It’s a Cupcake Graveyard.

I love Halloween. It’s my favorite holiday. Anyone who knows me, wouldn’t have a hard time figuring that out – I love dressing up and I love candy. But I also love Halloween-themed desserts. For me, they are the most fun to make. I’ve already started this year, with my first batch of sweet Halloween fun, in the form of Graveyard Cupcakes.

Rest in delicious peace.

Rest in delicious peace.

I used a chocolate cake for the cupcakes themselves, and made my soon-to-be-famous cookies and cream buttercream (a girl can dream.) I piped large uneven dollops of the icing on top of the cupcakes, making the perfect base for a cookie grave.



Then, I wrote on the cookie tombstones, and put them into place on the tops of the cupcakes.

Death by Chocolate?

Death by Chocolate?

The result was a Halloween treat to die for.


Jeanine’s Soon-To-Be-Famous Cookies and Cream Buttercream.

What you’ll need:

8 oz butter

5 oz shortening

1 lb 4oz confectioner’s sugar

1 tsp vanilla

2 tblsp water

8 crushed oreos (or faux-reos)

What you’ll do:

In a large mixing bowl, cream together the butter and shortening. Add the sugar, vanilla, water, and crushed cookies. Beat until smooth, light, and fluffy (about 5 minutes).

I Think Time’s Running Out To Do Something Bizarre.

I still remember in high school when I saw that movie, Singles, in the theater. Bridget Fonda’s character uttered those words, however she was complaining about being 23. She claimed that at the age of 23, time was running out to do something bizarre. I was 16 when I saw that, and thought about it often up until I turned 23, and long after, not once thinking time has run out to do something bizarre.

Untli now. Turns out, at least for me, 39 is the age in which time is running out to do something bizarre. I hope that’s not true, but I’m finding it very hard lately to convince myself otherwise. With 40 being right around the corner, I will officially no longer be young. I will look the same as the day before. I will physically feel the same as the day before. But I will no longer be the same. I’ll be 40. And this is making me very, very, very depressed. Did I mention very?

I’m not really sure what “bizarre” something I’d even like to do. I always wanted to color my hair pink. I also miss wearing pigtails. And crazy sunglasses. And wildly bright clothing. And really really tall shoes.

Hello, old friends.

Hello, old friends.

This leads me to wonder, is it really possible to be 40 AND fabulous?

I’m not sure. Right now, I don’t feel half as fabulous as I once did. Am i letting the lack of feather boas and sunglasses define my level of fabulousity? Maybe. But at this point in my life, I’m not sure where else to turn. I don’t want to lose touch with my inner fabulous, but I feel it slowly getting farther and farther out of reach, with every passing day. I’ve never been a traditional person. I got married for the first time at 39. I bought a house by myself 6 years before that. I went back to school at 34, and started a brand new career at 37. I sang with bands throughout my 20s, and played shows up and down the east coast. I traveled everywhere. I don’t regret any of it. I don’t live the traditional “American Dream” and I never have. At almost 40 though, I’m wondering if it’s time to reconsider.

It seems that everywhere I turn and everywhere I look, I’m being told that if I don’t do certain things like “settle down” and “have children” before it’s too late, I’ll wind up old, alone and full of regrets. Of course I don’t want that. But I don’t want to force myself into making wrong decisions because some imaginary guidelines for being “normal” are telling me to. Time IS running out – it never stops running out. But I wonder sometimes if I’m running out on time, instead of facing it and doing what I’m supposed to be doing at 40.

In the word’s of one of my all time favorite singers and story tellers, Gillian Welch:

“Yeah I wanna do right, but not right now.”

I’ve got a little over 5 months to figure it out.

By the way, I met Gillian Welch when my band played the Newport Folk Festival. Right after I turned 30, and had been wondering if maybe time was running out to do something bizarre.

One of my heroes.

One of my heroes.

Maybe there is hope yet.

The Easiest Pumpkin Cake in the Universe.

In my last post, I mentioned that I was going to bake a pumpkin cake, because I can. so I did. It was a pumpkin-shaped pumpkin cake, to be precise. It ended up looking like this:

Pumpkin shape; pumpkin cake.

Pumpkin shape; pumpkin cake.

It started off looking like this:

It's a cake in a box.

It’s a cake in a box.

