Tag: Houston

Houston, In My Own Words, Lifestyle, On the Town

Musings in a Storm; Hurricane Beryl

RaeAnna

One Week Later…

On Sunday, July 7, 2024, I started taking pictures as the bands of Hurricane Beryl started to sweep over Houston. Alone in my house, I went to bed wondering what condition my world would be in when I woke. The power went out while I was on the phone with my fiancée (who lives in Australia) at seven in the morning on Monday, July 8, 2024. She went to bed for the night, and my weather watch began. Two hours later, I lost cell reception and internet. As an avid read, writer, picture taker with literally nothing to do, I decided to document the storm. I’ve been through my fair share of hurricanes, storms, tornados, and derechos at this point in my life. But, for the first time, I was bored during it.

I spent Sunday night and Monday taking pictures. The following pieces I wrote over three days in a notebook; then transcribed on my tablet in a note that I, later, turned into a .doc, which is now my first post in months. Each piece stands alone; though there are likely themes to be found. Some bring levity, and some are quite dark. They’re all very much me. The photos separate piece from piece. So, enjoy.

Open front door of Pearl Bar onto Washington Avenue as the bands of Hurricane Beryl begin.
Pearl Bar’s front door opens onto Washington Avenue as the bands of Hurricane Beryl begin.
  • Laying, clothed in very little, with the windows open: I’m hot. The kind of hot that feels like it’ll never get better. The kind of hot that makes air heavy in the lungs. If this isn’t nostalgic, it would be misery.
  • Laying on a sheet-covered couch—because cotton is cooler than brushed velvet—my underwear and bra stick to me. I’m glistening with sweat. I’ve read three-quarters of one of the best novels I’ve ever consumed. I realize: I’d be working if it weren’t for Hurricane Beryl shutting down the fourth largest city in the United States. A category one. No internet. No power. No communication with the outside world. It took a natural disaster for me to have my first real day off since the day after I put my dog to sleep… three months ago. There’s literally nothing to be done but pick up sticks and read. And I’m not about to go pick up sticks.
  • Laying on the couch, the only breeze I can feel is the hot breath from the dogs who love me so much they can’t find another spot to lay except my lap in all 3,000 square feet of this damn house. My day was spent reading and writing, the old-fashioned way. I love days like these. Ones where I lay by an open window, reading, drinking tea, and listening to nature. Today, doing just that, Instead of the birds, beach, breeze, city, leaves, I’d normally find lulling, I’m currently being serenaded by my much too nice neighbors’ generator. I hate them. But they’re too nice to hate, even in this heat.
A friend walking her dog as the storm started to roll in Sunday, July 7, 2024.

I have so many unanswered questions. | Does my mother believe in heaven? | What is the worst lie I’ve ever told? | Why do fascia confuse scientists so much? | Does Beau resent me for rescuing Tessa and the Puppies? | Why didn’t he protect me? | What will I regret when I lay dying? | Will she still think I’m beautiful in 50 years when she walks into our room after brushing her teeth to find me reading on the same side of the bed I’ve slept in for the majority of our lives? | Why did that question make me cry? | How did performing on stage go from being my whole life to a place I haven’t been in a decade? | Does he know he’s the villain in my story? | Why do I like Peach Rings but peaches not so much? | Do my dogs know how much I love them? | There are happy-sad people and sad-happy people and sad-sad people, but are there happy-happy people? | What’s even the point? | Why do I think I’m interesting enough to be a writer? | Can she remember the smell of the space between my shoulder blades the way I remember her? | When we leave the house, do our pets think we’re going for pupcups and dog walks and pet stores and beach adventures because that’s all they do with us? | Do they feel abandoned? | Am I capable of writing a book? | When does it get better?

Beau and Bear anxious over the thunder.

As I drive through my neighborhood, there is a ton of damage. Trees felled. Roofs in streets. Families raking yards. Neighbors calling on each other. Hands being lended. Bayous overflowing.

The general post-natural disaster mahem and comradery.

Beau’s head hangs out the passenger window. Soaking up the breeze as much as the sun. She’s always loved a car ride. I drive slowly as much out of safety as curiosity.

As we slowly creep down the street, the decimation of homes, trees, and fences allows us a public viewing into private moments. On the main road, a backyard fence lays half across the sidewalk, half across the street. A multi-generational Asian family sits around a table on their back patio. Mom, dad, and grandma stare with a mixture of defeat and exhaustion. Martini in every hand. All the while, their ten[ish?] year-old son flits around the backyard with the joy of a kid in a world devoid of technology.

Using the dictionaries I loved so much in college to look up the gender of a noun. #old #nerd

Sometimes, I feel like Pyoter, my robot vacuum—named because a) I like men who clean b) I can yell at a man when it fucks up c) I speak Russian d) it just felt right—who is currently sat, wheels run-up a dog toy, in the corner where the hearth meets the wall.

