Stories about a stupid girl in her 20’s living in colorado and the mundane shit she gets into. She might even slip in some gossip about people in her life, and she may even write opinion pieces if she feels so inclined. You may be asking, why? Well, I like to write, and this is my website.
Journalism nobody asked for
Journalism nobody asked for
I quit
July 4, 2025
Strava. I quit Strava. Jeez, dramatic, I know, but I have to grab your attention somehow.
For those of you who have resisted the sudden boom of runners on social media, Strava is an app that tracks your runs, including the route, mile times, and duration. Seems harmless enough, right? WRONG!
When I started running back in April, it was just me, an Apple Watch, and the trainer I listened to. I was running intervals of walking/running, and even just breaking a sweat was a success in my mind. I was taking my progress slowly, following the Couch to 5k plan. I listened to a podcast by a British guy who talked the listener through each run with fun anecdotes and words of encouragement. I was just happy with each step on the sidewalk.
As my endurance improved, the distance I ran increased. One warm spring Saturday, Camille and I went on a run at Sloan’s Lake. Afterward, she said she’d tag me in Strava, which I didn’t have at the time, but that afternoon, I downloaded it. This was around the time I started running 1-2 miles non-stop, so it felt like the natural next step. Initially, I thoroughly enjoyed it. I was adding people from high school, friends in Colorado, and running influencers I liked. I enjoyed tracking my runs, seeing them all accumulate on the calendar, and feeling a sense of accomplishment. I loved seeing my miles get shorter, the distances I was running get longer, and physically capturing the progress I was making.
I would get back to my apartment from a run, sweating, out of breath, and red-faced. I would immediately stop the tracking and log my run in Strava. Standing with shaky legs, I'd add a cute caption, include some photos I’d taken on the run, and even take a selfie or two. Hitting post, I’d get kudos on the uploads from some of my connections and feel a sense of pride. I’d scroll through my home page and send kudos to my connections. Woo-hoo! I was officially part of the running community!
Then I started, as I often do, to compare myself to them. It didn’t matter if it was an old friend who had been running their whole life, a running influencer whose job is to post on Strava, or even people in my everyday circle. I would see their mile times, sometimes significantly faster than mine with their caption: Today’s run sucked, slow miles! There would be a damn awkward silence between me and the phone. If I had run some of these “slow” mile times, I’d probably have a stroke at 24. Every run became this weird addiction, competing with others on an app. When I’d see my run did better than somebody else’s, oh my god, I acted like I’d won a gold medal. When I’d finish a run and the mile was slower than usual (god forbid you run slower in 100-degree heat), I’d mentally beat myself up.
This morning, I decided not to track my run and just go with the flow of my body. Run as far as I felt good, run as fast as I could tolerate, and enjoy my audiobook. A few times, my mind would wander from the mystery novel in my headphones (None of This is True by Lisa Jewell)(3/5)(would not recommend) and think about just how good it felt. It felt like when I started running, not worrying about anyone else but me, putting one foot in front of the other. I wouldn’t use this run to compete or scroll through to see if I was better than everyone else for running on a holiday. It’s all just some serious bullshit. If you're someone who enjoys using comparisons to push yourself, by all means, get this app. I’m not one to yuck another’s yum. However, this dish serves me a sour main course with a side of gloom.
Even though the Apple Watch I use is an old hand-me-down and doesn’t track accurately, it’s all I need. I need to know relatively how far I’ve gone and make sure my heart rate doesn’t send me to an urgent care. I can honestly say that I’m more excited to go on runs now because, full-heartedly, I’ll be doing it for myself and only myself. I used to say I was going on this journey to better myself, while secretly scrolling through Strava and becoming bitter about not being able to run a half-marathon. I can’t say the running is for me, and then try to make the perfect post at 7:30 am in the summer sun, sweat dripping off my nose, and my heart rate at maximum capacity, all while still standing on the sidewalk. Just take off the headphones, listen to the morning doves, stretch out the hamstrings, say hi to dog walkers that pass by, and go upstairs. Finish the run like god intended and stop letting an app control me.
