Wednesday, October 19, 2016


I've been unsure where I wanted to go with this blog for quite sometime. I knew I didn't want to quit, but I didn't want to keep it going as it was.


And while I was paused, I came to some realizations.

This blog never turned out to be what I meant it to be. My whole life I had designs on being a writer. I never properly admitted it to anyone, but it's what I loved doing. In high school I wrote my friends letters, pages and pages long, about absolutely nothing at all. I was 15 what did I have to say? That Math was a pain in my ass I'd never use again, and so and so was super cute and why didn't he like me back? But somehow I turned that into 15 or 16 pages.

At home in my notebooks, I wrote bad poetry, and amazing poetry that I'd do horrible things just to have again, I wrote about world issues that scared me, or made me angry. I wrote about who I thought I'd grow up to be. Someone scary and alone. In an all white apartment, who wore only black and grey, who was powerful. One day I was a CEO of some company, the next a prosecuting attorney, a New York Times columnist who wrote incredibly thought provoking and poignant pieces, or an actress who was considered mildly insane by the rest of the world because I kept myself highly secluded and only gave interviews in tiny obscure coffee houses wearing oversized cream sweaters, black nails, and glasses I may or may not have needed.

But in that world I had a voice. I was someone whose thoughts and opinions mattered. I made them matter.

But at 18 I fell in love, had a baby, got married, and slowly put together a house, and a life. I did things messily, and backwards, and made mistakes and just generally had a life, and all those things that I wrote, and who I thought I'd grow up to be went away. I grew up to be someone else. Which isn't bad. I'm happy in my life, I love the messiness and watching my son grow up. I'm happy that I'm not someone scary and alone.

I stopped writing though. I stopped really writing. I tried a few times, bought notebooks, filled 15 or so pages, and then put them away as things got to busy, then forgot all about them and let years pass.

I started blogging. The beginning blog posts on this blog are long and rambling, they're not about anything deep or important. But they're there. And then as things do this slowly evolved, into what everyone else was doing. Picture posts with a few sentences here and there. Even then though I couldn't shut up. I wrote haul posts, and reviews and rambled about my day.

But this still wasn't quite what I wanted. Fashion and happy things became a misnomer. I didn't want to stand for the outfit pictures, but felt if I wanted this to be a success I had to, and my husband didn't want to take the damn photos anymore. So slowly I put it off, and then came the pause.

Then I read something that pissed me off, and I wrote one thing. One thing I was proud of. One thing I loved.


The Minimalist Pixie Dream Girl and You. It was the kind of thing I thought I'd someday be writing for the New York Times. A snappy response to a think piece that ended in a bit of girl power. I was happy with it, I was proud of it. I wanted to show it to everyone.

Pause. Things happened, life moved on, I turned 30, but I missed blogging. I missed writing. I missed having a voice, even if no one was listening.

There will be some changes around here, a new name, one I've had for a while and didn't know what to do with, and a lot of different things.

There will still be fashion and beauty posts but, there will be more think pieces, more responses to world topics, more book reviews. Different things, new things, me things.