Pyotr does a great job. A real go-getter. He’s aged, but his battery isn’t suffering. With the right care, he does as well as he ever did. His years show in the collection of dust and scuffs. He’s reliable and beloved. But he’s stuck. He’s not out of battery. He’s not full either. Nor is he empty. He’s kind of in the middle phase of vaccing the floors: where enough progress has been made, it seems like things could be done. Nowhere near perfect, but definitely above the expectation people have when I tell them, “I have five dogs.” Pyotr has the capability to do a great job, not just the average state my floors exist in now.

But he’s stuck.

I’m sitting on the couch engrossed in a book about a rich, lesbian writer who’s suffering from severe depression, childhood trauma, depersonalization, derealization, some delusions, and can’t finish her novel—that’s actually a memoir—which has put her in a trust funded [see what I did there] psychiatrists’ office not to feel and do better but to write again. Same. But I’m too poor for a psychiatrist to help me finish my damn book. Also the protagonist(antagonist?) is younger and further in her book than me. Fuck her. Now, I’m realizing, I am genuinely jealous of a genuinely ill and equally fictional woman. Then, again, I’m also (mostly undiagnosed) mentally ill. I mentioned I’m too poor for a psychiatrist? yes. This tracks.

Anyway.

I promise these two are related as to why, sometimes, I feel like Pyotr.

He’s stuck.

I’m stuck.

He needs me to get up, move him, push the button so he can be unstoppable. The problem therein lies: I won’t get up.

My brain is home to: CPTSD, childhood trauma, rape, violence, audhd, stripping, and more. At 33, like my floors, I’m doing better than you’d assume. To the outside world, I’m doing great. But I have so much energy. My mind is only getting more interesting. I know there’s potential. Somewhere. What’s been done is good enough; it really is.

It’s not good enough for me.

I’m wheels up on my own metaphorical dog toy. Therefore, I have no—completely devoid of metaphor here—no ability to stand up and press Pyotr’s button so he can go do great things for my mental health through dog glitter confiscation.

Which is a symptom of my own being stuck.

I need a me to come in and unstick me, so I can unstick Pyotr. So, he can finish the floors. So, I can finish my bestselling book. So, I can afford my wife’s dream job of being a rockstar. Then, I’ll be unstoppable. And maybe, but probably not, have a little more money. (I plan on my wife’s first tour eating up the $37 advance I get from that “bestseller.”)

But, I’m going to go back to reading.

MOM! It’s wet!

I know I dated men for so, so, so many reasons. It’s something I’ve written about loads. Thought about far more. Why did I spend a whole lot of years dating a gender I have literally zero attraction to? There’s a bit to it I hate and don’t admit to often. But it’s also true and part of it.

Dating men is inherently traumatic. (For all women, yes. They are our natural predators. I’d choose the bear, but no one is asking me.) But for me. As a gay woman with years of sexual Trauma with a capital t. Sex, every single consensual time, was traumatic. Some more. Some less. I was walking a tightrope above a flowing lava river of memories I am deeply afraid of and equally curious about. I have an entire lived-life that I don’t really remember so well. It’s there. But not. I know I can. But do I want to?

With the right circumstances, those memories come back. Do I want them? Nope. Do I need them? Healing is a long, painful journey. I quickly realized… The easiest way to remember the memories living in my body and not so much my mind was sex with men. With the force of a freight train going down a hill with no brakes or conductor, every new rememberance would chug right over my mental health. 

To be clear, this was all done consensually and unconsciously. It took me a long time to figure out what I was doing. Eventually, sex with men didn’t bring back memories. I think I’d collected all the Trauma I could the old fashioned way. 

I took all the puzzle pieces and put them together. My puzzle was definitely found at a rummage sale because pieces are missing. I have enough of them to have a really clear understanding of who I am and where I come from. Then I took the time to heal. Like really heal. I’m not healed. Clearly. But I’m better.

Then I came out. Not because I hadn’t known I was gay before. But I needed to reTraumatize myself over and over and over again to uncover the hardest truths I needed to know so I could get to a place where I wasn’t so actively trying to die.

Too many years into an already full life. I’m out, I’m proud, I’m a functional calamity. At 33, I’m really fucking happily engaged to the most incredible woman. And I think… deep down, I might actively want to live.

The anxious ones were kept in their safe spaces.

With generators and chainsaws and bugs and children and dogs and sirens and storms, the world has never seemed louder. More intrusive. More in my space. 

So, I put in earplugs to drown out the noise. I try to find sleep laying on the couch with all the windows open in a breezeless night in July. There’s still a ringing. A haunting that won’t go away. It’s louder in my brain than any of the aforementioned noises could ever be loud in real life.

I wish this were just tinnitus. But no. 

Not new, but particularly jarring tonight. As a little girl, I used to think of it as an alarm sounding. That voice my mom told me about. It told me when I was doing something wrong. When I was being bad. It didn’t take me long to learn: that alarm never relented.

So, it didn’t take long to know: I was just bad. Most of the time, I still believe it. That I deserved it all. Every malintent, violence, shame. 

