RaeAnna is a wandering bibliophile, dog mama, foodie, advocate, fashionista, linguist, and more. If she's not pantsless at home with her dog, she's out with friends, trying new foods, or on the road adventuring.
Worth A Read Eh Length 340 Quick Review Single and independent Kate is coerced into a dating service consisting of twelve dates with twelve men by her best friend in Blexford, England.
I really don’t know what I’m doing, but whatever!
It’s a cute yet predictable story—I feel like I will probably say that a few times over the course of my Christmas book reviews this year and for the rest of eternity because I have yet to find a revolutionary one. Anyways, The Twelve Dates of Christmas is cute. Frankly, give me anything set in England and I’ll like it more than I would if it’s set in the U.S.
Kate is an artist. Having moved to her hometown of Blexford to be with her father, she’s been single in a small town for a good bit. She’s a smart and sassy sweetheart with a fierce independence that makes it hard for her to find a partner. Though Kate has all but given up on a happily ever after, her best friend, Laura, has not and convinces her to join a dating agency that will send her on twelve dates with twelve different men spanning the Christmas season. At the age of 34, Kate has very much decided she’s not searching for passion but compatibility. Throughout the Christmas season, she spends her time with her best friend Matt, Laura, and all the vibrant characters decorating the town.
Like all romance novels, the characters are ridiculously over the top, but I personally enjoyed “The Knitting Sex Kittens were a formidable group of women, all over age sixty and all single, by either design, divorce, or death.” The town and characters are saturated in Christmas joy and cheer, and, let’s be honest, that is the only reason I read this or any Christmas novel at all. I’m here for the Christmas spirit.
Kate is an ambitious woman with lots to give but she ends up having many conversations along the lines of: ““I’m not looking for sparkle, Dad,” said Kate. “I am on a grown-up-woman mission to find a suitable, sensible partner who has no improper pride and is perfectly amiable.”” As a single woman in my thirties, I can, in some ways, identify with the want to search out compatibility over passion, but, and luckily Kate does figure it out, both is an option and the best option.
The biggest problem I had with The Twelve Dates of Christmas were the grammatical errors and typos. I’m not even going to blame Bayliss for this because the copy editor should have caught it. For me it was distracting, but the average reader probably won’t even pick up on it. I’m going to call this: editor problems. As in most rom-com books, the character development is lack luster at best, but it’s a fun, easy read to take our minds off the holiday stresses.
You can put this one on your holiday reading list to enjoy.
Memorable Quotes “Kate had to admit that her regime of pajamas, toast, and telly by seven thirty every night was not conducive to establishing a satisfying sex life.” “But for her, contentment waned quite quickly to become a faint questioning, which bloomed into nagging doubt and ultimately wholehearted assuredness that it wasn’t right. Laura called it self-sabotage. Kate called it gut instinct.”
I’m gay. This is the term I’m comfortable with. Queer works too. Labels make me uncomfortable, but I’m also a writer, so words make me comfortable. I want to express who I am with words, but also I hate being defined because the moment labels enter there’s connotation, expectation, stereotypes, and all that jazz.
I’m only getting started.
The labels for my sexual identity have shifted drastically over the years. The first label I ever tried on was gay. It’s also the most recent one I’ve been wearing. I never told anyone when I wrote “I think I’m gay” in my diary at twelve before burning it because privacy didn’t exist in my childhood home. In recent years, I’ve used pansexual because it feels inclusive of my past. I have only ever been in relationships with men. I’m not mad about it because those men have made me who I am today. For the good and the bad. Some of them literally saved my life. I am trauma bound to all men and yet one specific man for so many reasons. In my adulthood, I have had amazing taste in men. They are going to go on and be fantastic partners to hopefully equally incredible women. I’m not that woman. If I could be, I would. But I’m not. Those relationships didn’t work for a lot of reasons. Very valid reasons. Some incredibly painful reasons. Even if those relationships were perfect—not that there is such a thing—I would have left eventually.
