Tag: feminism

• On Rest, Agency, and a Beef Bone

  I made zero social plans this past weekend, which is incredibly unlike me. I’m watching the dog right now and chose to stay put all weekend to spend some quality time with her at my lover’s home. Or maybe the jet lag forced me into rest. Either way, I was running around all day Saturday: I caught up on some work, went to a CrossFit class, unpacked my big suitcase, bathed the dog, and washed her bed. I did a million loads of laundry and cleaning. I also ordered her a bunch of cute ocean-themed toys on Amazon, restocked her food and treats, and got her favorite, a beef bone to chew on. On Sunday, I did nothing with my lover. Well, “nothing.” I went to a slow stretch yoga class, got a massage, bought some Italian sandwiches (and made friends with the owner), played video games with my lover, made carbonara together, and we finished watching Atonement. I have no clue why I felt like writing about my weekend today. I guess doing normal, chill things on a weekend has felt so foreign to me that the fact I did it feels like an immense victory.

  I used to cram my time with an incredible amount of social stuff, so much that I barely had time to breathe. It felt like I was running away as fast and as far as I could. Constantly running. My emotions were constantly boiling, so tangled that I couldn’t unravel anything. I had no idea what I felt or why I felt it. I was a kettle, always whistling. The anxiety and stress were extreme and showed up in all kinds of physical symptoms. Ultimately, it all led to a mental breakdown last year.

  Today, out of that relationship, I feel at peace. It feels a little easier to leave the dishes in the sink, to not answer a text right away, to work a little less, and to make room in my daily life for things that calm me, like this blog. (I know, I know, I don’t write every day, but trust me, I’m trying.) I can take some me-time without freaking out about my life. I can rest. I feel relaxed and content. Of course, some existential dread still resurfaces from time to time, and anxiety sometimes creeps in. But no more going to bed with my blood boiling, jaw clenched, and heart racing with anger. No more walking on eggshells. No more making myself so small that I could barely exist. No more shielding myself from his extreme anger and violence, his impatience and unkindness, his darkness. I finally feel entitled to my own existence.

  Now, don’t get me wrong. I still struggle with being alone with my own company. But I’m no longer scared of being alone with my thoughts, and I actually welcome the intrusive, painful feelings. I don’t run from them anymore, though saying I fully and truly embrace them would be a lie. I do think that to love myself, I need to be loved by someone else. It is what it is, and for now, I am content with it.

  I’ve already grieved my past relationship and all the pain that came with it: I listened to podcasts, journaled, and saw a psychologist for three years. All that work, plus the new meds, saved me. It gave me enough strength to leave, to choose myself. And I did all of that alone. I’ve done “the work” (again, whatever that means), so why can’t I keep doing it with a partner by my side? Every self-help book would tell me not to jump into something serious right after a bad relationship with a sour ending. Truth is, I don’t care. I no longer care what anyone or anything thinks I should do with my personal life. I left that relationship because I felt I had no agency. Work is another matter, and I’ll gladly defer to my overlords’ thoughts and decisions. But when it comes to my own life, I’ll make my own decisions, thank you very much. If at some point my gut or my body tells me I got it wrong, I’ll leave, and I trust myself to do so.

  For now, I’m happy. Oh god, I’m so happy. So, ladies and gentlemen, allow me to announce that my lover was promoted to boyfriend a little while ago. After almost six months, I can say it: I’ve finally found someone who walks beside me with peace, respect, and kindness, and I strive to do the same for him.

  PS: I think I got new subscribers? Not sure what you find in me/this project, but thank you for reading and sharing a little corner of the internet/my soul with me.

  

  A visual representation of my weekend. And yes, I wish it were me but it is not.

  2026.09.28

• Emptiness

  As I was thinking about a theme to write about today, I felt empty. Utterly empty. Is that a good thing? Unclear. Feels odd, uncomfortable, and peaceful all at the same time?

  I had another day of corporate meetings in London, marketing myself and my practice – goal is to sign new clients soon and build my own book of business. Partnership is right around the corner. Big question is: do I even want that? Those clients are not exactly the kind of companies or entities I want to represent. I do not think they are worth my time, and indirectly, life. I feel conflicted about it. I worked so hard to get this far in my niche, and I am the youngest one in my entourage to pursue this…yet I also feel empty? Like, do I want this, or am I just doing it because I feel like others want it, and so I should too? Long-term plan remains to save the marine wildlife and oceans with Earthjustice – and become part of its Our Oceans department. I have always wanted to work for the environment. As they say, “the Earth needs a good lawyer.”