But some days, more than there used to be, I think: maybe it’s all the alarms I didn’t listen to, warning me of all the people I believed.

Sometimes, it hurts being alone in my own head.

So, I take the earplugs out. Letting the sound of crickets and generators drown out the alarms I didn’t know how to listen to.

A lot of sniffing and following me around the house.

Stuck in a house with no electricity, no air conditioning, no reception, no internet, and no help at the height of southern Texas summer is a lot like camping. Except terrible. 

If I tell you it was a first. I’m probably lying to you. 

When I think about the unedited version of my whole life. The one common thread has been lying. Changing the narrative of my history. Sometimes, as it’s happening.

I tell firsts as if they’re not really seconds or thirds of fiftieths because they are more palatable. Cleaner. Easy. 

Because, the thing is, the first time… well, that’s the first time I’ll write about. 

But 

To friends who know me, there’s the first time I talk about like it was a passing thing because looking at the threads that wove my Trauma, it hardly even feels like it matters. 

Then 

There’s the first time that felt like the first time. Only three people have seen that pain. 

However

There’s the first time that was the real first time. I’ve never spoken it out loud. To even think of it pulls all the air that ever was from my lungs. Even writing—admitting to it here—scares me so much. I want to run. I want to hide. There is pain I so instinctively don’t want to be true that if I never speak it, never share it, maybe it’s not. But lately, in traffic, on walks, alone, in the moments where my mind wanders… I keep being led there. I’ve had to stop writing three times so my eyes could see the spelling errors I’ll edit out through tears sometime between me writing and you reading this. If you’re reading this, it means I didn’t edit this one out. This is hard. This is brave. This feels like dying.

Telling firsts which weren’t actually firsts, I’m lying to you. I’m not lying to myself. I was there. I know the truth. I always have. I just wish I didn’t. So I tell the firsts I’m comfortable with. Because I’m better. But I’m not fucking healed.

A lot of naps.

My love for you is a very well tended garden.

It’s an allegory I like because I like gardens. Not a perfect one since I don’t like gardening. In this figurative garden, I have no problems being a figurative gardener. Although, my darling dearest, the literal garden is your literal responsibility. 

When a garden is planted, watered, tended, weeded, watered, tended, weeded, planted, so on and so forth, it will grow and thrive. New things will come. Some things will wither. Sometimes, it doesn’t *seem* to be doing so well because of winter or drought or too much rain or not enough sun, but a very well tended garden always survives, coming back stronger and more beautiful each time because the soil keeps getting richer. It is always growing and changing because it was never not well tended.

My love for you is that. A bit simplistic, but you get the idea. 

An Observer

Ludicrous! Not the rapper. The idea!!!!

The idea! at one point in time… a very, much too long point in time in my life, I thought it was important to carry a small suitcase on my shoulder everywhere I went.

They’re known as purses.

Highly helpful for the ladyfolk in a world where the ladyfolk are legally not allowed functional pockets [if pockets at all—depending on your state and county legislation]. Not really, but that’s how it feels shopping.

Anyway. I carried a large purse because I deemed it necessary to carry every single item anyone could need in events ranging from a wedding to a natural disaster. True fact. The pouch-thing I carried inside my purse was so well stocked with all sorts of odds and ends, it really did come in handy at both weddings (two friends) and a natural disaster (hurricane Florence). It was hefty! Lifting the damn thing, which sits utterly-and-quite-suddenly-forsaken, dusty, and on the top shelf in my entryway, put down never to be picked up again until… now, when it feels like something between training for an Iron Man and giving up completely.

I had purses—yes plural—big enough to carry the well-stocked pouch-thing, wallet, phone, a tiny tripod, book, pen, tablet, all my friends’ things, and a brush every single time I left the house.

It is baffling to me.

I don’t even brush my hair anymore. 

I was very lucky.

I don’t like my body.

I don’t think I see what other people see.

All I see is endurance. Not the long-distance running kind. The servived kind.

I look at my body and see every flaw. Every dimple. Every stretch mark. Every varicose vein. Every lump. Every wrinkle. Every sag. Every scar. I’m vain. Sure. But…

I see pain. I see a body I didn’t think belonged to me, had control over, a right to. I see a body that I think of as not me. What happens and happened to this body… that’s not me. It’s just a body. Because if they did that to my body and I am my body, they did that to me. And they knew me. And they still did it. Then looked me in the eye and called it love.

I don’t want to look at my body and see that.

I don’t.

But, I take beautiful pictures of my body in beautiful places. They call the place beautiful. They call the body beautiful. But I just want to keep a record. I want proof. I want to know that I was there. I did it. This body did enough to get to those places.

But also…

I hope one day I look back on all the pictures I’ve taken in beautiful clothes in beautiful places with beautiful people and think, maybe, ‘I was beautiful once.’ I guess, that’s how I’ve always—well, not always—known to not give up yet. That’s hope, an emotion I’m rarely accused of. I haven’t lost it. So, maybe, one day, I will look back at all the art I made with eyes that somehow found enough self-love (it hurt me far more to write than for you to read) to think: ‘As much as I hated it every singe time, I deserved to be called beautiful.’