P.S. Camille, don’t beat yourself up over introducing me to Strava. I would have gotten to it eventually, and you happen to have an extremely sensitive friend. xoxo
A Queer Haircut
June 6, 2025
Two winters ago, I was three drinks in on FaceTime with my sisters when I decided to cut my hair at a shoulder length. I thought it was so cute and blunt. I woke up with deep regret that I had just cut off all the length I’d grown out. I vowed after that chop that I would never cut my hair again. I believed I only looked good with long hair, and cutting again would be a fool’s move.
I did not curate this mindset that I looked bad with short hair. Growing up, my best friend told me I’d look bad if I cut my hair, so we grew ours together until the tips touched our waists. Social media pushes a narrative that women who aren’t thin think that short hair makes you look fat and it’s a death sentence. A filter on TikTok measures the length and width of your face, determining if you’d look good with short hair. And of course, I believed an app’s filter and let it dictate my free will. Who wouldn’t?
I’d be remiss if I didn’t touch on the conservative and Christian movement toward traditional femininity. Growing up in the Catholic church, you’re taught to fit in, wear the uniform, and stay in the norm. My mom would say long hair looked best on me, and complimented me when it was long and thick. In the school dress code, we weren’t allowed unnatural colors in our hair. When I reached public high school, I began experimenting with hair color, going from dark brown to bleach blonde. Never any unnatural color and nothing too out of the ordinary. I was still practicing traditional femininity and dating boys. I wore makeup every day, even if I had volleyball practice. I woke up early to curl my hair and soak it in oil to keep it shiny.
The most significant shift in my hair started in college. I started college in a long-term relationship and kept my hair natural, letting the blonde grow out. I kept it straight and that same silky texture. I wanted that boyfriend and every guy at the frats to yearn after my shiny hair. At the start of my sophomore year, I broke up with him. For the first time in a long time, I was single, away from my parents, and had $10 to spend on a box dye. One afternoon, Rachel and I dyed our hair bright pink. I remember this day like it was yesterday, how freeing it was. I started dying it, I did dark brown, black, hot pink, purple streaks, and loved every fucking second of it. I could feel myself moving away from traditional beauty, but still felt beautiful.
Then, of course, I came out as a lesbian, THANK GOD! It was a long time coming. I was so tired of taking my drunken makeouts with girls seriously when the girls I was kissing didn’t. I was ready to settle down and date again, that’s when Grace Sather fell into my lap. There are so many types of lesbians, and it’s taken me almost six years to feel comfortable with where I land. I’ve spent so much time convincing myself I am a “fem lesbian” which is just a term meant a lesbian who presents traditionally feminine. I’ve dealt with unwanted men flirting with me at bars, coworkers being shocked when I tell them I’m gay, and never seeming to be included in the lesbian community. I dealt with all this because I told myself, ‘you know who you are’, ‘you just like wearing makeup’, and ‘you’ve always been feminine’. I had never tried to stretch outside the feminine style, and felt too much fear when the idea came up. The fear is crazy in the grand scheme of things, but the church told me at such a young age that women need to be beautiful and women need to be feminine. It’s hard to challenge the wiring in your brain.
My long hair was always dry and tired from the amount of color I put in it. But as I said previously, I need constant change or go stir-crazy, so leaving it natural was simply no option. I’d cut my hair to my shoulders without layers when I'd gone short. A few weeks ago, tired of my hair again, I thought, what if I cut my hair short? I remember how much I disliked my hair at that length and vowed never to do it again. But another thought came in, what if you went even shorter? This cued a Pinterest search, ‘short lesbian haircuts’, but that appeared too masculine for me. I didn’t want Grace's hair short, but I wanted something starkly different than what I was used to. I found the perfect inspiration, ‘the French bob’.
