Once upon a time, love was simple in my mind. You pick a person and you love them. Simple as that.
I used to move through the world with childlike whimsy, trusting my own magic, believing that choosing someone and staying was just what people did.
Then I met the kind of love that made me feel like I was too much.
Too loud. Too tender. Too needy. Too intense.
My heart learned to apologize for beating as hard as it does. I learned to read every silence as a storm warning. I started treating my own needs like bad behavior.
That love broke my heart in the way that teaches you what your nervous system has always known: nothing feels safe when you’re always waiting to be left, or compared to others.
Grief came later— not as a soft rain, but as a flood.
No one told me that grief gets worse before it gets better, that the body holds on to every goodbye until it finally trusts it’s allowed to let go.
I shook. I cried. My chest ached like it was breaking open for the first time, even though it had been cracking for years.
My body was releasing the worst of my hurts, and I realized I had never been with someone who intended to stay.
I thought that was my fault. I called it “standards” to stay with people who didn’t choose me fully, but really it was a pattern: if they never really stay, then I never really have to be seen.
And then— like a plot twist I almost didn’t believe— I met someone new.
Someone who makes me feel wonderful instead of “too much.”
Someone who chooses me every day, in every mood, even when my fear tries to sabotage the moment.
At first, it felt like a trick.
They were kind, consistent, available— words I wasn’t used to putting next to “love.”
My whole body lit up in alarm: Run. Shut down. Find a reason to doubt this.
Disorganized attachment feels like standing in a doorway between past and present, heart sprinting, hands shaking, wanting to be held and wanting to disappear at the exact same time.
I saw my entire pattern like a movie on fast-forward:
All the times I chased those who stayed half-in. All the ways I confused anxiety with attraction. All the moments I let my heart sit in the backseat because safety felt too unfamiliar.
This time, the impulse was the same— I wanted to run.
Because somewhere inside, I thought getting what I’d always asked for had to be dangerous. That kind of tenderness felt too bright for the version of me who had lived in the dark.
But something is different now.
I know what it costs to abandon myself. I know how it feels to be the one who always walks away first, just to avoid being left behind.
This time, I caught myself mid-sprint.
I said to my fear: I see you. I know why you’re here. You kept me alive once, but I am not living in “once” anymore.
I am living in “now.” With a person who says, “I’m here,” and then actually stays.
So I’m learning a new kind of childlike whimsy— not the kind that ignores the hurt, but the kind that walks hand-in-hand with it.
I’m learning to:
Stay through the discomfort.
Breathe through the urge to bolt.
Let love be simple even when my brain wants to complicate it.
I’m unlearning the story that I am too much, and relearning the truth that I was just with people who gave too little.
I am not the girl who thinks love is proven by how much pain she can survive. I am the woman who knows she deserves to be chosen in every version of herself— messy, laughing, triggered, soft.
My grief got worse before it got better. My heart cracked before it opened. My body shook before it softened.
But now, I can feel it:
My story has been rewritten.
I still want to run sometimes. That reflex doesn’t vanish overnight. But now I also know I can stay.
Stay in my body. Stay with my feelings. Stay with the person who stays with me.
Love, it turns out, isn’t about finding someone who never scares you— it’s about finding someone safe enough to be scared with.
And for the first time, I’m not running from that. I’m not running at all.
I’m made of a lot of different “parts,” and I’m slowly learning to let them all sit at the same table.
There’s the hobby collector in me, always curious and trying new things, building little worlds out of interests and obsessions.
There’s the plushie collector who finds comfort in soft, gentle things and quietly believes that tenderness is a kind of strength. There’s the out-of-the-box thinker who sees sideways paths, odd connections, and possibilities that don’t always fit the mold.
There’s also the childlike, whimsical part of me—the adult who still skips, who laughs at small, silly things, who talks to stuffed animals and feels magic in ordinary days. That part reminds me that growing up doesn’t have to mean growing hard.
And then there are the quieter, harder parts:
The anxious part that worries about being “too much” or “too weird.”
The self-doubting part that wonders if people will really accept me as I am. If I’m learning life properly.
The part that sometimes wants to hide the brightest, softest pieces of me to stay safe.
But my story doesn’t stop there. I’ve met people who see my softness and my strangeness and don’t flinch. People who help me believe in the goodness of others again—and, maybe even more importantly, in the goodness inside of me. Because of them, I’m learning that my anxiety doesn’t cancel out my courage, my doubts don’t erase my worth, and my tenderness isn’t a flaw to outgrow.
So I move forward as a whole person: a hobby collector, a plushie collector, an out-of-the-box thinker, an anxious heart, a hopeful soul, an adult child who still skips—and someone who is slowly, steadily learning to love every one of those parts.
The Hobby Collector
Loves trying new things, picking up new interests, exploring little worlds of curiosity.
The Plushie Collector
Finds comfort in softness and cuteness, believes gentle things matter.
The Out-of-the-Box Thinker
Sees unusual solutions, thinks differently, connects ideas in surprising ways.
The Childlike Whimsy
The adult who still skips, plays, imagines, and notices tiny joys.
The Anxious Part
Worries about being “too much” or “not enough,” tries to keep me safe.
The Self-Doubting Part
Wonders of I’m doing life right. lol.
The Hiding Part
Wants to protect me by shrinking, staying quiet, or pretending I’m smaller than I am.
The Believer in Goodness
Trusts that people can be kind and that there is real goodness in me too, especially when others reflect it back.
To Me, To You, To The World
Thank you for the ways you loved me, even when it hurt, For the nights we danced at Liquid Stranger, bodies light and free. For the moments when the bass was louder than our thoughts, When the music held the parts of you and parts of me.
Thank you for the laughter, for the inside jokes we kept, For the way your hand found mine when all the lights were low. For the strobe-lit flashes where I almost felt like “home,” Even if that home was one I’d one day outgrow.
Thank you for the sad times, too, the ones that scraped my soul, For the constant comparisons to a woman I’ll never be. You held me up against your wife like I was just a shape, But I was never her, I was always only me.
Thank you for the ache of knowing I could not fit her skin, For the way that misfit feeling sat and hollowed out my chest. It showed me I’m not meant to be a shadow of someone, But a whole, wild person who deserves her very best.
Thank you for the silence when I cried out, “This hurts,” For calling me “too sensitive” when I tried to speak my pain. You taught me what it feels like to betray my own soft heart, So now I vow to never make myself small again.
Thank you for the nights I cried so hard I couldn’t speak, For the call you dropped my pain to answer, your mother rang your phone. You said, “I hope she didn’t hear that,” like my sobs were something wrong, That was the night I realized how deeply I’d felt alone.
Thank you for the days I begged for crumbs and called it love, For twisting myself into shapes you’d never see. Because in that desperate reaching, something finally snapped, And the one who reached back out to hold me… turned out to be me.
I found a “she” who loves me, but she was here all along, In the quiet voice that whispered, “Please come back inside.” She lives in my reflection and the way my chest expands, In the girl who will not leave herself or run and hide.