But I guess that’s healing from being treated like an ugly thing for so very long.

The water was high.

Life is an exhausting to do list. 

11..., Lifestyle

11… Unexpected Joys I Found in 2023

RaeAnna

Oh, wow. 2023. What a year. 

I am aware we’re well into the second month of 2024, but I’m still processing 2023. I need some time. I wanted it to be the year that everything changed. I had a very specific vision for what that change would be. I was right but wrong. 2023 was one of the most eventful and biggest years of my life, but in none of the ways I planned. I’m 93% really, super excited about everything and 7% ‘what the fuck?’ about it.

Woman dressed up and smiling in the middle of white balloons and sequins.
Give me a reason for a photoshoot… You don’t have to. I will make up my own.
  1. I made some of the most incredible friends. For whatever reason, 2023 was the year of friends. I had intended on expanding my friend horizons, figuring I would pick up the kind of friends you call to hang out with on a weekend night or something. Instead, I filled my life with the friends I co-work, travel, grocery shop, cry, vent, deep dive, cook, dance, sing, bar hop, vegetate with and more. They’re the most amazing group of women. 
  2. Reading took up less space in my life. I basically majored in reading real good in three languages in college; I’m currently sitting in my office surrounded by a whole lot of books; most people think of me and books synonymously; so the fact I only read 18 books last year is shocking. I stepped back from the stories of others and kept myself busy as I lived, worked, socialized more. Though this is a good thing, I have a pile of books to read and review. I’m slowly making some headway.
  3. Once upon a time in 2018, I made a best friend. This best friend is a floral designer. This best friend is charismatic, vivacious, and persuasive. This best friend played the long game and conned me into becoming a floral designer myself between 2020 and now. In 2023, I started taking on my responsibilities in her business, and now, flowering has become a significant portion of my life. To the point, I’m freelancing for other Houston florists. Couldn’t have seen that coming.  
  4. My birthday was the most fun I’ve ever had clothed. Amanda planned an out of this world party for me the weekend before my birthday, and on the day of, my best friends made it the most exceptional day of my entire life up until that point. I didn’t think that day (for that matter that month) would ever be topped. The year was exceptional in more ways than one, and it still counts as the second best day ever.
  5. In 2021, one of my closest friends told me to start saving, we would be going to the FIFA Women’s World Cup in Australia in 2023. I, never one to turn down a trip, said “fuck yes.” At the time, I had no interest in soccer. Now, I love it very much. So much… I saw the Women’s Final in Sydney last August. It was an incredible thing to experience, and I can’t wait for 2027. The world finds out where we’re going in May.  
  6. Somehow, I made it to two new continents in the span of a few days. In the middle of my Australia trip, I took a ten day detour to Asia. As an addendum to this, I thought I would only visit Australia once, but I have technically been to Australia three times in 2023—although, I really only count the first two times as one time because it was a part of the same trip. 
  7. Cambodia was the number one thing on my travel bucket list for over 21 years. I never actively planned or planned on planning a trip to Cambodia, but it was a spur of the moment decision to add it into my Australia trip. I’m so glad I did because it ended up being my last single girl trip, and I couldn’t have picked a better destination to really enjoy being a happy, single, free 30 something. 
  8. Getting tattooed on three continents in one week was never something I thought of or dreamed I would be able to say, and yet… I can. Tattoos are an important part of my self and image at this point in time. I like them and use them to document who I am in an external way. Last minute, I decided to get a tattoo within 12 hours of leaving Cambodia. I had appointments for later in the week in Australia and US. It was unintentional, and I love this fun fact about myself.
  9. Decided to change all of my plans, and I’m really happy about it. I had a very definitive path forward. Then I went on a trip that changed everything. I decided to change all of my plans to follow my heart. I’m young. I have as few responsibilities as I’m ever going to have. So, fuck it. I’m doing the damn thing.
  10. Kangaroos are more rampant than bunnies and squirrels and deer combined in Australia. This was a massive surprise. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I was not expecting what the reality of living in Australia with kangaroos actually is. I did not really have any expectations for kangaroos, but driving through Australia, I’m realizing I know nothing and I have all the questions.  
  11. Kate proposed. Not only did I get myself a British/Australian girlfriend on the other side of the world. I got myself a British/Australian fiancée on the other side of the world. I still can’t hardly believe I’m typing this with a ring on my hand and a wedding date in my calendar. 

2023! What a year of surprises. Life is hard. I’ve been through a whole entire lot in the last 32.5 years, but 2023 was the most exceptional year of my life, and I have a feeling things are only going to keep getting more exciting and fun.  

11..., Lifestyle

11… Ways I Try to Show Up for My People

RaeAnna

People who don’t know me very well have the impression that I’m a genuinely optimistic human with an ability to always find the silver lining. Even people who do know me quite well think of me as such. I’ve recently been in touch with a friend who, at one point in time, knew me better than almost anyone, and he described me as always able to find the silver lining. It got me thinking in the way things that take me off guard usually do.