That Sunday, I walked into a salon with long blonde hair and walked out with hair cut below my ears. Even writing this, I get butterflies. I had never looked at myself in the mirror and felt like myself. I wore my hair long to be traditionally beautiful, I wore mascara to appear flirty, I wore tight clothes to show off my ass. I was a performance of myself for 24 stupid years. Walking out of that salon, free of the mass of hair on my back, felt like a breath of ice-cold air. Since cutting my hair, I’ve almost entirely stopped wearing makeup, falling in love with my natural face. I’ve started wearing masculine clothes and focusing less on what is traditionally appealing. I’m most confident wearing a baseball cap with my new hair. There is just something about it; I feel so attracted to it. Attractive to me. Everything I’ve been deciding to wear and be since that haircut has been for myself and what I think looks good. This kind of confidence is so new to me, I feel like an entirely new person. Simply nothing has changed about me other than a short haircut. It’s made me a happier person, a better partner, and I’ve found a lust for life again. The confidence is oozing out of me at a pace I’ve NEVER encountered.
What only few will understand, if you are in the LGBTQ+ community, I have never been so happy to feel so fucking gay. Before, I felt like I wasn’t gay enough, like I was trying too hard to be pretty, and catering to the gender I didn’t like. With this haircut, men have stopped flirting with me at work, lesbians have started to notice me, and I’m seeing myself for who I really am. I walk past a mirror and even do a double-take. Sometimes, a third take and maybe even snap a photo. I didn’t think I’d find this much queer joy in such a simple change of hair but oh... my... gosh. I am never, ever growing out my hair again. Conservative beauty traditions can suck my nuts because I’ve never felt more like Madeline.
Master of none
May 21, 2025
I’ve spent countless nights staring at the ceiling, feeling zero passion, zero inspiration, and feeling like I am not contributing to society. I stare at the popcorned ceilings, wondering why I’ve never felt inclined to any particular skill or craft. This isn’t even a new, struggling 20-something problem either. I’ve had nights like these for as long as I can remember, since adolescence.
When I was young, I tried all the sports like you do. I tried softball and was too scared of batting and the potential of getting hit by the ball, so I quit that. I tried basketball, but it was too short to accomplish anything. I tried dance and liked that for a while, but I was just okay. I then tried volleyball and became obsessed. I was short, so I got the stand in the back. In middle school, I tried hard, worked my way up to the A-team, and even started playing club volleyball in the winter. I was decent and carried my weight on a team until I didn’t. My stellar performances turned to mediocracy. I then quit my senior year before I got a banner with my face on it in the auxiliary gym.
I was pretty good at math and English in school, finished all my work, and got exceptional grades. But I was never a brainiac, which became abundantly apparent when I took the ACT. Yikes. You can work hard, but you can’t fake real smarts.
I loved shooting until you couldn’t make money with passion art projects outside of college. Moving away from home taught me that the only real money I could make as a photographer was real estate photography or family photos. That creative flame quickly burned out, and now I’m left as a once-upon-a-time photographer.
I got jobs in corporate America, working in marketing and schmoozing my way into any position I could get. If my boss needed something I wasn’t trained in, I would teach myself and accomplish the task. I was decent at Photoshop, design, copywriting, and running ads, but I never seemed to outshine the competition. I was never considered essential.
I’ve always been medium beautiful. Not gorgeous, not ugly. Not breathtaking in either way. I’ve cut my hair short, grown it long, dyed it brown and pink, and worn thick eyeliner. I’ve worn slutty clothes for attention and I’ve tried to be the quiet mysterious girl reading at a coffee shop.
I’m nice enough, but nobody would say, ‘Oh my gosh, she is so sweet. ’ I’m funny, but I’ve never been considered the funniest in the room. I’m good at comforting friends, but never the first to call.
I sit on the sidelines, cheering on others' success. I like and comment on their LinkedIn posts. I call them to tell them how proud I am. I envy these people around me as they become nurses and art directors, get thousands of dollars worth of raises, buy houses, and wake up most days with ambition.