She is my self-care, my self-love, my soft returning home, The hands that draw the bath and light the candle’s glow. She is the one who feeds me when I forget to eat, Who says, “We’re not done yet, there’s still so much more you’ll grow.”
She is the one lacing up my shoes at sunrise now, Walking back to fitness like I’m walking back to grace. Every drop of sweat a thank you to this body that survived, Every aching muscle proof I’m re-inhabiting my space.
I’m learning that my heartbeat is the only cue I need, Not the praise of someone who could never really see. I’m stretching out my boundaries like I’m stretching out my limbs, Stronger every time I choose what’s actually good for me.
Thank you for the nights I thought I’d break and disappear, For the mornings after when the mirror made me cry. Because losing who I was with you returned me to myself, And now I hold my own gaze, steady, clear, and dry.
So here’s my thank you letter to myself, to you, the world, For every wrong turn, every tear, each desperate plea. You were the lesson; I was always the treasure. And the greatest love I ever found was finally loving me.
This year, I’m not doing “New Year, New Me.” I’m doing: New Year, Same Neurospice, Better Side Quests.
My brain is basically a browser with 87 tabs open, music playing from an unknown source, and 3D printing TikToks on loop. So instead of pretending I’m suddenly going to become a minimalist, I’m leaning all the way into who I actually am: an AuDHD raver gremlin with big feelings, big dreams, and an even bigger wishlist.
Here are the top 10 things I want to do this year before my executive function logs out.
1. Buy a Resin Printer
Step one of the year: Acquire resin printer. Step two: Never stop making tiny shiny things. Ever.
I want to:
Print trinkets, beads, charms, weird little creatures.
Make custom pieces that look like they belong in a fantasy rave in the Feywild.
Maybe even create my own little brand or collection one day.
Basically, I want to sit hunched over a resin printer like a mad scientist going: “Yesss… another tiny sparkly object that only I care about…but deeply.”
This is not a hobby. This is a special interest. There is a difference. 😌
2. Create My Own Beads, Charms & Tiny Art
Buying the printer is phase one. Phase two is pure chaos: making my own designs.
I want to:
Design beads and charms that scream “raver with too many feelings.”
Make little tokens that represent stuff I care about: mental health, music, neurospiciness, nostalgia, random inside jokes.
Maybe trade, sell, or gift them at festivals or online.
I love the idea that someone could be dancing at 3 a.m. wearing a bead I designed while stim-dancing in my room. That’s art. That’s community. That’s peak AuDHD raver energy.
3. Be “Authentically Social” (aka: Talk Less, Say More)
Socializing as an AuDHD human is like: I either overshare my entire life story in 3 minutes or go completely mute and stare at someone’s earring.
This year, I want to be more authentically social. That means:
Talking less just to fill silence.
Saying more of what I actually feel and think.
Being honest instead of socially acceptable robot mode.
Less:
“Haha yeah everything’s fine :)”
More:
“Actually, that made me uncomfortable” “I need a minute” “I really care about this” “I have 47 thoughts about that, are you ready?”
I want to feel understood, not just tolerated. And that starts with me actually showing up as…me.
4. Say What I Really Feel (Without Spiraling for 3–5 Business Days After)
One of my big missions this year is to speak up about how I truly feel without:
Replaying the conversation a hundred times.
Writing a 4-part apology in my head for existing.
Assuming everyone now hates me because I expressed a boundary.
I want to:
Tell people when I’m hurt instead of ghosting and masking.
Share my excitement without downplaying it.
Say “no” without a 20-slide PowerPoint justification.
If I can leave this year a little more okay with being “too much” or “too honest” — that’s a massive win.
5. Build My Savings Like a Responsible Rave Gremlin
Plot twist: I actually want my bank account to look less like a horror story this year.
Goals:
Hit a specific number in my savings account (the adult version of high score).
Have an actual emergency fund that isn’t just “sell stuff and panic.”
Be able to say “I can afford this” without dissociating.
Is it fun to save money? No. Will Future Me be grateful when something breaks and I don’t have to emotionally crumble? Yes.
I’m still going to buy shiny little objects, but I also want to be the shiny little object who is financially stable.
6. Pay Off More Accounts and Keep Leveling Up
Financially, I’ve already done some pretty big things:
I paid off my credit card.
I’ve already paid off half my student loan.
This year, I want to keep that momentum going:
Pay off more accounts or get them way down.
Track my progress like it’s an RPG: “+15 to Financial Stability.”
Celebrate the small victories instead of only seeing how far there is to go.
Every bill I knock down is one less thing sitting in the back of my brain yelling “HEY REMEMBER ME??” at 3 a.m.
7. Find My People (On the Dancefloor and Off)
As an AuDHD raver, I thrive in situations where:
There’s loud music.
Nobody expects small talk.
We can just vibe and stim and exist.
This year, I want to:
Deepen connections with people who get my weird.
Make friends I can be silent with and unhinged with.
Have more 3 a.m. “we’re talking about life under LED lights” conversations.
Less trying to fit in, more finding where I naturally belong.
8. Actually Rest Between Raves (and Not Just Crash)
One of my worst habits:
Go way too hard.
Forget to eat properly.
Sleep like a raccoon.
Then wonder why my nervous system quits.
This year, I want to:
Treat “recovery days” like a scheduled ritual, not a failure.
Do nothing without guilt sometimes. Literally nothing. Just vibing.
Listen to my body when it’s whispering, not wait until it’s screaming.
Self-care is not just face masks. It’s also:
Noise-cancelling headphones
Saying “I can’t make it”
And naps. Legendary, unapologetic naps.
9. Lean Fully Into My AuDHD Raver Identity
No more pretending I’m “normal” just to make other people comfortable.
This year I’m fully embracing:
My need to stim, bounce, sway, or fidget.
My love for lights, music, and sensory joy — on my terms.
My hyperfocus projects (hello, resin printer obsession, why people do what they do. Etc ).
My weird, nonlinear way of processing life.
I want my life to feel like a playlist that actually matches my brain: some bass, some softness, some chaos, some clarity — all of it me.
10. Let This Year Be Messy, Real & Mine
At the end of the year, I don’t need perfection. I just want to look back and say:
I was more honest.
I was more me.
I created cool stuff.
I moved my life a few levels closer to the version I daydream about.
If I manage to:
Buy the resin printer
Make cool trinkets
Say what I mean
Grow my savings
Pay off more accounts
…and dance my little neurospicy heart out along the way, then this year is a win.
Sober at the Rave: Ringing In the New Year With Self‑Respect
There’s something magical about walking into a show on New Year’s weekend. The bass is already in your chest before you hit the door, the lights are soft and hazy, and everyone’s buzzing with that mix of nostalgia and hope that only the end of a year can bring.
This year, though, I walked in differently: sober.
I’ve been sober for my last few shows now, and honestly? I’ve really liked it. It hasn’t always been “fun”, but it’s been real. And real helpful with feeling all of my feelings and understanding them. And as we slide into a new year, I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be a sober raver—especially when you’re still healing, still growing, and still figuring yourself out in the middle of a crowd that’s partying hard.
