Draw a line in my life.

First post on the new blog. For many reasons, it is fitting to start a fresh page.

Here begins me.

One thing I’ve continued to carry is the way music moves through me. The lyrics linger long after songs end. The chord progressions crack something open. Even now, after everything that's passed, I still roll my windows down in the thick of the Texas heat, just to let the wind blow through my hair, which makes the music feel alive.

A lot has changed. I’ve changed. But this has not.

I still find myself imagining other places. Half-dreaming at red lights, screaming down I-35, soundtracking other ways of living in my head. And maybe that’s the throughline: that in the noise of it all, there’s always a melody, and that helps ground me in the present moment.

The last time I wrote a blog post was July 16, 2023. I was living in Seattle then, in the thick of transition, and inquiring about what trust meant to me. I was aching for a new way to be in relationship with others, to experience connection more safely. It feels poetic (and just a little type A) that I’m finding my way back to this kind of writing on another 16th. A quiet alignment.

What really gets me, though, is that the person I was back then left a little song behind for me — Rings by Pinegrove. I had it on repeat then, and I’ve had it on repeat all day today. It is the kind of song that you don't just hear; you inhabit. I love that it captures the ache of remembering, the way that clarity sometimes comes late yet arrives like a gift. The song sounds like someone mid-conversation with their past. That feels familiar. That feels like me. Music has always been a mirror for what I can’t yet name. Before I can articulate a shift in myself, I usually find it in a song. I scream along or whisper the words like a prayer. It’s how I process, how I time-stamp the chapters. I don’t always know what I’m holding until a lyric names it for me. For that, I am grateful.

And so when I noticed that Rings was a pattern—two full years later, similar date, different city—how could I fight it? This is a sign that some lessons echo until they land. Some concepts return, not to haunt, but to walk with you. Somehow, I think that Mandee then knew I'd appreciate the synchronicity today. Two years later, and I can attest that some things stay tender no matter how much else has changed.

I live back in Austin now. I own a townhouse near Shepherd’s Market, and I walk to grab a soda when I need pause. Life feels different. I’m still soundtracking it with the same longing, still learning how to stay open, still writing my way back to myself in all its various formats.

Trusting others is something I’m still learning how to do, too. It’s rocky, but I feel okay when others reject my boundaries now; those are not my people. Through observation, the sweet, quiet art of watching people has shown me most of what I need to know. Will they choose or deny holding complexity? Will they balance conflict with grace or abandonment? I’ve had to release, as have others. Life is quieter now.

Trust in myself, however, is something I feel soft toward. Steady. Earned.

I listen with curiosity—not to control my emotions, but to understand them. I let myself react. I let myself feel. I believe the answers live deep within me, and I’m no longer in a rush to extract them. They’ll surface when I’m ready.

And I’ll meet them there—with sweet loving trust.

I took a leap of trust when I applied to The University of Texas at Austin's Master of Science in Social Work (MSSW) program in December of 2023. I didn’t have a long list of reasons or a perfectly mapped plan. It just felt right. This May, I finished my first year of grad school—just like that. One quiet instinct followed, one application sent, and suddenly I’m here. Life moves that fast sometimes.

I’ve been leaning into the shifts by letting new information change me; change is okay. I've been asking myself how I'd like to take the cues when they arrive, even if they ask me to start over or move slower. There’s a quiet joy in looking for the cues to find alignment with some unknown calling. So now, when I change paths, it's not because I'm lost, but because I'm listening. Academia hasn’t been exactly what I imagined, but in many ways it’s helped me retrace parts of myself I thought I’d lost, especially in places where my voice has been small. And while it’s not perfect, it’s been enough. Enough to begin. Enough to keep going.

I have so much more to say about my time in grad school, and I promise, I will. All the stories tucked into seminar rooms, my long walks across campus, because don't get me started on parking, and late-night theory typed in the PCL with Potbelly appropriately named "The Wreck". I’ll get to all of that, but for now, can we all just agree that grad school has made me a better writer? Hehe.

In four days, I leave for India.

Just saying that feels surreal. And here I am. One quiet instinct to apply to grad school, I chose to follow it. One nudge to explore a graduate assistantship, I applied. One very loud "What the hell did I get myself into?" I'm often scared and do shit anyways. SO MUCH HAS CHANGED. I am becoming someone I’ve only just met.

More soon. For now, I’m packing the essentials—curiosity, reverence for this journey, and a playlist I’ve already overthought.

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