Yes, that’s a boxed carrot cake mix. I told you this was easy. You open the box, pour the mix into a bowl, and blend in the three ingredients on the back of the box:

Mix as directed.

Mix as directed.

In addition to these, all you need is 1/2 cup of pumpkin puree, so add that in, too, and mix well. Pour the batter into two greased 8″ pans, and bake at 350 for about 25 minutes. While the cakes are cooling, make the pumpkin frosting, which is also super easy:

2# conf sugar

1 cup shortening

1/2 cup pumkpin puree

1 tsp cinnamon

2 tblsp water

Mix all ingredients together in a large bowl, until smooth and creamy. The frosting will be the perfect orange color as is.

When icing the cake, keep the layers rounded, and keep the rounder one on top.

waiting to turn into a pumpkin.

waiting to turn into a pumpkin.

Add your decorations (stem, leaves, whatever you desire) and there you have it. A pumpkin-shaped pumpkin cake.

Easy and delicious.

Easy, festive, and delicious.

I love fall baking. So much pumpkin, so little time…

Think of All the Things You CAN Do.

The other day, I was complaining (again) about not being able to run. The whole tendonitis thing was really getting to me, and I was wallowing in a sea of “why me?”, until a friend said these words to me:

Think of all the things you CAN do.

So, I did.

I can take a cycling class. So the next morning, I took one at the gym. I can use the good old elliptical machine. So, I rocked out a 7 miler. I can do do yoga. I can swim. I can still ride my bike. I was already doing these things, but for some reason it didn’t matter. I was stuck on the one thing I couldn’t do.



Getting stuck is the worst. Sometimes you don’t even realize you’re stuck until you become unstuck. And more often than not, it’s the words of an outside observer that gives you that push to unstick yourself.

Besides all these things things, I began thinking about all of the things that I CAN do that I don’t spend nearly enough time appreciating: I can see; I can hear: I can smell, touch, and taste. I can work. I can think. I can write. I can dream. I can love.


Wedding bliss.

Wow. There are a ton of truly amazing things I CAN do. Not only am I thankful for all of these things, I’m thankful to the wonderful friend who pointed it out to me.



Gratitude really can make all the difference. No more wallowing. I have absolutely no reason to. The world is too good for it.

With that being said, I think I’ll spend the rest of the afternoon doing one other thing that I can do, and pretty well at that – bake a pumpkin spice cake. :)

You do what you must do, and you do it well.

You do what you must do, and you do it well.

This is What Happens When You Stop Running.

This is post is not going to inspire you to live a more fulfilling life.

This post is not going to tell you what you can do to stay positive.

This post is not going to teach you how to bake a delicious new dessert.

Some days, even the most positive person in the world feels like it’s all a bunch of B.S.

This post IS going to tell you that it’s OK to feel that way. And that it’s OK to talk about it. Its happens. It doesn’t make us bad people. We shouldn’t be ashamed to talk about it. Or write about it. So that’s what I’m going to do today.

I have been running now for about 5 years. I was always into fitness, but I started running around the loop in this park which was within walking distance from where I used to live. I found myself slowly doing it more and more, and decided in 2011 to sign up for some official races. I ran two that year, and then in 2012 I ran about 10, and kept that up every year since. Last year, dare I even say I started to actually become a “good” runner. I set a new 5k PR at three consecutive races, and even won my age group, I set a new 10k PR, and I set a new half marathon PR, all within one calendar year.

My 1st place trophy.

My 1st place trophy.

I was running almost everyday, and had never been in better shape, so I decided that 2015 would be my year to run a full marathon. I carefully selected one based on time (October) and elevation (good for first time-marathoners) and registered for it in the spring, planning on training through the summer, starting right after I got back from my honeymoon.

I even got some brand new kicks.

I even got some brand new kicks.

On  or about July 8th, I started my marathon training plan. The goal was to run 8 miles that day, adding one mile to my long run every week, up until two weeks prior to the marathon, when I would wind down until race day. Feeling good, I headed over to the park to begin.

Five miles in, and things were going really well – the run felt great, and I was keeping pretty good time. I knew I’d easily hit the 8 mile mark. At some point before mile 6, I felt a weird twitch or pop or something in my left ankle. I figured it was one of those annoying little running pains that come and go, so I kept on going, and it felt fine.