This is about that. About being sober in the rave scene, protecting your peace, and also staying safe and grounded whether you’re completely sober or choosing to drink or take party favors.
Skrillex, Serotonin, and Seeing Someone I Once Loved
Last night, I went to see Skrillex. The energy was wild, the crowd was loud, and for a while I just let myself exist in that beautiful chaos. But then, of course, life decided to throw in a plot twist:
I saw the man I love. The same man I also had to heal from.
In that moment, I felt it all—the nerves, the old feelings, the tug in my chest that said, “Go talk to him.” Another part of me wanted closure, or some final conversation that would tie everything together with a neat little bow.
But I didn’t go talk to him.
Not because I didn’t care, but because I care about myself more now.
I recognized how much I’ve grown. I felt the familiar pull of my old patterns—chasing validation, hoping to be seen, wanting my words to finally land and be taken seriously. And then I realized: nothing I could say in that moment would change anything. It wouldn’t suddenly make him understand, respect, or cherish me the way I deserve.
And I refuse to pour that much of my energy into someone who doesn’t reciprocate it.
So instead of stepping toward him, I stepped back into myself.
Into my breath. Into the music. Into my own body and boundaries.
That choice—to stay with myself instead of abandoning myself—is one of the clearest signs of growth I’ve seen in myself this year. And staying sober during that moment made it possible to actually feel it, instead of numbing out or doing something I’d regret.
What Sobriety Has Looked Like For Me This Year
Being sober has been one of the better, quieter, deeper blessings of the end of my year.
It hasn’t been this perfect linear glow-up. Sometimes, yes, being sober clears out my brain. I think more clearly. I see situations for what they are, not what I wish they were. I leave shows remembering the whole night—what I felt, who I was with, what actually happened.
But other times, sobriety has made me face something I didn’t expect:
My body has been tired. For a long time.
When you stop constantly stimulating, numbing, or distracting yourself, you realize how exhausted you’ve been running. My body has wanted rest for so long—it’s just finally getting it.
There have been days where I’m not super productive, where I feel like I’m moving slowly or not doing “enough.” And I’m learning to see that not as failure, but as recovery. Rest is productive when you’ve been running on fumes for too long.
Sobriety has given me:
Clarity – I notice my feelings instead of getting steamrolled by them.
Discernment – I can tell the difference between what I want in the moment and what I actually need long-term.
Self-respect – I don’t bend over backwards to be heard or understood by people who aren’t trying to meet me halfway.
And that last one really showed up for me at Skrillex.
Returning to the Responsibility of Self-Respect
One of the biggest things I’ve learned this year is that self-respect is not a one-time decision. It’s not just a breakup, a boundary, a big speech. It’s a daily return. A practice.
Last night was a reminder of that.
Self-respect looked like:
Feeling the nerves when I saw him—and letting them be there.
Acknowledging I wanted to talk to him—and still choosing not to.
Accepting that some people will never give me the closure or care I wanted—and that that’s not my failure.
Protecting my energy instead of trying to prove my worth.
The truth is: Nothing I could say would matter. Nothing I could say would suddenly be taken seriously by someone who never took my heart seriously in the first place.
And in this new version of me, I refuse to give that much of my energy to anyone who doesn’t reciprocate it.
That’s one of my New Year’s intentions: If it doesn’t honor my peace, my growth, or my soft heart, it doesn’t get my energy.
Being a Sober Raver on New Year’s: How It Actually Feels
Being sober at a show can feel intimidating, especially around New Year’s when everyone’s going extra. But honestly, it can also be incredibly empowering.
Here are some real parts of the experience:
The Good
You remember everything. The set, the transitions, the crowd, the emotions. The night feels full, not fuzzy.
You feel more connected to yourself. You can actually notice your body, your boundaries, your mood, and respond to them.
You make intentional choices. You’re not just going with the flow—you’re deciding what you want your night to feel like.
The music hits differently. When your senses aren’t overloaded, you feel the details, the textures, the build-ups. Your body becomes the main instrument, not the substances.
The Hard
You see things more clearly. The messy dynamics, the people who spiral too hard, the emotional hangovers others are walking into tomorrow.
You sometimes feel like the “odd one out.” Especially when everyone else is pre-gaming, drinking, or rolling.
You face your feelings in real time. Like seeing someone you love in the crowd and not having anything to hide behind.
But over time, the “hard” becomes a kind of strength. You learn that you can handle your feelings, can be fully present, can protect your peace—and still have an incredible night.
If You’re Drinking or Taking Party Favors: Please Stay Safe
I’m not here to judge anyone’s choices. The rave community is full of all kinds of journeys. Some are sober, some are not, and some are figuring it out as they go.
If you are choosing to drink or take party favors for New Year’s, I care about you being safe. Here are some harm-reduction reminders to carry with you:
1. Know Your Limits
Be honest with yourself about what you can handle.
Eat before you go. Having something in your stomach helps more than people realize.
Pace yourself. You don’t have to go all-in the first hour of the night.
2. Never Use Alone
Go with trusted friends who actually care about your well-being.
Have a buddy system—check in with each other throughout the night.
If anyone looks off, overheated, confused, or too out of it, speak up. It’s better to be “overprotective” than silent.
3. Test Your Substances (If You Use Them)
If possible, use test kits. So much of what’s out there is mixed or stronger than advertised. Dancesafe.org or EndOverdose are great options.
Don’t mix a bunch of things “just because it’s New Year’s.” Your body is not a chemistry experiment.
4. Hydrate—but Smart
Drink water regularly, but don’t overdo it (sipping over time is better).
Take breaks to cool down, sit, or find fresh air.
Listen to your body if it starts sending warning signs—nausea, dizziness, chest tightness, confusion, or feeling way too hot.
5. Plan Your Way Home
Have a way to get home before you start.
Don’t drive. Don’t get in a car with someone who’s not sober either.
If you feel unsafe, ask staff or security for help—that’s literally part of their job.
Harm reduction isn’t about encouraging substance use; it’s about acknowledging reality and trying to keep people alive, safe, and okay.
Choosing Yourself in the New Year
For me, this New Year isn’t really about resolutions. It’s about direction. I used to believe how I spent New year’s Eve dictated how I would spend the whole next year and I no longer believe this. NOw I’m all about asking:
Who do I want to be when the music stops?
Whose energy do I want in my life when the lights come on?
How can I keep choosing myself, even when it’s hard?
Being a sober raver has helped me hear my own answers more clearly.
Last night at Skrillex, I celebrated three things at once:
The music and the moment.
The version of me that once would’ve run toward him, hoping to finally be seen.
And the version of me now, who stayed with herself instead. And instead of being mad, I was really happy to see him looking happy. I’m glad my space could do that for him even my presence couldn’t.