How do I find that in a life that I’ve coasted through? Passion escaped me long ago and has only come back in tiny cracks of light. Honestly and truthfully, I don’t remember the last time I was passionate. I’m a slow runner, make average money, and craft adequate latte art. I have the friends I have, but I find it hard to create new ones. I am a good enough partner, but nowhere near wife material. Maybe that’s why I’m so lost. Traditionally, women my age would get married and have one or even two children by now. Yet here I am, doing tearful soul searching that women have at 50 when they’ve become empty nesters.
Looking back at my previous endeavors, I try at something until I give up. I’m a big, stupid, mirrorball that hangs on ceilings—spinning, turning, and trying to shine out from different spots. An area will catch the light until it turns again, moving onto another piece of mirror. I try to be the funny one, I try to care, I try to write this blog consistently. I wish somebody would hold out my hand and place a slip of paper in it. What I’m meant to be will be written clearly in black ink. And it will be concrete, doable, and attainable. It won’t make me stay up at night, I’ll stop feeling inadequate, and I’ll feel passion when my eyes open in the mornings.
It’s weird, being a master of none. Sometimes, I have the idea to open a coffee shop, sometimes earn a livable wage as a miserable corporate American employee, and sometimes, I start a blog to write down my thoughts. It’s as though I can do everything, yet I have the confidence and drive of a small mouse. Maybe I think too much but perhaps you bitches aren’t thinking enough. Well, you probably are thinking about this, but not saying it out loud. And you’re not writing it on a public website, so I applaud your effort to preserve privacy. But I’m not the only one with existential crises on Wednesday afternoons, right?
Maybe one day I’ll find a passion or something I enjoy doing. Yes, I enjoy my hobbies, but I don’t want to live a life just for my hobbies. I want to create, be known for my craft, and be on the path to mastery at something—something, anything.
No, you’re not sicko mode
May 7, 2025
This story begins in my dorm room, with the taste of freedom on my tongue, energy full of rebirth and possibility, and my high school friend sitting on her bed opposite mine. The exact moment I first tried it is blurry, but I remember buying it. With Mo Bamba bumping through the speakers, Rachel and I drove 5 minutes away from campus to a smoke shop. We went with a darling tear-drop shape and bought multiple sticky and fragrant juices of different flavors.
We brought our device back to the dorms like we were smuggling weed across state lines. We sat on our hand-me-down rug, passing the teardrop back and forth. Tiny vapor clouds swirled and danced around the concrete room as we giggled. We laughed at the fun feeling in our brains, the nicotine taking up space over oxygen. How cute and funny, huh?
We promised only to keep it on hand when we were together, getting drunk at frat parties, and not to let it get out of hand. It’s no shock to anyone that this goal lasted only two weeks. News flash, nicotine is an addictive chemical. Did y’all know that? Soon enough, we got our own, bringing it to classes, hitting it in bathroom stalls, and cultivating a full-blown addiction.
A silly and fun moment when I was 18 has caused irreversible damage, thank you, Maddy. I’ve quit and failed multiple times since then. I’ve gone a year without it, then got laid off, and the first stop I made was a vape shop. It’s like this stupid crutch that loves to make you think it’ll make everything okay. I promise, it makes almost nothing better.
Vaping when under stress, dealing with anxiety, or when crying is the quickest way to avoid emotional regulation. Instead of finding what helps you heal and learn, you take a puff of Watermelon Ice and numb it.
I started vaping again almost a year ago, when I was laid off. Now it’s been a new vape every 3 weeks, taking $28.99 out of the checking account. It’s been camping, ensuring the vape is charging in the car on the way to the site to ensure it doesn’t die over the weekend. It’s been hitting the vape after hiking a rocky mountain trail, making me light-headed due to elevation. It’s running off to the bathroom at family functions or dinners with friends.