  This week, and the next, are incredibly busy social and work weeks in Europe. Amidst the chaos, the re-uniting with very old and dear friends, I feel such melancholy and emptiness. Are any of my decisions right? Should I live in LA? Should I be a lawyer? Do I feel, happy? I have not felt this calm and empty in quite a while, due to my crazy last few months escaping a bad marriage. And overall, somehow – emptiness feels like happiness?

  2026.09.15

• Tube Memories

  Writing to you all from London. The number of times I used to visit here was astounding. I spent every other weekend here during my uni years in England. Weirdly enough, I miss the tube. I miss busy sidewalks and shops everywhere. I miss the cobble stone, the wooden pubs, the cathedrals and brick walls everywhere. The breeze. The overcast weather. LA can feel like a burning hell hole sometimes.

  It is an odd feeling feeling to be back here. As if I am visiting an old friend, with whom I have not caught up in a while. Even the stench of sweat in the tube brings me back. So much has changed in the last ten years. I was very much in love with my ex husband back then. Every song reminded me of him. We were long distance for about a year and a half, but I fell deeply in love with him in England. Now, ten years later, I realize that it was complete infatuation. I was 18, and he 25. When we moved in together in Norway 2 years after, the bad experiences began. It became a coercive relationship. I was told horrible things often, felt trapped, unloved (in fact hated), used, disrespected, manipulated – coerced. I lost my appreciation of life quickly. I lost confidence. I got diminished, pushed down, stepped on. My family saw my down fall. My friends too. I was not letting anyone help me. Anyone who would try to help I shut down, i.e. would block them. He pushed a lof of that on me too.

  I started having flashbacks. I am close to being free from him (minus the spousal support part, evidently). Flashbacks of ways he talked to me, what he said, how he touched me and shook me. Flashbacks of horrible times, where I would cry on the bathroom floor, and wonder if life was worth living at all. The coercion peaked. The pain too. It all led to a major nervous breakdown leading to a major diagnosis – at a time where he had unilaterally decided to open the relationship (one way) just for him. He could see girls, I could see girls. That was it. No talk. “Either you allow this, or I am leaving you.” And that was 30 minutes after I understood that he had cheated on me two years back. Mind you, this was in the St Martin airport, after a 10 day vacation. He was frustrated at my weight back then. Anyways, I disgress.

  Somehow, London reminds me of him. Of my love for him. Oh I was so in love. I saw a friend and her parents yesterday, folks that I have known for 21 years. I was telling them about the recent divorce updates. Her father looked at me and said something that will stick with me forever – “you learnt, and that is invaluable.” No shaming, no pity, no anger, no frustration, no shock, no sadness. It was refreshing. I felt seen. He also shared another incredible piece of advice that I will write about another time.

  As I am about to exit the tube (next station), I think of this old and new chapter of my life. If anyone out there has coercion stories, please comment – together, we can sharpen our swords and feel less alone.

  2026.09.14

• O Captain My Captain

  This Labor Day weekend, after spending the whole weekend in a cozy cabin in the mountains near Los Angeles with my two closest law school friends and my new lover, I returned home, and as soon as I sat down, unpacked, and ordered myself some Vietnamese food, I was suddenly flooded with the urge to watch Dead Poets Society. No surprise there, as I watch Dead Poets Society on a yearly basis. And every year, it brings me to tears. It is not the self-harm part (which, of course, is devastating) but the part where the boys finally learn how to critically think for themselves, find joy, respect, resilience, and camaraderie — strive for what they actually want, not what they’re told to want. I resonate with that emotion tremendously.

  I attended a French private international school, demanding and requiring excellence, told by everyone else (especially my father) what to do and who to be. I adored literature. I adored studying texts, deciphering the author’s desires, wants, and wishes. Highlighting text in various colors; color-coding themes and stylistic techniques; annotating books with fancy words like “chiasmus.” Whenever I watch Dead Poets Society, it enrages me — and all I can think is: Do not go gentle into that good night, / Old age should burn and rave at close of day; / Rage, rage against the dying of the light. It makes me want to carpe diem, as the boys would say. Instead, I folded. I followed my father’s and my teachers’ orders. Strangely enough, I do not regret it. I am almost thankful for it.