Why do so many people see me as a silver lining, glass half full, optimistic, ray of sunshine human, when the reality is so starkly different? Only my closest friends realize the depth of my nihilism. I am such a dark and twisty human. I only see worst case scenario.

A woman in a vest sitting on the ledge of a scenic overlook in the Appalachia mountains in Tennessee.
There is something very peaceful about being in nature. It makes my loneliness feel so much less.

As so much in my life, there is the public and the private. The me the world experiences versus the me that only I know and my best friends get glimpses of. To the world and in interactions with other humans, I wouldn’t call myself optimistic but I present reality. “That sucks, but it’s not forever.” is something I say often. Often people don’t need optimism because that can be toxic. People just want and need their feelings and thoughts to be heard and validated. I’m really good at that. I’m also just really good at showing up in the dark times. For others, I can see the potential, light, and possibility lying ahead of them. Within and for myself, I live in a space of nihilistic gloom. 

Why am I so good at appearing like a happy, stable person?

Boiling it all the way down… I don’t ever want anyone to feel the depth of my loneliness. So I learned how to say all the right things at exactly the right time because no one has ever done that for me. People are not the same. Everyone has specific needs and desires and boundaries. Some people need optimism. Some people need silence. Some people need anger. Some people need hope. Some people need sadness. Some people need reality. I have the ability to know the person and what they want and need to hear. Most people treat people the way they want to be treated. I read people and treat them the way they crave to be treated. People don’t see me, and they definitely do not see me to my core. 

There is something so intrinsically optimistic about being seen by someone else. It gets so much easier to show up for people when I can see what they need when they need it. I fail all the time at showing up for my people. I do my best and sometimes that’s not good enough. But I keep trying to show up. It’s hard to feel alone when someone in the world sees you. So people see me as optimistic because I give them what they need when they need it, and it’s really hard to think of that person as anything other than a rainbow person.

I’ve only touched on that feeling twice, but it just made me more lonely. They almost saw me, but couldn’t quite push far enough to really see me. Or probably more realistic, they pushed as far as they cared to go. And it’s a little bit devastating to feel almost seen. The other part of me thinks, “Thank God. They would’ve left so much faster if they truly saw me.”

A woman in a vest sitting on the ledge of a scenic overlook in the Appalachia mountains in Tennessee.
I loved this moment. So much.

Ultimately, I have always shown up for other people in every way no one has shown up for me and in every way I cannot show up for myself. 

  1. “I love you.” I tell my people I love them. All the time. Every time I see them. Except for the people who are weird about hearing it, so I only tell them on special occasions. Sometimes, I just randomly text my people I love them. 
  2. My calendar is always up to date. This seems weird. I’m very good with dates in general, so this, by and large, is unnecessary because I will probably remember. But, just in case I don’t, I put everything on my calendar. Sad days in friends’ lives along with anniversaries and birthdays and really anything in between. It all goes on my calendar, so that every year, I can reach out or plan something depending on the event or memory. I don’t want to forget the important things in friends’ lives.
  3. Giving flowers. I have always been someone to show up with flowers for all kinds of events. Flowers make things better, and they at least bring a breath of fresh air to a space, which helps on bad days and good days. This has been made even easier with a florist best friend and my role in her company. I get to give my people much better flowers now.
  4. Making a thing out of birthdays. I try to go big for birthdays. I’ve kinda sucked at it the last couple years. Birthdays are an annual reminder of who gives a shit. Granted life happens and there’s a grace period, but those who care show up in one way or another. I try to do just that.
  5. If I’m left alone in a friend’s house, I will probably leave a whole bunch of notes around the place for them to find randomly. The notes may range from funny to serious to sweet to everything in between. 
  6. Showing up without an invitation. I do not do this to everyone because that’s a lot. For my really close people, if I know things are tough, I will pop by unannounced with the things I know will make them feel better. It’s hard to not accept love and help if it’s smiling at you on your doorstep with your favorite things.
  7. I love being behind the camera, so I take pictures all the time. I love taking candid and posed pictures of my people. From random days to actual photoshoots, I want to capture my people as they live their lives. I don’t want them to look back and wish they had more pictures of themselves, so I do. 
  8. Let me feed you. Cooking and baking is one of my biggest love languages. I love feeding people their favorite foods. Food feeds our bodies so we can keep going. Good food feeds the soul so we can keep going in the most fundamentally important way. 
  9. When traveling, I like to send my people postcards. Who doesn’t feel a little special getting anything in the mail that’s not a bill? Postcards are fun. They’re also getting harder and harder to find as less and less people send them. But I still search them out and send them anyway.
  10. Random compliments. Most of my people are not words of affirmation people, but that doesn’t mean they don’t need or deserve to hear just how much they mean to me. 
  11. I see people’s hearts and souls. Call it trauma. Call it PTSD. Call it being a stripper. Call it autism. Whatever the reason, I tend to read people who they are and not just their public selves. It can be the most raw and intimidating feeling having someone outside of yourself know you, but I tend to see people. And apparently that’s a gift to them. Or a curse. I guess, it just depends. 