If you’re reading this and thinking about going sober—or just more intentional—this New Year’s, let this be your sign:
You are allowed to enjoy the scene. You are allowed to protect your heart. You are allowed to rest. You are allowed to outgrow people, patterns, and past versions of yourself. You’re also allowed to miss them.
The rave will still be there. The bass will still hit. The lights will still glow. But the way you show up—for yourself—can change everything.
I hope the coming year unfolds softly, not yet defined, With gentle light on all the roads I’ve been too scared to see, May quiet courage walk beside the doubts that crowd my mind, And every closed, forgotten door swing open just for me.
I hope I trust the timing when the timing feels all wrong, When plans fall through and days feel heavier than they should, I hope I learn my worth is not the sum of being strong, But how I rest, and how I stay, and how I choose my good.
I hope I find new faces who feel strangely like “I know you,” The kind of people where my unmasked self can safely land, Who hold my stories gently, seeing all the rough edges through, And don’t let go when life gets loud and hard to understand.
I hope I leave some versions of myself that kept me small, Old habits, fears, and patterns I’ve outgrown but still wear, I hope I hear a braver, softer voice above it all, Whispering, “You’re allowed to want more life than this—don’t spare.”
I hope my work feels closer to the truth of who I am, Less proving I belong here, more creating what feels right, I hope that when I fail, I’ll say, “It’s fine, I did the best I can,” Then try again with kinder eyes on myself in the night.
I hope I make more memories than photos on my phone, That sunsets, songs, and laughter don’t get filtered, don’t get staged, I hope I feel at home in places I have never known, And measure life by moments fully lived, not just by age.
I hope I learn to listen when my body says “Enough,” To step away from battles I was never meant to win, I hope I trade perfection for the beauty of “just rough,” And let my unfinished stories be allowed to just begin.
I hope I find a peace that doesn’t vanish when I’m shaken, The kind that hums beneath my ribs when nothing else feels clear, I hope I look back one day, gently stunned at how I’ve waken, And say, “I didn’t stay the same. I grew into me this year.”
Today, an email popped into my inbox from my first boyfriend, when I was 18. Gene.
We haven’t been together in decades, but he’s always been one of those people with a near-photographic memory. In his message, he recalled tiny details from over 20 years ago—what I wore on a specific afternoon, the way I laughed when we got caught in the rain, the exact band that was playing in the background when we had our first real fight.
Reading his words, I felt the strangest mix of gratitude, grief, nostalgia, and relief. It was like watching old footage of myself—someone I recognize and yet hardly know. Someone who was still learning what love meant, what safety felt like, what it meant to be truly seen.
That letter cracked something open for me, in the best way. It made me want to look back at this past year—not just as a blur of events, but as a series of choices, losses, returns, and small rebirths.
This is my reflection on this year: the year of coming back to raving, getting my official AudHD diagnosis, finding a new therapist in March, and learning—slowly, messily—how to love myself and others better.
A Letter From the Past, A Mirror for the Present
Gene’s letter reminded me how deeply I can affect another person’s life, even when I don’t realize it. He remembered things I had long forgotten, but they had lived in him all this time.
Reading his memories of me at 18, 19,”
I remembered how hard I tried to be “good” and “easy to love,” even when I was confused and overwhelmed.
I remembered how quickly I forgave others, but how slowly I forgave myself.
I remembered feeling broken without having the words or framework—like my brain and heart were always slightly out of sync.
Now, with the language of AudHD (Autism + ADHD), with years of lived experience and a very different kind of self-awareness, I see that younger version of me differently.
I don’t see someone “too much” or “never enough” anymore. I see someone who was neurodivergent, un-diagnosed, and doing the best she could inside systems—romantic, social, cultural—that didn’t really see her either.
Gene’s letter was a reminder: people remember the way we made them feel. They remember our trying. Our love. Our clumsy apologies. Our laughter. Our patterns. Our exits.
This year, I’ve been learning to remember myself with that same kind of care.
Gratitude: A List I Keep Adding To
This year hasn’t been easy, but it has been real. And more than anything, I keep coming back to gratitude.
Here are some of the things I’m deeply thankful for:
My friends The ones who listened to me spiral and didn’t try to fix me. The ones who showed up to dance, to cry, to eat late-night food, to send memes at exactly the right time. The ones who let me be both a work-in-progress and a whole person—at the same time.
Gene’s memory and his kindness That letter wasn’t just nostalgia; it was an offering. It gave me back versions of myself I’d long buried and let me see them with softer eyes.
이지호 – Confession – My friend Jiho admitted to me that he truly does love me. A fact I had always known and it was confirmed. And while that ship has sailed, we both are thankful to have developed quite a friendship over the last three years especially, over the 4 years total that we’ve known each other.
My new therapist (since March) For asking better questions than “How are you?” For helping me separate my true self from my coping mechanisms. For giving me tools that match a brain wired like mine, not a hypothetical “average” person.
My confirmed AudHD diagnosis. 5 years ago, I knew I was adhd. But upon deeper healing, my true self emerged and I was able to drop masking as much. For naming something that always felt like a ghost in the room. A guess but never really able to confirm my suspicions after being denied my adhd for even so long. “It’s just Trauma….blah blah”. Truth be told, it was all three. ADHD. Trauma… and once I began healing, it became TRULY obvious. Especially the combination of the two. I’m a pretty classical case. For explaining why I’ve always been “too intense” and “too sensitive” and “too distracted” and “too focused” all at once. For allowing me to stop seeing myself as broken and start seeing myself as different and valid.
Raving and the dance floor For reminding me that my body is not just a vehicle for stress. For showing me that I can connect with people without overthinking every word. For those moments of pure presence when the bass drops and suddenly I remember I’m alive.
My cats For curling up next to me on days when I barely liked myself. For purring when I talk to them about things they have no way of understanding—and somehow understanding anyway. For making me want to be softer, more patient, more consistent. They’ve quietly made me a better “cat mom” and, by extension, a better human.
How My View of Love Has Changed
Love used to feel like something that happened to me. Now I’m learning that love is something I participate in, shape, and choose—again and again.
This year, I’ve started to understand that:
Love is not performance. It’s not “If I’m perfect, you’ll stay.” It’s “If we’re honest, kind, and accountable, we’ll see what grows between us.”
Love requires self-respect. Without boundaries, what I used to call “love” was often just self-abandonment with pretty packaging.
Love is not always safe, but it should never be cruel. Discomfort can mean growth. But cruelty, contempt, or emotional manipulation are not “just part of relationships.”
Love includes me, too. I don’t have to disappear to make room for someone else’s needs. My needs are part of the equation.
I’m still unlearning old scripts, but this year I felt the shift: from “How do I make them happy?” to “How do we take care of each other and ourselves at the same time?” And I wasn’t always so good at delivering that, but that was my work. Finding a balance.
Forgiveness, Healing, and How to Be Accountable
This year taught me a lot about apologies and accountability—on both sides.
When I’ve hurt someone
I’ve been learning that being accountable doesn’t mean:
drowning in shame
over-explaining why I did what I did
begging for instant forgiveness
Instead, it looks more like:
Naming what I did without minimizing it.
