away from the party, into the years
I'm getting older and everything is fine!
My favorite line from “Veteran’s Day” by Cut Worms, which I got to see live last month - You don’t know, what this life can do to a fool like me.
I’m entering a new year of my life, only this time the physicality is more prominent. There are bandages on my chest and anesthesia is still in my system. I can actually feel 27.
In August, I had a consultation for breast reduction surgery, after more than a decade of struggling with intense body dysmorphia. Ten days later, I got the call from my surgeon’s secretary that my insurance deemed the procedure medically necessary. A sharp exhale, followed by tears. I profusely thanked her, and ended the call with a shaky hand. I called J, J’s mom, my dad, laughing nervously each time before the words could escape my mouth. Joy is not made to be a crumb, after all.
And what a joy it is to have a body that is capable of being taken seriously. Among the discomfort and contempt for nonconsensual oversexualization, my body dysmorphia often felt like a coin toss I couldn’t win—turn the pain inward, or own it by turning it into a punchline.
The smallest offenses—an outline under a sweater, puckered buttons, even my side profile—have given my femininity away and subjected me to involuntary speculation in public spaces. Women don’t always want their bodies to be perceived a certain way—it’s an expectation that can feel more humiliating and awkward than empowering.
The decision to have this surgery is one out of only a handful I’ve made without considering the emotions and reactions of others—not worrying about hypothetical motherhood or how my body will be of service to anyone but me in the future. I can finally say that this body is mine, and mine only.
Recovery will be on the longer side, but all I can do is look forward to the victories this new version of myself can claim—my womanhood will now be on my own terms.
In second and third grade, I had a brief stint with Catholicism. Tartan plaid uniforms, weekly mass, Communion by proxy (I was Episcopalian where it mattered). There were very few occasions you could “dress down” at school, one of which being your birthday.
The night before my ninth birthday, I heard rustling in my closet. In the dark, I saw the shape of my mother trying to arrange a new outfit on my closet door. It was meant to be seen in the morning when she woke me up for school. Despite this, I rose from my pillow and said “What are you doing?”
She flicked on the light. I saw the new outfit in its entirety—a black corduroy blazer, a crinkled velvet magenta midi skirt, white tights, and black Mary Janes with two pink rhinestone flowers on each strap. She had me try everything on, and then I got back into my pajamas and went back to bed, as if our exchange never happened.
I like to think of this as the beginning of my need to always be in the know—I’ve never been a fan of uncertainty. I’m not good with surprises, whether it be giving or receiving them. The anticipation grows in my chest like a balloon.
I give Christmas and anniversary presents early. I give myself deadlines but I finish things before I plan to and want to release them into the world immediately—I simply can’t wait. I want things to happen as soon as I’m aware of them.
And I know who I inherited this impulse from. Getting older is accepting defeat, realizing you’re becoming more like the folks who brought you into this world, despite your best intentions.
In high school, I won a scholarship to a week-long summer writing program at the University of Iowa. My mother had a plan—we would wake up early the day I was due to check in at the dorms and drive the nine hours from Cleveland to Iowa City. At 10 p.m., I was still awake and packing, and she came into my room, a worried expression on her face.
“Should we just leave now?” she asked. And we did.
Gratitude has been on my mind a lot lately. Partly because it was my result in Chloe’s newsletter personality quiz. Partly because yes, I am grateful, all the time, especially now!
Looking through one of my journals from 2020, I found a page that said “I want to believe that better days are coming.” I was a receptionist at a title insurance company, scanning mortgages, deeds, and affidavits when the phone wasn’t ringing. I would scan hundreds of documents a week to drown out the noise of how directionless I felt.
Throughout my teens and even in the early aughts of the pandemic, I fiercely held on to this idea of myself. I would move to New York, work in publishing with my English degree—and the rest was a blurry line I couldn’t see past. I didn’t know who I would love, how I’d pay my bills and eat or dress myself or where I would order my coffee or the rest of the things we fill our days with. And I’m glad I didn’t surrender to pleasing her, because that line isn’t blurry anymore—it has definition.
After I graduated in 2019, I spent a lot of time convincing myself I wasn’t good enough to do things, and made a lot of decisions based on anxiety and imposter syndrome and financial woes. It wasn’t until I was a few months into 25 that I started opening myself up to the world in a new way, a little more each day. And sometimes it still feels scary—even when it comes to the smaller things, I put so much at stake.
Each year when the middle of November and I meet again, I become bashful about celebrating. I panic about who to invite, where the event should take place. I convince myself that I’m being silly about the whole thing. But I soldiered on this year and still ordered a cake, and made a reservation.
Festivities occurred a week and a half earlier than usual because of my surgery date. The day came, and I looked around the table and wanted to cry. Because I knew I was surrounded by love in many forms, and I’ve denied myself of this for so long. Now I know: where there is love, succumb to it.
I know we haven’t known each other very long and you don’t know me well yet, but I look forward to the day we’re well acquainted. And I can say that for now, I’m glad you’re here, entering a new year with me.
Oh, I hope it’s a good one! But do me a favor—don’t tell me how it ends.
“We don’t have a word for the opposite of loneliness, but if we did, I could say that’s what I want in life.” - Marina Keegan in her final piece for the Yale Daily News. I highly recommend her posthumous collection of writings, and keeping tissues close by.
“Witnessing others is an art and art is witnessing others. I don’t want to turn inwards, away from the world.” - from #34: THE ART I'VE MADE OF MY LIFE. I’m still thinking about this Sunday Letter from a few weeks ago, from the lovely Raquel.
As if her coming to Cleveland last April wasn’t enough, I am giddy over “Inside Fran Lebowitz's Digitally Unbothered Life” from Esquire. Fran is still sharp as ever: “There’s a limit to how long you can think about one person, even if that person is you.”
I really loved this piece from Nylon: “The Makings Of A Literary It Girl.” Self-marketing has become an art form and highly sought-after skill in the publishing and literary worlds, especially for those who have obtained success in nontraditional ways.
This month’s cover photo is from Austrian-American photographer Ernst Haas.
The title of this letter comes from “The Years” by Alex Dimitrov.
novel enrichment is a work in progress, an idea bred from curiosity and passion and reinvention. Pardon the dust as I make space for everything I want to fit in here.