Life is hard enough as it is. We don’t need to make it any harder. So I hope your people show up for you in all the ways you need them to. If they don’t, go find new people. They might be difficult to find, but they are out there. Go find them. Let them show up for you in all the ways you show up for them. You deserve an army of people who love you for all that you have to offer, whether you’re a bubbly, rainbow human or dark and twisty. Don’t settle for anything less. 

bisous un обьятий,
RaeAnna

11..., Lifestyle

11… Unusual Traditions I Made Up

RaeAnna
It’s a photoshoot! Because I can.

Tradition might be one of my favorite things. I love traditions. They make my world go round. I have traditions for everything. And it takes very little for me to create a new tradition. Seriously, I could like doing something one time, and it is immediately a tradition…. That I will uphold for the rest of my life. The more I write this, the more I’m thinking this is solely an autistic habit creation thing… But I’m gonna stick with calling this… tradition! And let everyone believe it’s just a cute quirk of mine.

We love Starbucks.
It’s a cathedral. This caption will make sense shortly.

Please don’t get “tradition” mixed up with “traditional.” If I call something “traditional,” that is very much a bad thing. If I’m calling something traditional, I’m being polite in front of people I don’t trust. Whatever it is is likely rooted in heteronormativity, the patriarchy, capitalism, or something generally shitty.

Traditions, though, are lovely and often little things that bring me joy. I have so many. So, so many. I’m only going to share eleven that are all over the place in importance. But I’m not going to tell you which ones are the important ones and which are not. Also some have been practiced for decades and others a year. Just know, if I ever rope you into a tradition, you’re stuck with it for life. So take part wisely. 

  1. Every time Dylan drives me to the airport, we get Velvet Taco. Every time he picks me up from the airport late at night, we get Waffle House. This tradition does not go both ways. It’s only when I’m the one flying.
  2. Marshmallows with a little bit of hot chocolate and cinnamon rolls with Christmas music while opening presents on Christmas morning.
  3. Dumplings whenever I’m sick or extra-spicy sad. 
  4. Getting a Starbucks I got to a new state/place. There are limits and terms to this agreement, but there is a state cup for everywhere I’ve been. 
  5. Matching outfits on trips. I rarely travel with people, but when I do, there are coordinating outfits and a lot of photos. Alex has been on the receiving end of this tradition more than anyone. Although, Amanda is a fast second. 
  6. Lighting a candle in every cathedral I go into. I’m not religious. 
  7. Going for a swing on a swing set late at night when I’m sad and can’t sleep. Extra awesome when it’s a cold winter night and the stars are clear. 
  8. Photoshoots for absolutely no particular reason other than… I can. 
  9. Birthday tattoos.
  10. Mommy-Doggy ice cream cones every time we go to the vet. 
  11. Throwing trash in the backseat of my car and yelling “ROADTRIP!” We do not need to be on a roadtrip. We will pick up immediately.
11..., Lifestyle

11… Unexpected Changes from Two Months of Regularish Lifting

RaeAnna

Back in April 2022, I started getting really serious about consistently working out. For the first time ever. Granted there was a very long period of time where I was super active as a dancer up until I was 23. I didn’t have to make a conscientious effort to move my body; I just always was. I’m an active person. I love rock climbing, walking, and playing sports with friends, though I am more than very bad. My vacations trend towards adventure with a lot of hiking or walking. Me out of shape is still very in shape. 

A woman in houndstooth pants, a black lace bra, blue blazer, and black booties, holding a disco ball covered in flowers in front of a mural.
Are those abs? What in the world?

Then I got into shape for realsies. Or at least, I was on the path. I was running six days a week and going to yoga at least four. In the span of two months, I lost 20 pounds and was in the lithest shape I’d ever been in in my adult body. I even ran a couple races and finished solidly just above mid-pack. Yay me. I hate running.

My dedication to working out floundered in July when I was constantly traveling. In August, my best friend and co-pawrent had a hip replacement, which took all of my time for four weeks and most of my time for an additional four weeks. A quarter of the way into his recovery, I seriously broke my hand—it’s still healing—and, being the fall risk that I am, exercise was even less possible. So working out became a thing of the past. My body started shifting away from lithe and lean because of course it did.  

A woman in black rock climbing.
Rock climbing again and figuring out I can do more even after I broke my hand.