Listening to how it landed for the other person, even when it hurts to hear.
Asking, “What can I do now?” instead of just saying, “I’m sorry,” and hoping it disappears.
Accepting that sometimes, people need space or may never fully come back—and that their boundaries are valid.
It’s true. I don’t have to agree with them or their decision but I do owe it to them to respect their wishes and said decision, even if it doesn’t include me.
And I choose what chooses me back.
When someone hurts me
I’ve also been learning:
I’m allowed to say, “That wasn’t okay for me.”
Forgiveness doesn’t always mean reconciliation. Even if I really wanted that.
I can wish someone well and still not want them in my day-to-day life. This was hard to accept when I really wanted that kind of partnership with someone But when I searched my past beyond one person, I had the experience of not wanting people back into my life but truly wishing them the best. They just weren’t for me.
Letting go is an act of self-respect, not coldness.
Healing, for me, has looked less like suddenly feeling fine and more like:
reacting 10% slower
being 10% kinder to myself
choosing not to repeat an old pattern one single time on a random Tuesday
It’s not cinematic. It’s quiet. And it counts.
My AudHD Diagnosis: Finally Having a Word for “Like This”
Getting diagnosed with AudHD changed how I see nearly everything: my past relationships, my meltdowns, my “quirks,” my overwhelm, my focus, my shut-downs, and even my strengths.
This year, that diagnosis has meant:
Context, not excuses I’m not “lazy” or “inconsistent.” THAT was really a good feeling to realize that I actually can be quite consistent and didn’t quite have an understanding of what that looks like in relationships of any kind. I have a differently wired brain that needs specific kinds of support, structure, and pacing.
Rewriting my story So many moments from childhood, adolescence, and early adulthood make more sense now. The sensory overwhelm. The social misunderstandings. The hyperfixations. The burnout.
More intentional self-care I’m learning to notice my limits before I crash. To plan recovery time. To honor how much energy socializing or transitions really take.
Instead of, “What’s wrong with me?” I’m experimenting with, “What does my brain need in order to function and feel okay?”
That shift alone has been huge.
The Therapist Who Helped Me Rebuild (Since March)
Finding a new therapist in early March felt like a turning point.
With them, I started:
Untangling old beliefs like “I’m too much” or “I don’t deserve ease.”
Understanding my nervous system—why I shut down, why I over-explain, why I get stuck.
Naming patterns in love, friendships, and work that I previously just called “bad luck.”
Our work together hasn’t magically “fixed” me, but it has:
Given me better tools
Helped me pause between feeling and reacting
Given me permission to want more for myself
It’s allowed me to imagine a future that doesn’t revolve around surviving, but actually living.
What’s even better is I’ve been able to lessen my therapy. I now reach out once every 3-6 months. A check in with homework.
Coming Back to Raving: Learning to Connect Again
This year, I came back to raving.
It wasn’t just about the music or the lights—it was about remembering how to be in my body, with other bodies, without so much fear.
Raving has taught me:
To be less judgmental Everyone on that dance floor is just a person trying to feel alive for a few hours. The outfits, the dancing, the vulnerability—it all softened something in me.
To connect without words Eye contact has always been hard for me, a shared smile, a hand extended when the drop hits—these are tiny, electric reminders that we are not alone.
That I’m a co-creator of my experience I used to feel like life just “happened” to me. This year, I started to understand that:
I choose which events I show up to.
I choose how open I am.
I choose whether I stay on the sidelines or step into the middle of the floor.
Raving helped me reclaim joy as something active, something I participate in, not just something I wait around hoping will show up.
Becoming a Better Cat Mom
It might sound small compared to diagnoses and deep inner work, but honestly, my cats have been part of my emotional curriculum this year.
I’ve gotten better at:
Noticing their needs without projecting my own anxiety onto them.
Keeping up with their routines—food, play, vet visits—even when my executive function is struggling.
Letting their presence pull me out of my own head.
They’ve taught me:
Consistency is a form of love.
Care doesn’t have to be grand to be meaningful.
Sometimes, sitting quietly next to someone (or somecat) is enough.
My Goals for Next Year
As I look ahead, I don’t want to build next year on pressure or fear. I want it to be built on choice, intention, and self-trust.
Here’s what I’m carrying forward:
1. Staying with my fitness, gently
I want movement to be:
Something that helps me feel strong, grounded, and more present in my body.
Not a punishment. Not a way to “fix” myself.
Flexible enough to adapt to my energy, my cycles, and my neurodivergent rhythms.
2. Not being forced into choices I’m not ready for
I’m done with:
Rushing decisions because I’m afraid of losing someone.
Saying “yes” just to avoid conflict.
Forcing myself into timelines that don’t feel right in my bones.
Next year, I want to:
Listen to my intuition and my nervous system.
Take my time with big choices: relationships, moves, commitments.
Trust that if something is truly right for me, it won’t require me to betray myself to keep it.
3. Deepening my relationships
With friends, I want:
More honest conversations.
More intentional time together—online or offline.
More letting people see me as I am, not just as I think I should be.
With myself, I want:
More softness in how I talk to myself.
More rest without guilt.
More creativity and play, even if it “doesn’t produce anything.”
A Final Thank You to My Friends
To my friends—old, new, near, far, rave-floor, couch-call, meme-senders, deep-talkers:
Thank you.
Thank you for:
Letting me be weird, intense, quiet, loud, scattered, passionate—all of it.
Celebrating my wins, even the tiny ones like “I made the phone call” or “I left the house today.”
Staying, even when I disappeared for a bit.
Telling me the truth gently, and holding me when I couldn’t hold myself.
If this year has taught me anything, it’s that healing doesn’t happen in isolation. It happens in connection—with therapists, with dance floors, with old loves who write long emails, with cats who curl up on our chests, and with friends who keep choosing us, again and again.
This year, I started to believe that I’m allowed to choose myself, too.
Here’s to another year of remembering, raving, healing, and rewriting the story of my life—on my terms.
This year began with a ghost in my chest, a name I wouldn’t stop whispering to a door that never opened.
I tried to make a home out of someone else’s aftermath, not knowing I’d walked into a story that started long before me.
I was the rebound in a heart still crowded. They called me by their ex-wife’s name— the first red flag I folded into an excuse. They compared me to her, again and again, measured my softness against an old, unhealed wound and called it “honesty.”
I should have walked then. But I thought if I just loved harder, I could turn off the echo of someone else’s ghost.
They spoke about all the dates they never got to go on after their separation, as if I had cornered them into loving me, as if they’d been forced into choosing me, as if staying was something that just happened to them.
I carried that blame like a stone, asking myself if I’d been too much, too soon, too hopeful.
But I didn’t fall in love when I first said the words. I fell in love after our first fight, when I believed we could walk through fire together, that conflict meant we were real, meant we could conquer anything.
Instead, that’s when they started drifting. Every time I brought up a concern— a need, a hurt, a boundary— the next day, like clockwork, the script would flip. DARVO in real time: they were suddenly the wounded one, and I was the villain, the problem-maker, the storm they had to endure.