There’s one man I truly imagined a future with. But it was one of those very hazy, hypothetical, willing it to happen imaginings. We talked about all of the possible futures we could have. Engagement, wedding, marriage, children, retirement. Amazing human. Just the best. It would have been an amazing adventure of a life. But even in the absolute height of being in love with him, something deep inside told me it wasn’t quite right. I always brushed it away because being in love doesn’t usually go hand in hand with rationality. I never gave voice to the internal unease. I never told him or anyone my feelings; I’m incredibly private to begin with, but if I said it out loud or even thought it, then it would be real. He and I would never end up together. At one point the idea of not being with him was soul crushing. The bond we shared because of trauma and just a decade of history has made it so hard to let go of that hazy imagining no matter how much I needed to for myself and him. There was a bigger reason I always knew it wouldn’t work. Even very recently, I didn’t want to confront it. I was trying to force false realities into truths, make my life fit his, and create hypothetical worlds where my gayness could exist in tandem with a straight life. I tried and tried and could never make myself see the house, the kids, the full life with him. So I said I didn’t want those things. Convinced myself I didn’t in the hopes that he wouldn’t want me. Because it was easier to completely cancel that future with him and everyone than admit the reality. I was pushing away my reality, my dreams, and ultimately my identity because I loved him so deeply, knowing it wouldn’t work in the furthest corners of my soul. In a way, I don’t. I don’t want those things…. with a man. But with a wife. It doesn’t feel like a terrifying trap.
Loud and proud member of the Alphabet Mafia.
This is not a reflection on him. He will be an amazing father and husband, but not with me. It is also not a reflection on how I feel about being gay. I am so proud to be gay. It is not an identity I have hid from, but it is an identity that has hid behind love, trauma, abuse, and survival. Now I exist in a safe and settled home where I can be all of the things that I am all at once.
I am so gay.
Writing has always been equal parts cathartic and painful. Finally writing these things down. Owning the fact that I don’t want a heterosexual future. I don’t want to marry a man. I don’t want to have children with a man. I don’t want to raise a family and grow old with a man. It is all so relieving to admit. Before it was: I don’t want to get married. I don’t want to have children. I don’t want to grow old with anyone. I have no fucking clue what the future has to hold. I may never have any of these things. But I know if I get married, have children, and grow old in a romantic relationship it will be with a woman. I may not actively pursue these things right now or ever, but oh my god, it feels like something I may actually want one day. As I type, I can actually feel my heart loosen its grip on the things it held on to so fiercely out of love, loyalty, and self-preservation.
Honestly, this is probably my favorite hand gesture. No shame.
One day, I will probably be comfortable with the label: lesbian. It’s accurate. Or at least the closest thing to accurate. (I would try dick again with Taron Egerton. He is a phenom and a gift to the world, but even him… I just don’t see it working out long term. Sorry Taron. I know there’s a real chance there. *eye roll*) I’ve been saying “No new dick.” for over a year. The truth is… no dick. I don’t want dick. I want a woman. Wearing lesbian on my sleeve feels like an erasure of the awesome men in my life, past, and ultimately the love I once had. Intellectually, this does not make any sense at all. I’m aware. There are lots of lesbians who once loved men, were in relationships with men, had children with men, so on and so forth. What makes sense and makes me comfortable do not always have to be in alignment. Acknowledging the dissonance right now works for me.
Identity is always shifting; although, I’m never shifting straight. That’s just a big nope. Ten years ago, I was telling people I was attracted to women. Five years ago, I was telling people I wasn’t straight while in a straight passing relationship. Three years ago, I was proudly pan. They’ve all tasted strange in my mouth and in my heart. A year and a half ago, I tried on queer, which I very much like. It’s been in the last year that I started using gay, which is short and sweet. I like it. I like the way it catches people off guard. I like the way it makes me feel. I like that it’s a synonym for happy. It may always be my preferred identifier; it may not. I know one day I will take on lesbian. Maybe next month. Maybe after I have 2.5 children and a white picket fence with a woman I have yet to meet. Maybe before I die completely alone. The future is all up in the air at this point in time.
