Dumpster Fires & Fig Jam
There is something deeply humbling about rebuilding yourself. Not the pretty kind of rebuilding either. Not the kind where you light a candle, buy a journal, then suddenly emerge three weeks later a glowing version of yourself everyone on Instagram promised you could become. I mean the real kind—the ugly, slow, sometimes angry kind where you stand in the rubble of who you used to be and wonder what the hell you are supposed to do with all these jagged, broken bits. Because the truth is, losing yourself is draining. By the time the bridges had burned all the way down to the ground, there wasn't much of the old me left. The chipping away was subtle; it went about unnoticed, and when I finally looked in the mirror, what I saw scared me. It wasn’t the graying hair or the wrinkles, but rather the fear that resided in tired eyes. The realization that so much time might have passed whilst I was playing games with my heart. The years had chipped away at me slowly. And while I w...