I thought I was fighting for both of us to win. But there are no winners when two people won’t face their mirrors, when two neurodivergent hearts turn differences into weapons, when we blame each other for our own unfinished healing. We weren’t a power couple but rather two hypocrites most days, angry at reflections we saw in each other, and in the end, we both lost.
Yet still, the deepest loss was myself.
So I did the hardest thing I’ve ever done: I stopped chasing closure from someone who spoke it in silence. I stopped waiting for a text that would never untangle the hurt. I accepted that no answer is an answer.
And I stood my ground when the orbit began With tears burning down my face, voice shaking, I told them:
If you cannot communicate, you cannot orbit my life for validation. You don’t get front-row seats to my healing while refusing to speak my language of honesty.
I sought a talk on accountability, the kiss of death an avoidant can’t offer. Something I had been working through the better half of an entire year.
I had always meant what I said. And I was learning. And growing. Just simply a human who makes mistakes.
I used to thank them for the harsh lessons— for showing me what I “needed to learn.” But now I thank myself for pushing forward, for not shrinking my needs to fit their capacity, for recognizing that their limits were never evidence of my lack.
And through this, I learned what consistency actually means and why I am, when I always believed I could never be.
I was not unlovable. I was just a person trying to love someone still broken open.
And my stability was still on rocky ground when I dove in head first.
This year, I learned that boundaries are not walls to keep love out, they are doors I choose who to open for. They are for me— for my peace, for my future, for the self I am still becoming.
I will know when I’m ready to open that door again.
I learned how to soften without dissolving, how to bend without breaking myself in half to fit someone’s “almost.”
I learned that real self-love isn’t a quote on a screen, it’s a daily practice: choosing my own voice over their old echo, choosing solitude over half-present company, choosing standards over scraps.
Despite how much it hurt, despite every night I sobbed over a love I didn’t want to lose, I’m grateful it ended.
Because now I know what I will never accept again: I will not be a rebound. I will not wear another woman’s name. I will not compete with ghosts. I will not carry blame for someone else’s unfinished grieving. I will not let my concerns be turned into accusations. I will not fold myself into a smaller version of who I am, just so someone can feel bigger.
I saw my mistakes. I traced my patterns back to their origins. I named them. I forgave myself. And I chose differently.
We will not be repeating those. Starting with the orbit and validating loop, no matter how much it hurt my heart to close that door.
My inner child deserves peace and kept promises. My own.
This year broke me open, but it didn’t break me down. I didn’t get the future I wanted with them, but I got something quieter, truer, and finally mine:
I got myself. My standards. My boundaries. My heart, held gently in my own hands.
And standing here, at the edge of a new year, I am not waiting for them to see my worth.
I see it.
For the first time, I am not living in the ruins of what could have been. I am here— fully, truly, finally present.
There’s something magical about taking a tiny corner of your world and turning it into a place that feels safe, cozy, and completely yours.
You don’t need a huge room or perfect Pinterest aesthetics. With a bit of intention (and some clay, pony beads, books, pens, and makeup organizers), you can build mini “safe havens” all around you.
I live in a 430 sq studio apartment with 2 cats. So space is needed for my sanity and theirs.
One beautiful strength of my AuDHD is that I’m highly creative. I also fight depression every December so to fight the last month of the year, I decided what would help is to create an area that sets me up for success by making spots for specific things so I can put them back into the same spot. I’m about to go label crazy Ya’ll. You don’t even KNOW!
By being busy, and creating, I’m helping combat the winter blues, and by getting organized, I’m going to save myself time and energy later down the road from when I’m getting ready for raves/festivals and previously would destroy my house get stressed out and freak out leaving me upset or at half life going in like that before I’m even out the door because I couldn’t find something and would panic that I was going to be judged. For what, I couldn’t tell you honestly and seems so ridiculous now, while some of my work has been learning how to tolerate and maneuver my reactions towards making mistakes, and giving myself grace, taking away shame, and repairing with maturity, if I can set myself up to be more organized, I can balance work, my health, my hobbies, my community and service. I’ve taken a month off of working out to get myself organized here at home mentally, emotionally, spiritually. All of it. here. Do I know where I want to go on my new fitness journey yet? No, but I’m excited and looking at it with a “I’m ready for the work again”.
I start another job after the 1st and I’m excited! I killed that interview and knew I got it and it’s taken a show of my skills to get that job. Working In the Big City. Coming home to quiet, to my Safe Haven.
LETS FUCKIN GOOOOOOO!!!
In this post, let’s talk about how to turn small spaces into:
A crafting corner with clay, pony beads, charms, Perlers, and more
A reading nook filled with books, workbooks, Korean language books, and art books
A makeup vanity space that feels like self-care, not clutter
A writing desk that invites you to create with pens, markers, tape, and paint
Think of it as building little forts of peace in the middle of a busy world. I’m a grown woman, yes, but I do still enjoy things I did as a child. I’m happy to have kept my own whimsey. And I’m hoping to share that motivation with you.
Step 1: Decide What “Safe Haven” Means to You
Before you rearrange a single thing, pause and ask:
When do I feel safest and calmest?
What am I doing in those moments? (Reading? Crafting? Doing makeup? Journaling?)
What colors, textures, and objects make me feel peaceful? -*For me, it’s colors from a rainbow lamp. Satin sheets. Playing with my makeup to try new styles, colors. Fuzzy and squishy textures. Food Items as Plushies or coloring books. Dinosaurs.
Your answers become your guiding theme.
Maybe “safe” for you means:
Having your favorite books within arm’s reach
Knowing your markers and pens are organized and ready
Having a little tray of clay, pony beads, and charms waiting for a creative burst
A soft lamp instead of a bright overhead light
Once you know what feels like safety to you, you can build around it.
Step 2: Start With One Tiny Corner
You don’t have to redo your entire room. Pick one small area to begin with:
Half of a desk
A shelf
The top of a drawer unit
A small side table
Even a space on the floor with a cushion which is my absolute favorite,
From there, decide what kind of mini-haven this corner will be:
Crafting is such a healing way to use your hands and quiet your mind. I admit, I wasn’t self aware when it came to realizing it was one of the only times, besides listening to music and dancing, that I have a silenced brain. Even if your space is tiny, you can create a portable craft station that feels like its own little world.
What You’ll Need
Clay (air-dry, polymer, or whatever you love)
Pony beads and charms
Perler beads and pegboards
Small containers or drawer organizers
A tray or basket to keep it all together
How to Set It Up
Pick a base spot Use a tray, a small cart, or one cube of a shelving unit. This becomes your “craft zone.”
Sort by activity
One container for clay
One for pony beads and charms
One for Perler beads (sorted by color if you’re feeling extra… I didn’t realize how much I truly DO love organizing, and it also further allows for stress free crafting).
Keep tools visible but tidy Store things like:
Scissors
Tweezers (for Perlers)
Clay tools
Glue in a small cup or pencil holder.
