---

🤯🫣🫢🫠

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:

1. Naming what I did without minimizing it.
2. Listening to how it landed for the other person, even when it hurts to hear.
3. Asking, “What can I do now?” instead of just saying, “I’m sorry,” and hoping it disappears.
4. 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.

---