The next day, it did not feel fine. It hurt. It hurt on the top and side of my foot. It hurt at the back of my heel. It especially hurt when I walked down the stairs. It did not hurt when I just stood still, and it did not hurt all that much when I walked a normal pace. It mainly hurt when walking down stairs as I mentioned, or when I pointed my toes, which was when it actually hurt the most. I assumed it was a sprain or strain. I feared it was a stress fracture, but a quick googling of that caused me to rule it out. So I went with sprain or strain.

I stopped running for the next week. It started to feel a little better, so I decided to go out for a short run.

I realized that was a bad idea. So I waited another week. It again started to feel a little better, so I tried a short run again.

I realized that again was a bad idea. At this point, I was starting to worry. What on earth could be wrong? It would start to feel better, then as soon I as did any kind of running, it started hurting all over again. I googled “pain walking down the stairs” and a bunch of results came up, all with one word in common: tendonitis.

“That’s not possible,” I thought. I’ve been running for years. Why and how would I suddenly get tendonitis??? After a couple more weeks of feeling better/running/feeling worse, I decided to see my doctor.

“You have tendonitis. I recommend not running on it, wearing a brace when you do start running again, and taking an anti-inflammatory. FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE.”

Ok, so I imagined that last part. But isn’t tendonitis forever? The doctor actually made it sound like it would heal, but the people I know who have it, have had it for pretty much ever. Did this mean I would never actually run again??? Honestly, I still don’t know. It’s been a little over two weeks now with not a single run at all (except to cross the street once), and it’s still not healed. Yesterday it felt great, so I decided to try a 25 minute long cardio workout, to get my sweat on. I’d been biking and swimming to try and make up for the lack or running, but I’m just not getting the same results a good run gives me, both physically and mentally. I was also afraid to go to yoga, but I’ve since bagged that fear, and found that yoga is the one thing that actually helps. Anyway, riding high on the positive effects of gentle yoga, I busted out the 25 minute cardio workout and felt great. It was tough, and it was sweaty. It challenged me physically and mentally.

“I can do this every day until I can run again!” I shouted to myself with joy.

An hour later, my ankle hurt almost as bad as it did the day of my initial doctor’s appointment. WTF.

Confined to the bike. FOREVER.

Confined to the bike. FOREVER.

Today, it hurts only slightly less.

Today, I woke up frustrated, devastated, and just plain sad.

Today, I’m starting to wonder if it really will ever heal. I’m starting to think that staying positive about it is a bunch of BS. But I’m still secretly hoping that maybe writing about it will help shake off some of the frustration.

Maybe not.

Maybe it’s time to learn to dance.

When Life Gives You Lemons.

Last week was a full moon. Last week, I was very emotional. Maybe the two are related, maybe not. But either way, I was feeling a little “life is giving me lemons-ish” all week. I tried talking to people about it, and although that helped in the moment, as soon as I was alone again, the lemons returned. Usually, I’d go for a run when I can’t shake that feeling, but I recently was diagnosed with Tendonitis in my left ankle. That means no running. For a while. This might have been the biggest lemon of all. Not being able to run is the most frustrating thing that has ever happened to me. So, what did I do? I started riding my bike and swimming.

A whole new world.

A whole new world.

These things are great, but the problem is that I’m not very good at them, and I was pretty good at running. So it’s like starting all over again. After a few bike rides though, I am really starting to enjoy it. So much so, that I want a new bike now. So maybe this particular lemon can become lemonade after all.

Even so, I still had the full moon blues, as I like to call them. I needed something else to help me break out of this funk. So, I turned to the only other thing I could think of that always helps me feel better – baking. And not just random baking for the sake of baking; this called for the big guns – baking with purpose.

I thought about who might want/need some baking in their life. I immediately thought of two people, and went to work. The first project was a Pink Lemonade Cake. I found the recipe here, however I made a few changes, as usual. I used pink lemonade concentrate, I omitted the lemon juice, and I had no milk in the house whatsoever, so I used the one cream-based product I always have on-hand without a doubt – vanilla ice cream. I used 1/3 cup ice cream blended with 1 cup of water. It worked perfectly.

An experiment in pink.

An experiment in pink.

The cake was well-received and devoured by all. I was feeling happy because others were happy. This was helping.

All that remained.

All that remained.

