a place to document my 36th year, the fun parts and the uncomfortable ones. The joy, the frustration, the growth, the moments of clarity that happen at inconvenient times. Living in DC. Working for the government. Navigating ambition, identity, hormones, dating, burnout, hope, all of it. No polished narrative required.

    I want this to be a space where I reconnect with myself and the world around me. Where I reflect on how far I’ve come, even when I’m focused on where I’m going next. Where I occasionally laugh at the absurdity of this city and my own life within it. And where I remember to look up, literally and figuratively.

    If you’re reading this (and I truly don’t know if anyone will) and you’ve also been moving through life with your head down, just trying to get through, you’re not alone. Maybe this can be a reminder for both of us to pause when we can, notice what’s above us, and appreciate the quiet moments that don’t demand anything from us.

    Here’s to me. Here’s to you. Here’s to 36.
    Here’s to looking up.