I’m incredibly open about my past, which was basically 24 years of constant trauma. (The last six have seen their trauma, but nowhere near the first two and a half decades of the hellscape I called home.) So fun! It’s a huge part of my life and led to my career in social justice and writing and depression (kidding?). If I could separate me the person from me the traumatized, I fucking would. But I can’t. It is ever present. A character in my story. It comes up. In my stories and especially in my humor. If you don’t like dark humor at my own expense… I’m probably not for you. To be in my life is to have some familiarity with my trauma. Don’t confuse that with bonding or asking others to take it on. I’ll carry that weight; I’ve got this; it’s not new. My pain is a familiar companion.
My trauma solidified my existence as a raging intersectional feminist in search of knowledge.
When a new person starts to enter my life in a non-surface relationship, I tend to give the ten minute run down. Friends, dating, whatever. The rundown will happen sooner rather than later.
I am not trauma bonding.
Sharing the events that made me is as necessary as where I’m from and who my siblings are. I am a writer who specializes in memoir work. One of the biggest reasons I give the rundown is because I want a person to find out from me what happened to me. It’s a heads up. A hey, I’m okay. I don’t want them to find out all the really violent and awful things that were my daily life through an Instagram post, an article on Medium, through my blog, on Facebook, or worse a 280 character tweet. I’m not about to do that to a person cause that just feels shitty to me. I wouldn’t want to find out someone I care about even a teensy bit was gang raped at nineteen. I want people to know I’m okay; I’m not a sploot on the surface of the Earth. I’m a broken, thriving human.
I am not trauma bonding.
My story opens the door for people to tell me their own stories. Or not. It’s up to them. I’m not trying to have a good cathartic cry and feel my feelings with someone. No one gets that. Tears and devastation are left for solo road trips and hot showers. I’m not looking to be raw and open. I’m looking to change the world, even if it’s just in small ways. My story is not new, but it has had an impact on people’s lives; helped them find their own voice; not feel so alone; know someone somewhere sees their pain and cares. My story is in the world because I want to end the stigma for survivors, for those who did not survive, for those who have yet to survive. Maybe my story will stop someone from going too far and creating another survivor. I don’t know. Do we ever really know the impact of our existence in the world? All I know is that I have a voice. I have a past. I will use my voice to do as much good in the world as I can.
I can be broken and strong, femme and capable, vulnerable and resilient, traumatized and healthy.
I am not trauma bonding.
I am simply preparing people for what the reality of being in my life is. To stand by my side in any significant capacity is to bear witness to pain that was, is, and will be. Though the events of my past are solidly in my past, the consequences and pain are ever evolving. I’m constantly reconciling and healing. Honestly, I’m also testing the waters to see if this new person can handle it. Out of sheer self-preservation, I’m not going to let myself become emotionally involved with someone who will flee when the hard stories start coming up. Let alone if they invest a lot of time and get to the point where they may see the consequences of another’s actions in the form of my anxiety, PTSD, depression, and OCD. The truth is, I am a bit of a mess. My life and mental health is really in a good place considering, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have bad days. I want to know I can potentially show a side of me that is not completely together and capable. I don’t want to hide integral pieces of myself. Fuck, I’m not going to stop writing, talking, and fighting for change because someone is uncomfortable with my past; I’ve been there too many times to do it again. I take pen to paper, fingers to keys, putting that pain on display for the world to see and hopefully feel. This is my job. This is my purpose.
I am not trauma bonding.
Silence was my protector for so long. I refuse to be silent. I refuse to be a well behaved woman. I am strong. I am broken. I am clumsy. I am kind. I am funny. I am sad. I like to think I’m smart. I am multitudes. But I am traumatized. I am not asking a single person to take that trauma on. It is just a story among many stories of my life.
I love dogs. I have six rescue babies to prove it. It’s a lot; I’m aware. Cathy, the founder and CEO of Brindle Market, and I connected over Instagram a little while back, and I quickly became obsessed with her shop and story. I’m actually living in the Do No Harm tshirt as I write this. I asked her a whole bunch of questions, and she answered them so thoroughly, which makes writer-me very, very happy. So let’s talk about Cathy!