During my running journey, I didn’t even stop until yesterday morning. I went on a 1.5-mile run in the rain, feeling good about myself. I got home and fixed a Liquid IV on the balcony while it was raining. Of course, not forgetting to bring my Banana Ice vape out with me, like a stalker. Vapes follow you everywhere, btw. To give myself some credit, I would monitor my beats per minute until I reached under 100 BPM before hitting the vape. I’m not psychotic, ok? Yeah obviously I’m kidding, it’s insane to monitor your heart rate to suck on some chemically flavored air. I came inside, cold from my wet clothes, and it just hit me. It’s time to quit AGAIN. And I say again because nicotine is that bitch that always finds its way back to you. It’s like this hex on your life, always making your way back to each other. Like Peeta and Katniss in Mockingjay, I always make it through the hard times to find my star-crossed lover again, a GeekBar.
I threw the yellow plastic cube into the trash can and took a steaming shower, feeling my best in a while. I was on a high after practicing physical self-control and positive free will. The first day went great, even though I had a shift at the coffee shop. Meg at the front desk likes to have a bowl of Lifesaver mints out, but the last time I had checked, she had the blue kind out. You’re pretty insane if you don’t prefer the green spearmint kind. Anyway, I ask Meg to take some mints and she informs me, SHE GOT SPEARMINT!! Thank you, Meg! I sucked on those shits the rest of the workday until my tongue was raw.
Today has been agonizing, to say the least. Thankfully at work, my coworker Zoe brough me mints to suck on. Everybody say, thank you, Zoe! But seriously, everything has been making me feel so angry, it’s as though my veins are filling with red-hot lava. I almost jumped off the balcony when one of Chili’s hairs got into my eyes. When Grace asks me where something is, I get homicidal. When autocorrect tries to anticipate what I’m saying in a text, I want to throw my phone at a wall and watch it shatter into a million pieces. However, my mom said that when my phone breaks, I have to start my own phone plan, so I would never do that. And hey Grammarly, no, I don’t want your suggestions. You may think you’re helpful, but each time I write a killer joke and you try to change the format of the sentence... I think about writing a death threat to your CEO. Does your CEO even know I just quit vaping yesterday?
I don’t know how successful this endeavor will be, but like all great philosophers say, it gets harder before it gets easy. This philosopher is notably known as Grace Sather. Also, while we’re at it, Grace, you have this and this to clean, stop touching me, and stay out of my way. I know you’re reading this because I make you read all my writing. I don’t hate you, I just miss my flavored air.
If I fail, I can say good riddance to healthy lungs. If I am successful, coolio! If you’re thinking of quitting, do it! Be as miserable and evil as I have been today, it’s so fun. And if you’ve never vaped, don’t fucking do it. Save yourself while you can. Don’t be like 18-year-old Maddy and try it for fun while listening to SICKO MODE. You’re not sicko mode, you’re not cool, and you’re setting yourself up for 6 years of addiction.
To routine or To not routine
May 5, 2025
Time has been flying by me lately. As I sit here, the clouds of an impending 3-day thunderstorm are rolling in, their clouds chasing north across the city. Each day has felt like a blink, and each evening I get to myself, I feel like it’s being stolen.
I saw this pie graph on Instagram, maybe 8ish years ago while in high school, and it has always lingered in my mind. It was a pie graph divided into hours in a day and what activities to fill your time with. There was socializing, work, good sleep, recreation, and exercise. I tend to focus on work and sleep in the winter months, whereas I’m currently trying to push as much exercise and socializing as possible. I am spending days seeing friends, running, and keeping my schedule of trying to participate in life. Maybe it’s because I’m having so much fun participating, but this full daily schedule is making time go by too quickly.
It seems that any downtime I have, I am either going for a walk, going for a coffee, organizing a bookshelf, or redecorating the balcony. I’ve been reading a book or two a week because I have a Goodreads goal that I refuse not to reach come December 31. I’ve been calling my sister weekly, talking for hours while I get a few hours of deep cleaning in.
On Saturday of this past weekend, I filled every hour with an activity or errand, and the few hours I had of downtime, I opted to clean both Grace’s and my car. Like, girl? Sit the hell down??