Baking project #2 was a beer bread. I’ve made beer bread before, and it has yet to turn out anything other than delicious, so I picked up some beer (Chocolate Pumpkin Porter by Evil Genius Beer Company, to be exact), and made yet another good-lookin’ and equally good-tastin’ Beer Bread.

The beer makes the bread.

The beer makes the bread.

The bread was a hit, too, and I was then able to surf the emotional wave right out of the end of the week and safely back to shore.

For now.

Zen and the Art of Grandfather Clock Maintenance.

This past weekend, my husband I inherited this Grandfather Clock from my Aunt. It was originally my Grandmother’s, and my mom says she remembers when she was little and hearing the chimes ringing throughout the night (in a good way). The clock is about 66 years old. It looks like it’s brand new.

Looks like no time has passed.

Like no time has passed.

It also still works. We got it to chime at 8pm the other night.

We still haven’t gotten it to continuously keep time – the pendulum eventually stops swinging. According to the manual that was still tucked inside the door of the clock, its trial and error – you just have to keep adjusting the pendulum until it works. Ain’t nobody got time for that.

But at some point, somebody did. 66 years ago, when this clock and others like it were brand new, somebody bought it, read the manual, and set it, trying over and over to get the screw on the pendulum adjusted exactly right so it would keep time. I tried three times. And decided I’d rather pay someone money to come out and set it rather than sit there and adjust the darn thing myself.

Had I been a single lady when I inherited this clock, I also would not have dusted the chimes and reattached them after stringing them with new strings, attached the weights (in proper order from heaviest to lightest), or even bothered to figure out the part of the pendulum and the screw at all. All these acts were meticulously performed by my husband. I did sit and read the manual so we could figure out how to set the time without breaking it. But honestly, I think I only did that because he was doing all these things and I felt like I needed to contribute.

I’m not sure what it is, but technical details such as these do not interest me. I love the clock. I love how it looks. I love how it sounds. I cannot pretend to care how it works or even want to learn. Is it because I’m lazy? I started to wonder.

When I have to figure something out, I can and I will. I know deep down inside that I could have set the time, and the chimes and the weights and even the pendulum if i keep trying. But I just don’t want to. I don’t want to know how things work sometimes. I just want them TO work. And to be beautiful and bright and perform with precision and grace.

I don’t think I would have given my lack of desire to study the inner workings of the clock any thought had I not recently also started reading this book:


One of those books that changes how you think.

I’m not finished it yet, but I am intrigued by his idea of Romantic understanding vs. Classical understanding:

“A classical understanding sees the world primarily as underlying form itself. A romantic understanding sees it primarily in terms of immediate appearance.”

I am definitely from the romantic school of understanding. I don’t think it’s because I was born that way or have something in my brain that makes me that way. No, I believe I chose to be that way. I remember taking the SATs in high school, and scoring higher on the math section then on the verbal section (this was back when there were only two sections). I considered myself and arts person, not a math person. I was angry that I scored higher on math. Math was boring. I did not want to be associated with it in anyway. So I chose not to be.

I chose poorly.

What I didn’t realize until reading this book and seeing the Grandfather Clock, is that math is just as beautiful as Art. And just as creative. I should have realized this when I was in pastry school. It was not the finished look of the dessert that most interested me – it was what made it happen: what reacted with what and in what amount to create that perfect chemical reaction of a dessert. I love baking because I LOVE chemistry.I always have. And I’m not ashamed to admit it anymore.

I’m not the best cake decorator. I’m not neatest pastry chef. I am, however, pretty darn good at creating new and delicious desserts.

Just another baking experiment gone right.

Just another baking experiment gone right.

And I WILL get that pendulum to swing again – I promise. But first, I have this great idea for a pink lemonade cake that I need to try out. :)

The Diabetic’s Wife.

My husband has Diabetes. Type 1 Diabetes, to be more specific, which means he relies on injections of insulin to live. Thanks to modern technology, he doesn’t have to inject himself with a syringe all day though – he uses a pump, which is constantly attached to him, and pumps insulin into him via this little thing called an infusion set. The whole thing looks like this:

This tiny device keeps my husband alive.

This tiny device keeps my husband alive.

It’s pretty cool.

What’s not cool is that he has Type 1 Diabetes in the first place, and has to live the rest of his life with the pump. I don’t claim to understand how it makes him feel, physically or mentally. I will never be able to understand that. I can say that he’s tough – he acts like it’s no big deal, but really, it’s a very big deal.