I had to get my own street dog a sparkly cape! | Sweatshirt
With years of volunteering in animal rescues and focusing on at-risk animals, Cathy began dreaming of creating a business that would bring awareness to and benefit the community. Based in California’s Bay Area, Brindle Market came into existence in 2016. Named for the blending colored fur pattern, she has created her own blend of fashion, small business, and animal rescue by donating 10% of proceeds to animal rescues to be a part of the solution. She’s creating beautiful, wearable pieces that advocate for animal rights. I can personally attest, they are very comfy!
An animal mama, Cathy shares her home with Meeka, Sadie, and Tucky. Meeka, the kitty, joined her family after getting lost in a neighbor’s attic during repairs. After two weeks of mysterious meowing, Cathy rushed to the vet before keeping her furever. Sadie, a small terrier mix, darted in front of Cathy’s car begging to be caught. When her original owners failed to respond to messages and a short stay at the local animal shelter, Sadie joined the family. Tucky, a tuxedo cat, was a neonatal orphan kitten foster fail. Some things are just meant to be, and our hearts know it.
Animals have been a huge part of Cathy’s life. Her first rescue dog, Katie, came into her life at thirteen. A year out of college, Bella, a pit mix, became a part of her family. The relationship came with reactivity challenges and training classes, but—like every good dog parent knows—with love, time, and lots of training most things can be turned around. It was also a lesson in breed discrimination in culture and legislation; as well as, a learning curve of how every dog has different needs. Bella was the catalyst for Cathy’s path as a pitbull advocate and her life with rescues.
You know what would be cute for Christmas? This t-shirt.
Between the pandemic, chronic illness, and disability, Brindle Market transitioned into an online-only business in 2020. The transition was not always simple. Cathy took control of a difficult personal and global situation to continue creating and bringing good into the world. Expanding her team to include a social media manager, blog writer, photographer, and affiliate program, she has been able to expand, reaching new partners to sustain her family and business in the face of illness and global economic upheaval.
In 2022, she will be integrating owner and pet wellness elements to Brindle Market. Continuing the theme of blending life with passion, she is leaning into lessons she has learned on her health journey. This inclusion also allows for positivity in the face of adversity and embracing all the moments we cherish with our pets. She is determined to continue Brindle Market and give back to the animal rescue community, having donated more than $11,500 and counting.
I’m so honored Cathy felt comfortable enough opening up about her personal struggles with illness and disability along with the steps she’s taken to keep her amazing business going. As a chronically ill, freelancing, dog mom trying to make it in a mid-pandemic world, I can empathize with the struggle. She’s doing amazing things for the community and the world! So please go check out the website, support a small business, be a part of changing a rescue baby’s life, and also Christmas is coming up so go nuts!
Visit and Shop Brindle Market https://brindlemarket.com/
Worth has always been a concept I struggle with. Showing up and bolstering friends through their self worth journeys is easy. I can see how worthy they are of every amazing thing life has to offer. Applied to myself. No. Maybe there’s an alternate reality where I don’t struggle with mental health issues. We’re obviously not in that one.
Baring it all is easier physically than emotionally, but I wouldn’t be a very good writer if I didn’t try.
Existing in the world, all I want is to make every single person I come into contact with feel seen and respected, worthy of dignity, even if it’s for the briefest moment in passing on the street or the internet. If I let people come into my life, I love them so hard and show it in every way I physically and emotionally can. I will give until there is nothing to give. Part of this is genuinely who I am. The other part is because I don’t want anyone to feel the way I feel all the time.
Worth was not instilled in me, ever. If anything it has been actively undermined for as long as I can remember. The only worth placed on me was in my body, my face, my aesthetic, but I’m thirty and have officially reached my expiration date.
I came into adulthood having only been treated like an object to be used, abused, possessed, fought over, shared, showed off. Trotted out like a trick pony with an impressive resume. Fuck, did I work hard for that resume. I was a very impressive high school student, but it’s all shit from there.
Throughout childhood and adolescence, my existence was a reflection of my mother (I can’t include my father because he didn’t take part, he didn’t stop it if he even noticed, but he was not like this). If I was anything less than exceptionally perfect, my existence was ignored, and I was quite literally locked in my bedroom until I could come out and be exactly what was expected. It wasn’t about teaching manners or behavior. It was about complete control, policing my identity, mind, opinions, and existence into a tight box meant to glorify her impeccable parenting and public/self image.