Make it inviting Add:
A small lamp or fairy lights
A mat or piece of cardboard to protect your surface
A tiny dish for “in-progress” pieces
Why It Feels Safe
A crafting corner tells your brain: this is a place where I’m allowed to experiment, make mistakes, and play. Every bead, charm, and clay figure becomes a little reminder that you can create beauty or humor in small, quiet ways.
Reading Nook: Books, Workbooks, Art Books & Korean Language Study
Shelf 1 – Workbook Shelf 2 – Psychology Shelf 3-4 Fiction, Poems, Humor Shelf 5-6 Korean study books
Your reading space doesn’t have to be a full-blown library. It can be as simple as:
A pillow against a wall
A chair by a window
A corner of your bed with a basket of books nearby
What You Might Include
Comfort reads (novels, poetry, comics)
Workbooks (mental health, creativity, journaling)
Art books (sketchbooks, reference books, how-to books)
BONUS: Korean language books: textbooks, grammar guides, storybooks, or webtoon-style readers
Okay, Maybe that last one is just for me. ❤️
How to Set It Up
Create a “grab zone” Choose one shelf, crate, or basket for:
Your current reads
A notebook
A pen or highlighter
Sort by mood, not rules You can group:
“Heavy focus” books: language books, workbooks
“Soft comfort” books: favorites you reread, cozy stories
“Inspiration” books: art books, design, photography
Add softness
A blanket or throw
A pillow
Warm lighting (string lights, soft lamp)
Create a tiny Korean corner Keep your Korean language books together:
One main textbook
A small vocabulary notebook
Sticky notes or tabs for marking pages
Why It Feels Safe
A reading nook is a space that says: You don’t have to perform here. You’re allowed to slow down, learn, and escape. Workbooks and language books remind you that growth can be gentle and steady.
Makeup Space: A Vanity That Feels Like Self-Care, Not Chaos
Makeup can be art, ritual, and self-expression. But when everything is scattered, it can feel stressful instead of soothing.
Let’s turn your vanity into a mini self-love station.
Tools That Help
Drawer organizers or divided trays
Small cups for brushes
A mirror (tabletop or wall-mounted)
A small trash bin or container for wipes/cotton pads
How to Organize It
Group by category
Face: foundation, concealer, powders
Eyes: shadows, liners, mascaras, lashes
Lips: balms, glosses, lipsticks
Tools: brushes, sponges, tweezers
Use drawer organizers to create “homes” Each product type gets its own little section:
One section for everyday products you reach for
One section for special looks / fun colors
Keep the top surface simple
A small tray for your daily must-haves
A jewelry dish or stand for pieces you wear often
One candle or plant if you like that vibe
Add comfort touches
A small speaker for music
A comfy seat or cushion
Soft lighting that makes you feel good in the mirror
I’m a little extra though. Going above and beyond, I also have a rolling cart for makeup for traveling to raves so I can carry it easier. It stores my braiding hair, hair supplies, makeup, etc. Highly suggested. Especially if you travel to raves and stay in hotels or have a festival to go to. Theyre not heavy, and it can create a station for you to get ready.
Why It Feels Safe
Your vanity becomes more than “where I put on makeup.” It becomes:
A place where you check in with yourself in the mirror
A ritual that says: I matter. I’m worth this time.
Writing Desk: Pens, Markers, Tape, Paint & Ideas
Paired next to my vanity to create more of an L shape.
A writing (and creating) space doesn’t have to be big. The key is having what you need within reach and not buried under chaos.
This space can be for:
Journaling
Planning
Creative writing
Doodling
Tracking your goals or moods
Supplies to Gather
Pens (black, colored, gel pens)
Markers and highlighters
Sticky notes, page flags, tacks
Washi tape, regular tape
Paint (if you’re mixing writing with art journaling)
Notebooks, planners, or loose paper
How to Set It Up
Claim a surface A desk, part of a table, or a fold-out tray. This is your writing zone.
Use containers wisely
Pens and markers in cups or jars
Tape, tacks, and small items in a little box or drawer
Paints and brushes in a separate caddy so you can move them when needed
Create a “clear space rule” Leave at least:
One notebook-sized area completely clear So at any moment you can sit down and start writing without cleaning first.
Make it inspirational
A small corkboard or wall space for quotes, photos, or goals
A sticky note list of ideas you want to write about
A favorite pen that always lives there
Why It Feels Safe
A writing space tells you: Your thoughts matter enough to have a place to land. It becomes a tiny island where you can process your day, dream big, or just doodle for a few minutes.
Tiny Space Hacks: Making It All Fit
If your space is really small, you can still have all these “havens” by thinking in layers and portability.
Use Vertical Space
Shelves above a desk
Hooks or pegboards on walls
Hanging organizers on doors or the side of furniture
Make Things Portable
A craft basket you can move from shelf to desk
A makeup caddy you can slide into a drawer
A pencil case with your favorite writing tools you bring to the bed or couch
Rotate What’s Out
You don’t have to display everything at once:
Keep some books stored and rotate your “current favorites”
Swap out craft supplies seasonally (Perlers one month, clay the next)
Change your vanity tray based on what you’re loving lately
The Emotional Side: Why These Spaces Matter
My inner child is so happy she got to make her own gingerbread house.
Turning small spaces into safe havens isn’t just about being organized or aesthetic.
It’s about:
Control: In a chaotic world, you own this little corner.
Comfort: You know exactly where to go when you need to reset.
Expression: Your beads, books, pens, makeup, and paints are all ways of saying, “This is who I am, in color and texture.”
Ritual: Sitting at your crafting table, opening your Korean workbook (I had missed it so much!), or turning on the vanity mirror becomes a signal: “I’m taking time for myself now.”
You’re not just decorating. You’re building spaces where you are allowed to be soft, messy, curious, creative, and real.
Closing Thoughts
You don’t need a whole house or a large room to feel at home. You just need small, intentional places that hold the things you love:
Clay and beads that let your hands play
Books and workbooks that grow your mind
A vanity that turns getting ready into a ritual
A writing desk that catches your thoughts before they float away
Start with one corner. One tray. One shelf. Make it safe. Make it soft. Make it yours.
The rest will grow from there. ✨
My silly whims: 3 nights of Uncle Jesse @ Shrine
Bonus Chapter: Creating a Walk-In Rave Closet
Not every safe haven has to be soft, quiet, and neutral. Sometimes safety feels like neon lights, glitter, and bass drops you can’t actually play out loud. That’s where a rave space comes in. 🎧✨
If you have a walk-in closet with shelves, you’re basically sitting on a secret costume studio.
Here’s how to turn it into a mini rave sanctuary.
1. Start With Structure: Furniture & Layout
You already made a genius move: you bought an extra dresser just for rave clothing. That alone shifts the energy of the closet into a dedicated space.
Think about:
The rave dresser
Use one drawer for tops, one for bottoms, one for bodysuits, one for cozy post-rave clothes (big tees, sweats, fuzzy socks).