Without insulin, he will die. If this fact worries him, he never lets it show, at least to me. This fact does worry me. All. The. Time. I try not to let him see that either, and I don’t want to make this about me. But as the wife of someone with a serious illness, I am also affected, but in a completely different way.

It’s hard, because I often feel like I have no one to talk to about it. It’s not something I go around asking people: “Hey, so does your husband have an illness that needs to be constantly monitored and is sometimes unpredictable and could send him into a coma or possibly even death? Mine too! Let’s be friends!” It doesn’t work that way.

And for the record, he can and does eat the desserts I bake. He just has to adjust his insulin intake for it. Dessert is not a diabetic’s enemy.

Yes he ate one of these. And liked it.

Yes he ate one of these. And liked it.

I don’t worry about sharing dessert with him. I don’t worry about eating anything with him. He does an amazing job keeping his diabetes under control. If anything, it gives his geeky nature a chance to really shine.

I worry about coming home and finding him unconscious (or worse). I worry when he doesn’t text me back right away, that maybe he’s passed out on the ground, or in his car in a ditch. I worry when he’s sleeping that he might not wake up. Sometimes I poke him to make sure he’s still conscious (and he wonders why he never sleeps very well). I am, by nature, a worrier. I am also, by nature, a person who is very in tune with other people. I notice every slight change in his looks, his mood, his face, his voice, his eyes…everything. I ask him if he’s ok a lot. I’ve driven home from work at like 80 miles an hour because he didn’t respond to a text and I needed to make sure he was fine.

Maybe someday I’ll stop worrying about him so much. Maybe not. Either way, his disease is a part of my life now, too. Maybe my worrying is just another reason why we were meant to be together. Although I wish he didn’t have to deal with having Diabetes, I don’t wish anything was different. I love him for who he is, and how he handles what life has dealt him with courage and grace. I just hope that I can do the same, and be the woman and wife he needs me to be, worrier and all.

Photo by The More We See.

Photo by The More We See.

Dreams, They Complicate My Life.

I have been remembering my dreams since I was a little girl. I always thought they meant something more, even back then. Even today, I still not only remember the dreams I had last night, but I can still remember some of the very vivid ones I had growing up. A few times throughout my life, I even started a dream journal, and every so often when I’m in de-cluttering mode, I’ll stumble across an old journal and open it only to discover a handful of dreams from the summer of 1997, or some other isolated period.

I wish I had done more dream journalling. I love reading these little snippets of my past, because not only does writing down your dreams help you remember them, but it gives me so much insight into the person I was at that time, and how it has contributed to the person I am today.

Growing up, I often dreamed of storms – hurricanes, tornadoes, monsoons, tsunamis…and I was always running from them. Because of these dreams, I’ve developed an unhealthy fear of storms. I’m like the dog that hides in the tub at the first rumble of thunder. When Hurricane Sandy was coming, I pored obsessively over the projected path, and prayed and begged just before each time I looked at it that it would change and veer off out to sea. No such luck.

my worst nightmare.

my worst nightmare.

My Astraphobia is a post in itself, so I’ll save that for another time. Right now, I’m talking about dreams. I really do believe there is more to dreams than just “those things that happen when you close your eyes.” These things mean something. Whether it’s yourself telling  yourself what you already know but are afraid to admit, or the universe giving you a gentle reminder of who you are and where you’re going.

Personally, I think it’s a little of both.

A few years ago, I had a dream that I went to this party in someone’s attic. There was music playing – it was the song Then He Kissed Me, by the Crystals. In waking life, I had no connection to this song, whatsoever. But it played, in the background, in it’s entirety, which meant that in waking life I actually knew every note of every musical instrument of the actual song itself. That’s pretty crazy if you think about it. The brain is really a wonderfully amazing thing. Anyway, I was one of the first people at this party in the attic – I think I was helping set up. There was a green velvet couch against one wall. I was over by the couch as guests starting arriving. One guest was my now husband. At that time in waking life, he was they guy I went out with four times and wondered why we weren’t actually together. But here he was, in my dream, at this random attic party where they were playing Then He Kissed Me. We walked toward each other, and he looked at me and said, “I really want us to be together. It’s just not the right time yet.” And then, I woke up. I didn’t just wake up, I shot up. I remember sitting up in bed, and thinking, “what the funk was that??”