I’m no psychoanalyst, but I am very self-aware, and this all seems like a lot to me. I wonder where every to-do box is checked, where every duck is in a row, and where each person in my life is accounted for. Am I truly satisfied? Or am I reaching an unattainable goal? Maybe I will be happy if I complete every box in my head? Or is this just life? Is life just a never-ending to-do list? At the end of the day, I’m 24 and I’m just trying to figure this all out.
Sometimes, I miss the days when I wasn’t planning my months. Sometimes, I miss spontaneous parties at my college house, not knowing who I would be kissing that weekend, and the feeling of ambiguous uncertainty. All that to say, at the end of the day, I am exponentially more stable now. I have two cats to feed twice a day, I make color-coded grocery lists, I pay a wifi and electric bill, and am lucky to have a partner who loves me more than anything.
When things in my life start going smoothly and I find a successful routine, as I have now, I fear it scares me. What is frustrating is that there were days when I’d dream of a life like this. Not hungover every morning, owning pets and a homey apartment, and good sleep where my roommates aren’t screaming late at night. But this little voice in my head always wants to sabotage all of this. It tricks me into thinking uncertain spontaneity is true happiness. It’s this constant back and forth where I just need to find a center, a middle ground. Not too spastic and unreliable but also not too rigid and angsty.
I can’t count how many times I’ve gotten to this point, where I’m super scheduled and routinely where I beg something exciting to happen to me. What exactly would be exciting, you may be thinking? Sometimes, I wish that drama would start in my life between friends or that somebody would get spontaneously fired at work. Other times, it's darker wishes, like getting into a car accident or somebody in my family getting sick. These thoughts of wishing something ‘interesting’ would happen to me are intrusive and damaging. When I sit on these thoughts, I don’t want to cause harm to my loved ones. This is usually the signifying thought pattern that wakes me up.
I’m the healthiest I’ve been in months with more exercise, fewer dark thoughts, seeing my friends frequently, little to no binge drinking, fewer tears, and excellent sleep. So, who is this dark passenger sneaking into my psyche, trying to fuck it all up for me? Is this a cry for attention that I don’t self-fulfill? Is it mourning over the passing of exciting adolescence? I understand that deep down, mental illness can’t cure itself, and no matter how hard I try, I’ll always feel it a little bit. But it’s frustrating, simply put. I get angry quickly, cry over dropped keys, and slam my phone when I can’t get an app to work. No matter how bad I want to be normal, predictable, and sane, I will always be me. I am with quick emotions, fast judgments, and all-too-readable facial expressions. Maybe that scares me the most: no matter how I try to work on myself, it will still be me. Please don’t take this as I loathe the person I am. I’m funny, I’m kind, I’m charismatic, and I am empathetic. It just sucks that you can’t outrun the person you are.
After all this, I still don’t know the answer to this eb and the flow I am running through. Is it more noble to just shut up and follow the well-oiled machine? Or is it righteous not to be anchored by these mundane expectations of adulthood?
Progress isn’t Linear
April 24, 2025
My run this morning was conducted in the hot sun, with the voluminous birth of spring gnats swarming my sweat beads, and I was aware of each step I took. My breathing seemed to be grasping at straws, finding it hard to draw in a deep breath. At each step, I could feel my calf muscles tightening and restricting, even though I had done my stretches. I don’t think the experts know what they’re talking about; stretching doesn’t work. Why would they lie to me like that?
The day started decently brisk, so I opted for bicycle shorts with a black sweatshirt. I tied my hair up into a braided ponytail, a hairstyle I used to call a d*ke braid when I was in high school. I was a very ignorant young individual. If only I could tell that brat now, be careful, you’re going to grow up to be one of those d*kes.
No matter how many days I go sweating profusely in sweatshirts, I always forget that the sun is a mile closer than I’m used to. I was hitting the pavement hard, trying to push and push the minutes by, sweat rolling down my nose, into my ass crack, and pooling under my bra line. Maybe one of these days I’ll learn to wear a T-shirt and, heaven forbid, just have chilly arms for a few minutes.