Dedicate a drawer just for sparkly things: fishnets, mesh, arm warmers, leg warmers, etc.
Shelves as displays, not just storage
Put your boldest platforms, boots, or sneakers on open shelves like they’re on a stage.
Use one shelf for bags, another for hats/ears/goggles, and another for folded statement pieces (sequin jackets, fuzzy coats, reflective hoodies).
Don’t forget the mirror!
2. Wig Heaven: Hangers & Hair Magic
You invested in wig hangers, which is perfect. Wigs are half the transformation for a rave look. Work during the winter months, they keep me warm when I’ve previously worn very little. lol
Try:
Hanging them at eye level
Keep your wigs where you can see them. It’s inspiring to look in and think, “Who do I want to be tonight?”
Organizing by vibe
Bright neons in one section
Natural or “soft glam” wigs in another
Extra wild styles (split dye, multi-color, super long, super curled) in their own area
Quick-care essentials nearby
A small basket on a shelf with a wide-tooth comb, wig caps, clips, and a mini spray conditioner, so maintenance is easy and doesn’t feel like a chore.
3. The Rave Accessory Wall: Door Hanger Magic
That door hanger with slots for your rave accessories is doing the most. Turn it into your “festival command station.”
Fill the pockets with:
Jewelry & sparkle
Chunky bracelets, kandi, chains, chokers, body chains
Face gems, chunky glitter, rhinestones in small baggies
Functional rave gear
Earplugs
Mini fans
Sunglasses, goggles, diffraction glasses
Hand sanitizer & wipes
Hair & body extras
Hair clips, scrunchies, butterfly clips, mini claws
Body stickers, temporary tattoos, flash tattoos
Labeling the pockets (even roughly) can help a ton:
“Gems & Glitter”
“Kandi & Bracelets”
“Ears & Hair Clips”
“Glasses & Goggles”
Now your door is literally a rave panel you can scan quickly while getting ready.
4. Lights, Color, Vibes
To really make it a rave safe haven, play with light and color.
Ideas:
LED strips along shelves or around the door frame
Pick color modes like neon pink, electric blue, or rainbow fades.
A tiny disco ball or projector light
Even a cheap mini projector light on a shelf can throw shapes and colors around the closet.
Glow accents
UV/reactive pieces displayed on shelves
Glow sticks in a clear jar
This isn’t just storage anymore — it becomes a mood.
5. Tiny Details That Make It Feel Sacred
Because this is still part of your “safe haven,” layer in small things that make you feel calm and loved, even in high-energy colors.
A mini mirror or full-length mirror if space allows
So you can see the full outfit and hair come together.
A small bowl or tray
For keys, tickets, wristbands from past events, or tiny souvenirs.
Memories on the wall
Tape or pin up wristbands, polaroids, photo strips, or prints from your favorite nights out.
Even one little collage makes the space feel personal and magical.
6. A Pre-Game Ritual Space
Think of your rave closet as more than clothing storage. It’s a ritual space for transforming into your rave self.
You might:
Turn on the LED lights.
Play a playlist from your favorite DJ on low volume outside the closet.
Pick a wig, then build the outfit around that.
Grab accessories from the door hanger like you’re shopping in your own mini festival boutique.
Take a deep breath, look in the mirror, and set an intention for the night:
“I am free.”
“I am safe.”
“I am allowed to take up space and have fun.”
Even if you’re not going anywhere, you can still dress up just for you. Your rave closet becomes a place where you can try new identities, express parts of yourself that feel too loud for everyday life, and remember that joy is a valid form of self-care.
7. Keeping It Easy to Maintain
To keep your rave closet feeling like a haven instead of chaos:
Have a “post-rave basket”
A simple bin where you toss everything when you get home tired: top, bottoms, wig, jewelry, glasses.
Later, on a calm day, put things back in their places.
Do a quick 10-minute reset every few weeks
Refold clothes, clear trash, untangle jewelry, refill any empty glitter or gem packs.
Rotate pieces to the front
Move things you haven’t worn in a while into visible spots so you stay inspired.
A walk-in closet turned rave space is like keeping a tiny, glowing festival backstage inside your home. It’s organized, intentional, and still wild in the best way. It belongs to you.
You’re not just storing rave clothes — you’re building a little world where your boldest, brightest self is always welcome.
The year unravels, thread by thread, pins but thankfully no deadlines in my head. Chalk dust on my jeans, Uv light in my eyes, trying to juggle overtime, earthquakes, and unpleasant skies.
I’ve baked resin under kitchen lamps, tiny galaxies in silicone, or wood held by clamps, perlers pixel by pixel, each square a vow to make my own patterns from here on out.
I’ve stitched old shirts into newer lives, tie-dyed storms and marbled tides, pressed beads from scraps with stubborn hands, sometimes the ideas don’t work out, but sometimes the execution lands.
But balance is harder than cutting on grain, than threading a needle on a moving train. The weight of caretaking others and minimum pay sat in my chest like unfired clay.
I bent myself into useful shapes, forgot my breath, my room, my space. Work in the morning, more work at night, play just a rumor at the edge of my sight.
Still, somewhere between C4 and collapse, between resin cures and folded laps, a quiet voice, my internal voice, kept tapping the glass: “You can’t serve well from an empty cast.”
Now the year thins out like worn-out seams, and I’m finally stepping into my own theme. Project S. + UCSF on the name badge at my chest and a promise to myself underneath it: health comes first, then the rest. From Here on Out.
Not as slogan, not as line, but a boundary drawn in permanent shine: My body is not a side project or chore, it’s the frame of the life I’ve been crafting for.
I look for nothing else. To manage my schedule, between work, fitness, and crafting. Meal planning, 3 day weekend and a lot of planned drafting.
So I’ll load the barbell like I load the clay in the oven , patient with progress, steady and still. Muscle and mindset, rep by rep, building a shelter inside my breath.
Clients and friends, I’ll meet you there, where the air is deeper and the load is fair, where we chase strength, not shrinking or grow cold, where aging is power and not just “getting old.”
And when the day’s sweat has finally dried, I’ll turn back to color, to needles, to dye. To clay that remembers every press of my thumb, to fabric that sings when the seams come undone.
I’ll pour resin over the stories we keep, trap tiny galaxies, secrets, and grief. I’ll fuse beads into patterns that no one has named, a small act of courage disguised as a chain.
Upcycled sleeves, a new hemline’s start, I’ll stitch in the margin: this is my art. Not perfect, not polished, not factory clean, but honest and earned and stubbornly seen.
Work in its place, rest in its hour, movement as ritual, craft as flower. I think I’ve finally traced the design: health as the warp, creation the weft of my time.
When this year closes like a well-worn door, I’ll leave what drained me on the old, cracked floor. Step forward in sneakers, ink on my skin, a trainer, a maker, at home in my limbs.
Clay on my hands, sweat on my brow, no longer asking for balance somehow. I’m choosing the pattern, I’m cutting it true— this life is a garment I’m tailoring new.
Swipe Left On Perfection 