it’s summer and I’m trying to heal my relationship with my body. again
standing in front of the dusty mirror that sits against the grey wall in my bedroom, positioned at the exact angle where everything looks better but still not good enough, I pick it apart. wishing I could somehow shrink myself into a version that i’m so convinced would make me happy, I pick it apart.
my arms are not my arms anymore. they’re not the embraces anymore — when I look at them, all I see is that time when I had a second serving. my belly is not my belly anymore. it’s not the laughs until it hurts — when I look at it, all I see is that one morning when I decided to stay in bed instead. and how that one morning turned into more mornings just like that. my legs are not my legs anymore. they’re not the places I’ve been to — when I look at them, all I see is another reason to stop eating sugar and carbs and that pizza I love so much and have a glass of kefir for dinner instead.
it’s summer and it feels exhausting. to focus so much energy on something that so naturally changes like the seasons. like the summer that will soon be over to give way to another fall and then another winter and then another spring and then another summer. and when that next summer comes it will feel exhausting again because you’ll still have a body, this body. this body that isn’t even the most interesting thing about you and yet you think it is. this body that allows you to love and maybe someday even multiply that love. this body that for better or worse will be with you forever. and you think you’ll learn to appreciate it if you shrink it more but then again you’ve shrunk it before like your favorite sweater that got smaller because someone washed it in the wrong cycle and now it’s ruined forever. you see where I’m going here. because then again you’ve shrunk it before and you didn’t love it more than you do now.
it’s summer and I lack the words. again
I find myself in this state where I can barely write. and when I do, it’s the same thing I’ve written before. and when I don’t, someone else does. and it’s better. brilliant. disgustingly better and more brilliantly. I want to do everything so I do nothing. a curse as old as time. time that doesn’t wait for anyone to find the words.
it’s summer and I can’t remember the last time I picked up my journal. and I question if I can even dare to call myself a writer if I can’t even keep a journal. if I can’t keep the discipline, the routine, the inspiration. if I don’t seem devoted enough. serious enough. at least the sadness and the imposter syndrome and the constant need for validation are still there and god knows you need them if you want to dare to call yourself a writer because an easy life has never made a good writer anyway. or at least that’s what they say but doesn’t trading your happiness for a lifetime of genius sound like the most vile scam you’ve ever heard of.
it’s summer and I'm afraid. again
I feel like I'm outside of my own body looking at my own life from the audience and I have no power to dictate what happens in the next scene. an overwhelming dread that time keeps slipping through my fingers and I can’t make it linger. a constant war with the ticking clock. its hands moving so loud that you find yourself praying for a miracle. to make it stop. silence, space. to forget maybe. to pretend you don’t see, feel. the world rushing. demanding. and all the noise, reminding you that nothing lasts forever, that everything is finite. that this summer will soon be over to give way to another fall and then another winter and then another spring and then another summer. but also that that other summer is not guaranteed. and neither is that other fall and that other winter and that other spring. i think you might be thinking about yourself too much.
it’s summer and I feel like I've been here before. again
I find myself obsessing over spirals and cyclical shapes and circular forms. maybe because I too embody recurring patterns. maybe because I too am repetitive by nature. and I fear it might have something to do with my need for control. for things to be predictable. for life’s plot to be likely and expected and foreseeable.
but then why do I find myself craving something else. a line that no longer follows the spiral and the cyclical shape and the circular form. a line that pivots to create its own spiral and cyclical shape and circular form. only to pivot again. and again. and again. allowing the line to be unexpected and unpredictable. whimsy and cringe and free. like a child that dreams and plays and collects shells and asks why the sea is blue before the world showed its cruelty and told them that dreaming and playing and collecting shells and asking why the sea is blue was foolish.
it’s summer and I want to believe that sadness is not definitive.
nor defining.
that contentment can also be a good story. that not everything needs to be so hard. that things can be easy. that you can quiet that wicked voice inside your head that so loudly reminds you that no one likes a satisfied person. that bad things are the price to pay if worth and talent and depth are what you’re looking for. because the bad things make you human and relatable and less annoying. as if happiness was the most vile scam you’ve ever heard of.
it’s summer and I want to be hopeful.
I want to rewrite the story and make it good again. not just through pain and trauma and fault but also through contentment and happiness and faith. the kind of faith where you trust time and timing. the kind of faith where you trust that things unfold as they should. the kind of faith that’s not passive or compliant or naive but rather intentional and grounded and alive.
it’s summer and I want to live more than I worry.
but wanting is not enough anymore.
because summer will soon be over to give way to another fall and then another winter and then another spring and then another summer. and when that next summer comes worrying won’t make any difference.
but living will.
a summer reminder
life asks for your participation, not your perfection
a summer book
selfish girls by Abigail Bergstrom
a summer obsession
this gimaguas dress (here’s me wearing it last weekend; cute right)
and also charli xcx and george daniels getting married in hackney and the whole photo where they’re drinking wine and smoking a cig outside with lime bikes in the background. everything is indeed romantic
a summer song
summer forever by Addison Rae (best enjoyed with wired headphones or standing in front of a fan or driving with the windows down) plus this playlist if you’re still in the mood to have a brat summer (I know I am)
a summer movie
I really want to watch celine and julie go boating (you know why) and maybe I know what you did last summer in theaters because I feel I need to watch more horror movies (don’t ask me why; I hate them)
a small summer moodboard
Tão bonito e identifico-me imenso. Tanto com a questão do corpo - anorexia nervosa quando era mais nova e um perfeccionismo constante a vida toda - como com a questão de que me expresso melhor na tristeza. Porém sinto que precisava urgentemente de sair desse lugar pela minha saúde mental: era isso ou seguir para a medicação. Hoje é incrível pensar que a minha criatividade é muito mais rica quando escrevo sem ser desse lugar de tristeza. Se calhar criámos essa ideia do criativo com a vida desgraçada, mas não seria incrível se vivêssemos dos nossos sonhos com amor e alegria? 💖
For what’s worth - I found your substack while reading some magazines I had saved and remembering how your writing in them made me feel seen and understood. You have a talent and a way with words that shines through in everything you do!