But I’m getting older. It happens. I actually really love it. Our society has such a negative view of aging, and it’s so common to hear people complain about how their bodies turn to shit after 30. I’m not experiencing that. Things are changing, 100%, but I’m choosing to have a positive *insert serious internal gasp here* look at aging. So much of what our body experiences is influenced by how we view something (I have sources on this if you want to call me on it because this is a science based fact), and this is particularly pertinent to aging. So often we blame aging rather than a lack of stretching, not exercising, not stimulating our bodies/brains, poor form, overexertion, so on and so forth. It’s easier to blame age. Thirty is not old. Thirty is still so fucking young. I suffer from a lot of health problems. If I don’t want to die in the near future, it’s extra important I take care of my body in any and all ways. 

The physical effects of exercise are not all that appealing to me. I’m naturally thin. It’s just genetics. I can eat like crap, do nothing, and still never go over 150 pounds at 5’10”; believe me, I’ve done my best trying. Going from a ballerina body to that of a woman with hips was an adjustment. I’ve finally made my peace with it. So I don’t exercise to look a certain way. I exercise because it is the very best thing for mental acuity as I age. My biggest fear is losing my cognitive abilities and control. Combatting that starts right now by moving my body. As much as I hate admitting it, the other really important thing for women as we age… weight lifting. I hate it. I’d rather do cardio until I pass out. 

In November, I got a bougie ass gym membership. If I don’t spend too many monies on a gym membership, I will not work out regularly. I HATE wasting money more than just about anything. It’s right up there with systemic racism and all that bad shit. Running and yoga are still really hard for me. Running: I have a propensity to stumble and fall; with a hand that is still fragile, I can’t afford to lose my dominant hand again. Yoga: there’s a lot of putting weight on a hand that can’t take it yet. So I started weight lifting, and I think I accidentally became a gym rat. It’s the easiest thing for me to do with my hand. I’ve always had strong legs because… dancer. Upper body strength, what is that? Because… dancer. What I’ve lacked in strength, I’ve made up for in determination. But I hate looking weak. One way to, at least, feeling weak is knowing exactly how much weight I cannot do. 

A woman in houndstooth pants, a black lace bra, and black booties, holding a disco ball, flexing her arm muscles and making a goofy face in front of a mural.
When did I get arms? Or shoulders? or abs? I’m also making a dumb ass face because why not?
A woman rock climbing all the way to the top in a sports bra and leggings.
I’m still scared of heights… but I can almost see muscles in this picture.

Holy fuck. There have been some serious changes in the mere two months I’ve been not so consistently weight lifting. And it’s not just limited to doubling then tripling and even quadrupling the weight I was lifting at the beginning of December.

1. Boobs My boobs are not the same boobs I had two months ago. All the muscles in my chest and abs have changed things. Lifted two things. I’ve never been known for wearing a bra because my boobs have always been right about where they should be aesthetically for today’s societal beauty standards that I hate conforming to yet historically have. My boobs are so fucking perky. It’s weird. Now, I almost never wear a bra because why would I???   

2. Sleep I don’t like to sleep. It’s the antithesis of productivity, yet something I very much need for my health and a foundational element in maintaining mental acuity. Damnit. Working out has helped my sleep. It makes me tired at reasonable human times. Like midnight or one in the morning rather than never. Physical exhaustion, enough of it, can actually counteract anxiety. Who knew? It’s also made me more prone to getting up between 7:30 and 8:00 in the morning… weird. I have an almost normal sleep schedule. I wake up, like, ready to go. 

3. Protein So people have been telling me for years that protein is important. Ballerina mentality means I can and do push far past what most people find acceptable levels of physicality. Limits? What even are those? Fucking weird. If I take protein before I work out… I can lift a shit ton more with ease. Who knew?? Why didn’t someone tell me that? 

4. New Body My boobs aren’t the only thing that’s changing. My entire body is different. I have arm muscles. Back muscles. Abs are actually starting to show and not in the ‘my fluff is aligned in a flatteringly deceptive way’ kind of thing. My shoulders are a bit of a “what the fuck?” every time I look in the mirror. My legs are sleeker. My fluff hasn’t started falling off yet because I’m not really doing cardio. A body I’ve never had before. A body I’ve never wanted. When I bend my elbows, my forearms can feel my biceps. It’s not the ballerina body I’ve always had. It’s a strong body. It’s foreign and alien. I’m trying to get used to it. I’m still shocked as all hell that my body can look like that… this. And, truthfully, I don’t know if I like it. I’ll get there. (Especially as I keep outlifting stronger and stronger men. That helps.)

A topless woman in houndstooth pants and black booties, holding a disco ball in front of her.
Seriously? What the fuck, shoulders?

5. My Body Feels Different Being in this body feels different, for sure. What’s really weird is how it feels when people touch me. This may not make sense. When people touch me, it feels like they’re touching me closer than ever before. Where there used to be skin, fluff, bone, it didn’t feel like there was a lot of me to touch. Now, there’s resistance when people hug or touch me because there’s muscle. It feels like they’re touching me more immediately. I’m autistic as fuck, so my sensory issues are probably in play here. But when there’s pressure on my body, my muscles have more feeling than the fluff and skin. Therefore it feels more intimate than before, like people are actually touching me rather than the buffer. I can feel people’s touch so much more intensely. In a lot of ways, it’s great… if I like the person. It’s also made me a lot, a lot, more sensitive to being touched. 