Spring is my favorite season; I love the sprouting foliage and the bird songs that linger on late into the evenings. However, I know one thing I hate about spring. The fucking bugs. I suspect some kind of scientific fact behind this, because I swear bugs are drawn to me. I’ve been stung by bees, hornets, and too many wasps to count. Gnats love to fly around my ears, making me irrationally angry, a trait I learned from my dad. Bugs don’t need to be flying by your ears, and it’s normal to freak the fuck out when they do. Mosquitos are also drawn to my sweet skin. Every summer, my family and I visit our cabin in Minnesota, and if you know anything about Minnesota (the land of 10,000 lakes), you'll know that mosquitoes love being near water. Mosquitoes treat Minnesota like their own personal Cancun resort, and they’re teenagers getting to drink for the first time. And I’m the margarita. When I was about three or so, I got so many bites on my bald head, my dad would sit there and scratch my bumps until my eyes would roll back. And here I was, thinking there wouldn’t be bugs to fly around my head because, duh, Colorado is so dry. Wrong!
The worst part of the run was how aware I was of my steps. I’ve found that when I hit my best times and the best strides, it's when I’m super distracted. I’ve been alternating between a podcast that talks you through the training and music. Today, I chose the beloved 1989 (Taylor’s Version) to power me through. Little power did it offer, unfortunately. Each step burned up to my thighs, my old New Balance shoes slammed down hard on the concrete, and my ankles tingled with the pressure. I couldn’t get my mind off of it. Caught up in my discomfort, I forgot to put my shoulders back, pump my arms in rhythm, and even forgot to put a smile on my face, as the podcast reminds me to do.
I was nearly over with the run, only five more minutes to go, when I felt like giving up. Every time I get home from a bad run, Grace always reminds me that progress isn’t linear. I roll my eyes and say ‘sure,' but I'd rather avoid dying on a 2-mile run. Nearing my dramatic death with a firetruck red face, I looked around the neighborhood to keep my eyes up, eyes locking with a garage code box to an apartment. On the box, in light gray font, read, “Linear.” I smiled at that point. How funny, tiny, insignificant signs can somehow make you want to keep going. I was excited to finish it; I was excited to reach my street and sprint to my front door, as I do after every run. I was excited to get inside our little apartment and see Grace and say, “I had the worst run, but I bet Saturday’s run will be a lot better.” Because once I get through today’s run, I can do it again on Saturday. I am stronger than I was before the run. Maybe I’ll remember to keep my shoulders back, smile, and just wear a damn teeshirt.
(Trying) to Run away from depression
April 23, 2025
The frigid Colorado winter had come to an end, and buds began to sprout on trees above my orange bathroom-dyed blonde hair. The air finally smelled sweet again, and I got to wear my favorite fabric shorts with an oversized sweatshirt. No longer able to hide behind cargo pants and blue jeans, I was faced with the reflection of my pale legs. I love my Capitol Hill apartment, but every morning, I curse the bedroom wall with floor-length mirrors.
Despite the 75 mg of antidepressants, a well-balanced (ish) diet, and a crisp 8 hours of sleep I get each night, I remember my brain is prone to sadness. The winter doesn’t help. About a month ago, one morning, before work at the coffee shop job I got because corporate America slapped my ass and called me Sally, I looked into those bedroom mirrors. I saw my shit hair dye job, my chubby legs, and belly hanging over my sleep shorts. While Chili Jason sat outside the sliding bathroom door screaming for his half portion of Frisky’s Wet Food, my head screamed, ‘you ugly bitch’.
I remember this day vividly, I go into work and my work best friend is there to say goodbye. While I was left to work a double in the shop lobby in downtown Denver, Amy left for Washington. Throughout the excruciatingly long day of asking tech bros, ‘How are you doing today?’ and receiving a reply of ‘small americano,’ I went crazy. My eyes still burned from the morning farewell; the mental image of my chubby winter body lingered in my head, and people continuously asked for Iced Vanilla Oat Lattes, their voices laced with vocal fry.