The first time I heard ‘I love you’ from someone who wasn’t saying it to a carefully curated version of myself was the first time I was raped. The physical, psychological, and sexual abuse was constant and inescapable for two years. He shared me with his friends because I was just such a good lay. There was no escape at home. There was no escape at school; I was so isolated, I had no friends. I had no one I could trust, let alone to protect me.
At twenty, I finally escaped my parental control for the roomier box of sex work. Stripping was a means to an end, a way to pay for college and not be homeless. It gave me the freedom to explore my sense of self and learn to reclaim the selves that had been stripped away by my parents and my rapists. It simultaneously served as empowerment and solidified my existence as deserving of abuse, possession, and gratification to others. I can’t speak to stripping today or outside of my bubble and experience, but it was rough. To survive and succeed, being tough and a bitch was the only way to make it through. And I did it sober without dropping out of college or giving up a single major.
I say my romantic relationships have been wonderful and healthy, but that’s not the whole truth. That’s the version of the truth I wish existed. They are wonderful men. They did their best under remarkable circumstances, but my relationships have never been healthy. Not perpetually toxic, but there was toxicity. Some stood firmly on the boundary between toxic and abuse, though that was never their intention, the line became very blurry at times. The problems were abundant and varied, but the fault was usually placed at my feet. I’m no innocent, but it took me a long time to accept that a majority of the blame was not mine to apologize for.
I am the partner people search out when they want to be fixed or at least have a hand to hold while the fixing happens. Platonic and romantic alike, I am the support: emotional, financial, physical. I show up consistently as the same person without wavering or asking something in return. Leaving the person and the place better than when I arrived. I give everything I have emotionally and physically because if I have it and someone else needs it, it is now theirs. I cannot be disappointed or hurt if there are no expectations of receiving anything at all. I’m the embodiment of “I’m just happy to be thought of.” Not even included. Thought of.
I want someone to love me and see me as I am. Just me. I want me to be enough for once.
My worth was always in my body. Never my mind, and I am acutely aware people do not look at me and think: smart. They will get to know me and still not think, ‘Hey, she’s intelligent.’ Fine, but I will be valued for more than the appearance of my body, so I compensated. I took on all the love languages and those that do not have names. I give them out as if they are as plentiful as air. I created a self worth contingent on the things I could offer.
When everything in my life has always been treated as transactional, it’s hard not to internalize that. I started using my body, my time, my capabilities as currency to buy a shred of importance in the eyes of someone I care for. If I wanted love, I had to be a certain thing. If I wanted to not get raped, I had to do certain things. If I wanted to avoid a punch, I had to tread carefully. If I wanted the barest minimum of respect, I had to go above and beyond to be and provide perfection. Unproductive days where I put my work or, God forbid, my own mental health first, letting the house go messy; not making dinner; leaving a pile of laundry unfolded; not reorganizing the pantry for the seventeenth time while managing to care for the necessities of surviving and working two full-time jobs is shrouded in a thick layer of guilt because I’m not doing enough. If there is something to be done or a feeling out of place, I have not done enough and my worth is nonexistent.
The problem is, transactional worth based on what I can do and give people is still objectification. It is still a lack of worth. My value is still rooted in possession, neglect, usefulness, and just a new trotting of the trick pony. I did this to myself. I needed to feel like I was worth something other than another beautiful body decorating the world. I grounded my worth in what I could provide to others, but no one stopped me. No one told me I’m worth anything just as I am. No one told me I could sit in silence without makeup on in sweatpants and still deserve dignity, autonomy, the right to exist, love.