6. Gym I finally realized the gym is just an age appropriate playground for adults. Once I do what I have to do for my workouts… then I can play. I’m very bad at weights and cardio and all that crap. But what I am good at: flexibility and balance. It’s so fun. I get to bounce around doing things I enjoy, and it turns out it makes other people ask if my sanity is intact because it’s so hard. Thanks ballet!

7. Orgasms I’m going to leave it at: Stronger abs, stronger…

8. Things Are Lighter Things are not lighter. I got stronger. That’s fucking weird. At 31, I am in the best, strongest shape of my life. My body also probably looks the healthiest it ever has. Ballerina bodies are beautiful but don’t exude health. I love picking up heavy, also heavy and awkward, things in front of men and them asking if I’m on steroids. They can’t do it with the same ease. And that brings me immense joy. I can also now move two 45 pound bags of dog food easily and at the same time. With six dogs, this is efficient, and I love efficiency.

9. Balance I hate balance because that means I’m human. I have a tendency to go balls to the wall with everything I do. I go hard, I go fast, and I go constantly. Rest is deserved by everyone. Except me. Lifting has taught me that I don’t have to feel like my legs and arms are falling off to get a good workout. I can workout hard and not pass out. I can take a day off or even a minute for a break without being an absolute failure of a person. I hold myself to an inhumanly high standard, partially because I’m only motivated by my own constant failure, partially because of trauma, partially because I’m just starting to realize how ingrained my ballet mentality is, partially because my mother. That standard probably will never change, and I don’t want it to. But lifting has allowed me to be okay with having a modicum of physical limitations.

10. Velocity of Change Under the fluff, muscle is growing and growing really fucking fast. My body does not change like a woman’s. It changes like a man’s. Maybe even faster. It’s weird. I’m getting an entirely different body really quickly. There is clear definition between my muscles, and that started happening within two weeks. It’s only getting worse, better, I don’t know, it’s continuing.

11. Twerking I used to be able to twerk. I can’t now. My ass has tightened up so much, I cannot twerk. No matter how hard I try. Oh lord, have I tried. Nothing. No twerking for me. I should have twerked for everyone because I’m a white lady in my 30s and no one would believe that shit. I could two months ago. Then my body changed. My butt won’t twerk anymore. I’m sad. (I think that’s the most I’ve ever used the word twerk in a paragraph, day, ever.)

bisous und обьятий,
RaeAnna

11..., Lifestyle

11… Phrases I Wish I Could Say

RaeAnna
Walking into the ocean in a white dress.
Being alone is easier than trying to explain all the things I wish I could say.

Words are my craft. I’m decent with them. They’re familiar. A lifetime has been spent honing this talent.

Feelings are my downfall. I’m terrible with them. They’re consuming and distracting and difficult to categorize. A lifetime has been spent trying to untangle the knot that other people seem to so easily figure out.

One of my greatest fears is being misunderstood, so I trend toward verbosity. Over explaining ideas, feelings, myself in writing because I want people to understand what I’m trying to say. And I prefer it in writing because I’m truly not good at processing feelings or thoughts on the spot, so I like the time I can take with the written word and the kindness it gives me in the form of editing. We can thank a lot of childhood trauma for this, among other things. 

I feel like I don’t belong to the same world everyone else does. I don’t understand them, and they don’t understand me. Like there are walls keeping us apart. Except each wall has a one way mirror that I can look through to observe the world and figure out how to exist in it, but no one quite understands the way I work or how to fit into my own. So even though I trend toward verbosity, more often than not, I say nothing at all. 

Everytime I start to speak, explain. To let people into my world. To share the emotions I feel so viscerally. It’s too much. Time and time again, I’ve learned it’s easier to just keeping looking through the one way mirror. To exist quietly in the background of the world everyone else enjoys. To make do with the one I have all to myself.

Normally, I contextualize everything. But I don’t feel like doing that because I’ve never liked doing that. I’m blunt, but I’ve softened my edges to make the world more comfortable. So here are eleven things I wish I could say, but I don’t. 

Walking into the ocean in a white dress.
Alone in nature and the ocean in particular is always where I feel most myself.
  1. I miss you. Every moment of every day. I never truly knew what it felt to miss someone until I woke up without you and missed you. I wish I didn’t. I wish I wished to forget you; it would make all of this easier. But I know I’ll keep missing you until the day I can no longer miss anything at all. But I’d rather miss you than not know what missing you feels like.  
  2. Don’t touch me.
  3. I love you. I will always love you. 
  4. I wish I weren’t gay. (I will clarify this only so far as: I LOVE being gay, and truly wouldn’t change it for the world, but it lead to an ending of a story I hoped would have no ending.)
  5. I deserve better.
  6. Help.
  7. I’m meant for more.
  8. Please don’t give up.
  9. See me. 
  10. There is only so much I can take without breaking.
  11. No.