I dragged myself up the three flights of stairs to my apartment after work, saddened, tired, and weak. I sat on the yellow couch I had just inherited from Amy, and I cried and cried. The three gingers I live with, Chili, Gumbo, and Grace, sat around me and watched. Through tears, I explained, God, I hate my body right now, something needs to change. Of course, right as I find a work best friend, she moves. And jeez, who’s playing the saddest Taylor Swift song, Evermore?
“Would you like to go to Planet Fitness with me in the mornings?”
No.
“You’ll make other close friends at work!”
Not like Amy.
“You need to turn off this song; it always makes you cry.”
BUT IT FEELS GOOD!
The next day, I began the Couch to 5K program and signed up for the Colfax 5K on May 17. Yes, I know a 5 K won’t fix how much money I make, or how rude customers can be, or even bring Amy back to Colorado, but it might help alleviate my self-loathing.
It’s week three of running, and I can say with complete honesty, it works. On days that I wake up early and hit the cracked sidewalks of Denver, the rest of my day lacks anxious thoughts. It becomes clear, no, the coworker you’re with today does not hate you. Yes, your family back in Kansas City does miss you. And gosh, are you guys witnessing how beautiful the sun makes the Cash Register building look? It pains me to say, exercise does help mental health.
Growing up on volleyball teams, playing all seasons, I never needed to develop willpower to work out because I always had coaches expecting me in the gym or my parents reminding me that they had paid $2,000 for this club team. As I grew older, it became harder to motivate myself to move because there was no one to do it for me. I also have a Sims 4 login, so why lift 20 pounds when I could do it in a virtual game as a blonde-haired look-alike who makes $50,000 with a cheat code, has a mid-century modern mansion as a young adult, and doesn’t need to work as a barista to make money for plane tickets home. The temptation was far too grand.
At the time, I deleted Instagram, Snapchat, TikTok, and even Pinterest from my phone. I know, how much damage can chicken recipes and nail designs do to a girl, but I had to quit cold turkey. It was as though I had hired a whole demo team to clear out the cobwebs of winter and renovate myself. I had a lot of downtime outside of work, now that I wasn’t scrolling, so I would sit on the couch and stare. I would walk around the kitchen and stare at things. I frequently looked at my plants, observing their leaf patterns and watering them as needed. It’s not rocket science to see I was underwatering them, but give me a break, I am a depressed person, and it was winter.
With each stomp on the pavement, I can feel myself getting watered again. Music has been sounding better; it's almost as if I can taste the bass line. I bought a few new pieces of clothing, feeling cute and strong as I watch my calf muscles firm up. I toned my hair, leaving the once-brassy strands with a cool, purple tint. I started listening to Remi Wolf instead of re-listening to sister albums, Folklore and Evermore. It’s been helping my hips move with joy over that deep gray melancholy. I haven’t been wearing makeup, because what is there to mask right now? Pimples come and go; nobody will remember them. Less metaphorically, I’d rather not rub mascara straight into my eyeballs with all this pollen dive bombing me.
I must admit that I’m nervous about the race. Please, God, let me be able to finish. Completing the first tangible goal in adulthood will give me a sense of accomplishment. And jeez, that’s all this girl needs right now, a sense of achievement in this tiring life. If I can’t find a non-shit job in my career, can hardly pay for a weeks worth of groceries, and drive around the city in my 2006 Ford Focus with the muffler hanging on by a wire (a literal wire my dad put on 4 years ago), I can at least finish a 5k.
I had to push down the feeling that this goal was weak in comparison to others who run half-marathons, get promotions, or are getting married this year. But as the old saying goes, comparison is the thief of joy, so won’t you all let me be excited? Because I am, and I may even buy myself a new pair of running sunglasses before the race. I panicked after a particularly sunny morning run, and chose the fugliest, cheapest pair I could find. I think the middle-schoolers who walk to school while I’m running in those glasses at the same hour are scared of me. Or they’re making fun of me, which, honestly, is way worse.
Tell me what to do
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