Internally, if I’m not giving everything I have all of the time, I feel like I deserve to be abused, raped, neglected, and unloved. Do not construe this with searching out those actions, I have spent my life avoiding them. But when people or partners treat me poorly, I feel like I deserve it. I don’t blame them. For more than two-thirds of my life, the world taught me I existed to be abused. A human punching bag. A vessel for sexual gratification. A lump of clay to be molded into whatever novelty the day and moment required. If I wasn’t perfect, I didn’t deserve anything at all. Even if I was perfection, abuse and rape were just around the corner. So much of who I am is firmly based in trying to scrounge for any infinitesimal amount of love I can get whether it’s love for me or an idea of me because at least I’m being thought of. I desperately want to love and be loved as I am. I want to be seen and respected. I want to exist without fear.
I have spent my life alone surrounded by people who have shown me I can’t trust them entirely. I still feel so utterly alone. The battle to reclaim two and a half decades of a life stolen from me is exhausting. I’m doing it alone. At this point, it feels like there is too much to tell, too much to show, too much to explain, too much to defend to let someone else be with me. It feels like an unnecessary burden to ask anyone to take on even if all they’re taking on is bearing witness.
Thirty is still young, but I have lived a somewhat extraordinarily full life. Not full in the ways I once hoped it would be, but they have been experiences nonetheless. A shell with not a lot left to give. I feel like I’m too old, too bitter, too used, too mediocre to be loved, let alone valued.
Cuffing season is upon us. If you don’t know what that is: the season people search out a partner for the long or short term to cuddle up with through the cold months and/or celebrate the holidays with; beginning in October and lasting until after Valentine’s Day.
As all the beautiful people in the world are coupling up, I’m reminded of one of the possible and inevitable endings every couple faces: the end. Every. Relationship. Ends. Some with a breakup. Others with death… We call these the lucky ones because they lasted. Either way, every relationship ends and is often partnered with heartbreak. Happy holidays! Let’s talk about pain.
Heartbreak comes in all shapes and no two feel the same. So often heartbreak is equated with romantic relationships, but it doesn’t have to be. I’ve had friendships hurt far more than romantic relationships. Whether romantic, platonic, familial, or other, to love is to open ourselves up to pain. So much so that, for me, love and pain are all but synonyms. Not to detract or overwrite the joy and warmth of love, but those feelings cannot exist in the absence of pain. The two breathe in tandem making one all the more poignant because of the other.
My heart may break, but I won’t stop loving.
Autumn and winter are the seasons where couples, families, and friends come together. In Texas, it’s wedding season. The holidays are looming; families and friends are planning gatherings. It’s a time to be with loved ones. Social media becomes even more inundated with people declaring their affections for one another. These occasions also have a tendency to bring up unresolved issues, hurt feelings, drama, and all things heart aching. There’s love and happiness in there too, I suppose. For me, it has been no different. Well, the declaring my love on social media for a romantic someone is far from likely. I’m speaking to the holiday heart aches. Historically, October has been a consistently traumatic month for me. Some of the worst events of my life happened in October. Some of the biggest heartbreaks too. October wrote scars across my heart, so I’m always happy to say ‘Au revoir, October’ and ‘Привет, Christmas!’
In no uncertain terms, heartbreak is the fucking worst. I’m not talking about breakups, friendship endings, or endings specifically. Breakups are not always painful; some pain does not accompany an ending; and heartbreak can happen when no relationship ever occurred at all. It’s the pain that sits unrelentingly inside my chest. Whatever the reason. Whoever the person. No matter the relationship. Pain is still pain, and it has been my greatest, most consistent teacher.
Over the course of thirty years, I’ve learned a thing or two from my heart breaking, and I expect I’ll learn many more. Some opinions may change, and hopefully I get better and less bitter with time. I remain hopeful.
I don’t know if I’ll ever walk down an aisle in a white dress, but I’ll wear them with flower crowns any day.
Love Hard; Love Ferociously; Love Resolutely I truly believe in loving with everything I have. Friends, lovers, family. I will give everything I have and everything I am. I have never regretted loving someone fiercely; though it has been painful, I don’t look back with regrets or what ifs. Even as endings loomed, I loved hard even when quitting would be the easier thing to do.