  Somehow, I replaced fictional stories, beautiful prose, and technical poetic writing with dry, adversarial legal jargon — without merit, inapposite, notwithstanding, unavailing, misplaced, insofar as, absent, burden, arguendo, ipso facto, etc. Funnily enough, none of the boys aspired to be a doctor, lawyer, or engineer, or to pursue any of those “bougie” careers. I, like the boys, was put on a train running set tracks to set destinations, with the conductor and staff ensuring I stayed safely within my seat. I wish Mr. Keating had been my professor. Today, I carry so much anger; feeling like a puppet is not a good feeling. Yet I am so thankful for my discipline, ambition, and independence. All these wonderful traits stem from my legal education and career as an attorney. I feel fortunate and frustrated, all at once.

  Sometimes I wonder what life would be like if I had continued down the literature path. In high school, I extensively studied British, American, and French literature. I loved it — hell, I adored it. As we say in French, “avec des si, on referait le monde” — with enough “ifs,” we would remake the world. Essentially, we would rewrite our history and our future if we kept dwelling on hypotheticals — and in the end, nothing would change.

  Yesterday, as I was crying through the last scene, a new thought struck me. We are each our own captain, steering our own wheel, making our own navigational choices. O Captain, my Captain is, and should be, about finding your compass and embracing captain-hood. Interestingly, I had a recent chat with a new psychiatrist. Within 30 minutes (and one session), she unraveled something so deep that I changed course: “why do let people dictate who you are, and why do you let others change your perception of yourself and your perception of the world?” Evidently, this goes against the whole movie plot, which is all about learning to be comfortable with the uncomfortableness of not conforming to others views, opinions, and beliefs. Since then, I have felt this visceral guttural burning – I must, and need, to trust my perception and feelings – over anything else. Find said compass. Dictate my own sailing routes.

  So, let’s grab the helm, shall we?

  

  2026.09.08

• An Ode to Spousal Support & Prenups

  This one is dedicated to spousal support in the 21st century. A wonderful plot twist I never saw coming, as a 28-year-old woman. When I tell people I’m going through a divorce and that he is asking for spousal support, they can’t believe it. We have no kids. He is a PhD, 35 years old; I am a 28-year-old lawyer, still paying off my own law school debt (which, by the way, he took $10k out of to invest in crypto against my will, and lost it all). I paid 75-80% of all our expenses during our married life. And yet, somehow, he now wants more money from me.

  He was financially controlling — the credit cards, what I could or should spend money on… even puzzles. Yes, puzzles. Clothes. Hair products. Furniture. Food. I digress. Now, every financial change that happens over the next 33 months, I have to report to him. Lose my job, get sick, land a bonus, get promoted; he’s entitled to a cut of my wins and my losses. Like a very well-dressed leech that simply refuses to let go. Ten years together, and he still managed to take a little more than I had planned on giving — emotionally, financially, and otherwise. Apparently that doesn’t end just because I left.

  I do think he’s powerless, anxious, and a little unraveled. The loss of control over me seems to be driving him slightly feral. That he’s essentially asking me for money is, frankly, a small delicious form of justice. My sword, thankfully, is my legal background, paired with an utter lack of urgency to make this easy for him. But I do want him gone. I left abruptly, for reasons he still can’t quite wrap his head around.

  Girls, women, witches — get yourself a prenup. Don’t, like me, fall for the “if you want a prenup, you don’t really love me” line. Independence is worth its weight in gold, and then some. Heading into a holiday weekend, I’ll be pondering the exact decision that will cost me tens of thousands of dollars — because I am, and will continue, bankrolling his lifestyle: coffees, bills, dinners out, vacations, gas, whatever else he fancies, to the tune of about $2,000 a month. A law designed to protect women left behind after years spent raising the next generation is now being used against a childless 28-year-old with a law degree. The irony writes itself. Anyway, I’m not here to reform community property law. I’m simply here to deliver one piece of wisdom: get. a. prenup.

  2026.09.04