Love Has Boundaries Boundaries are hard for me, but I’m learning love, healthy love, has boundaries. Just because I love ferociously and without limits does not mean it’s a free for all. It took me a long time to know what I would endure and what I will not. I was a doormat for a very, very long time, but I’m finally learning how to stand up for myself. That comes with setting boundaries for myself and for my relationships. I’m still not great at this, but I’m trying, damnit.
Timing Matters I wish this weren’t true. Sometimes you meet the right person at the wrong time. It’s so cliché, and yet it’s true. Timing matters, and sometimes that’s the only reason a relationship needs to crumble.
Set Expectations Take this in any and all ways. Friendship, workships, family, sexual partners, romance, whatever. Expectations are so important. If they’re not established, how the hell is the other person to know what I want and need and expect from them and us. Expectations change with time and growth, so continue to talk about them. Have check-ins. Regular check-ins!
A Breakup Isn’t Failure This one took me a long time to come to terms with. I have a deeply rooted fear of failure. Anything not working out was a failure, a personal failure, all my fault, and no one else’s. I know in my brain this isn’t true; my irrational brain has not caught up. Breakups—romantic, familial, platonic—are not failures. Sometimes things just don’t work, and that’s okay. People are not always compatible, and that does not mean either one is wrong or problematic or “crazy.” It just means people are different. The failure is in not trying at all.
Radical Honesty I’m not a relationship expert, obviously. I’m sitting here in my office absolutely single at thirty, but I have had incredibly successful relationships and breakups. People ask me for relationship advice—I don’t know why either. I always say: Communicate all the time about everything. There is no such thing as too much honesty. In my relationships, I practice radical honesty, which is why I’m so close with all my exes. We never had secrets. There was nothing to hide, so when an ending came, there wasn’t anything to be angry about. No dark secret that tore us apart. The problems were on the surface. They’d been talked about for a long time. We tried working through them because we were honest about what we needed and wanted from one another. We gave it our all, but things didn’t work for whatever reason. Lack of love has never been at fault. Radical honesty doesn’t prevent pain or arguments. It may not even prevent a breakup. It does make everything healthier, happier, and so much easier. My life is so much better because I have been honest in my relationships. Even when honesty stings, it saves much bigger pain.
You Will Not Be the Same Person People change us. Every single person in my life has influenced who I am today. Those I have let into the deepest corners of my heart and soul have a larger influence over how I move through the world, which is why I’m choosy! I don’t want to be influenced by crap people. Ideally these very important people make me a better person. Even in heartbreak, I have take aways on how I can do better in the future for myself and in relationship with others. I am not perfect. I never will be, but I am a better person because of all the incredible humans I have loved.
Always Say ‘I Love You’ I have never regretted saying these three words. Sometimes they’re not said back, and that’s okay. I don’t say them with the expectation of hearing it. Love is amazing when it’s reciprocated. It can fucking wound when it’s not, but I will always say I love you to the people I do love because I don’t want them to wonder or not know where they fit in my heart. I say it a lot, but I also show it, but I’m also going to say it. I want the people I love to know without a shadow of a doubt that they are loved.
Fight For Love, But Know When To Leave I have fought so hard for love. Not a regret in sight. I will always fight for love as long as there is a love to be fought for. Sometimes, I’ve fought a lot longer than I maybe should have. There has always been that moment when I knew in my heart it’s time to be done. I can’t tell you when that moment is because it’s different for every person and every relationship. When that feeling settled in, I let go. The pain didn’t necessarily stop, but I learned to stop fighting for something that wasn’t meant to be.
Love Is Not Enough I said this at nineteen. I’ll say it at thirty. Love does not conquer all. Love is not always enough. This is probably an unpopular opinion. Love is enough of a reason to sure try. Many obstacles can be conquered with love, dedication, and hard work from both partners. But there are obstacles that even love cannot surmount. That does not mean the love is any less real or pure. It just means life is ridiculously hard.
Life Goes On I’ve had a breakup where I really wish this weren’t true. I’ve had my heart broken with grief over someone passing or friends leaving my life. The pain doesn’t always get easier. I hate to say it, but sometimes the pain doesn’t go away. I’ve learned to live with those aches like the knee pain I have from my ballet days. Life does go on.
bisous un обьятий, RaeAnna
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