In the years that followed, I’d hear that song, and it would remind me of that dream, and the guy. As I mentioned in my previous post, the guy and I are now married. Guess what song played at our wedding for our first kiss?

and then he kissed me. (photo by The More We See)

and then he kissed me. (photo by The More We See)

Was it always going to be that way and that was why I dreamed about that song? Or was the dream of the song the reason it happened? The world may never know. But either way, the dream was important. It gave me hope. It reminded me of what I really wanted, deep inside myself.

I also often dream about people who have died, like so many other people do. In my dreams, the dead are usually intermingled with the living, however there is one thing that separates them – they do not speak. Not once has a dead person ever uttered a word in any of my dreams. Since my dad died a few months ago, I’ve had plenty of dreams about him. Yet not one single word. Weird, right?

i still miss him.

i still miss him.

I love dreams. I love dreaming. I’ve flown many times. I’ve controlled them many other times. I’ve talked with people I haven’t seen in years. I once dreamed I was chatting with my brother, and I asked him what the lyrics were to a certain song, and he said, “I don’t know, I’m just a character in your dream. If you don’t know the lyrics, then how am I supposed to know?”

Oh, Brother. (Photo by The More We See)

Oh, Brother. (Photo by The More We See)

Anyway, the reason I’m thinking about all this on this fine Sunday morning is that my husband is watching soccer in the other room so I have to find something else to do keep myself occupied, and more importantly, I had a very strange dream last night that I can’t stop thinking about. In waking life, sometime around 2005, I played in a band called 4 Hours Sleep. We had fun, and played a whole bunch of shows around Philly. We recorded an album of songs, and although the band wasn’t together for much longer after we were finished with the album, the songs really stood out to me, mainly because this was a pretty emotionally tumultuous time in my life, and the lyrics to those song still either make me smile, tear up, and just remind me what it means to grow up. In the dream, it was the present day, and I was at my mom’s house, and there was some kind of party going on. I was hanging out in my old bedroom, and I suddenly thought of that 4 Hours Sleep album, and began rooting through boxes of old stuff to try and find it. I eventually found it, and tried to play it on the TV (clearly this is the dream part) but I couldn’t get it to play, no matter how hard I tried. Then a bird flew into the room, I got scared and ran to my mom to help me get it out. Then I woke up.

I have no idea what that means, but this morning, I was on a mission to find that old 4 Hours Sleep CD. I had a vague idea of where it was, and lo and behold, I found it, and am listening to it as I type. It brings back wonderful and painful memories. And it also has on it my favorite song that I’ve ever written, that I had forgotten about.

I just made this youtube video and it took me like an hour. Can you believe this is the first time I’ve ever posted a video to youtube? Maybe that was the reason for the dream – to teach me how to do something new. :)

The Underlying Wonderful.

I can’t remember quite how it came to be, but when my husband and I were in our early stages of romance, I believe it was he who said something along the lines of “No matter where life takes us, never forget the underlying wonderful.”  A lot of people ask me how we met. I think it’s a pretty amazing story in it’s own right, and one that might just give others some hope who feel lost or alone and like they might never find “the one.” Not everyone finds “the one” when they’re in their early 20’s. And that’s ok. If I could do it all again, I’d do it exactly the same. Because it has led me right here.


photo taken by The More We See.

It was the start of the summer of 2008. I had just come out of a two year relationship with someone, and wasn’t really looking for a new someone. I was playing with a new band at the time, and was nervous for our first show, so I asked some friends to come out for support. A friend of mine agreed to come with his wife, and he said he’d bring friends. I was on stage when they arrived. I walked over after the set to say hello…and that was when I met him. And I knew it right then, although I wasn’t really sure what it was that I knew. But there was something about this “friend” of my friend that I couldn’t stop thinking about. Sadly, this “friend” was there with his girlfriend. But we all became friends because I just had to be around this guy. He and his girlfriend wound up breaking up a few months later, and he and I went out. 4 times. It just wasn’t the right time for us though, and he got back together with his girlfriend, and I found someone else. But those 4 times never left my mind. I thought about him every single day and wondered why it happened that way. I was so sure he was who I was supposed to be with. How could I be so sure that he was “the one” if I wasn’t even going to be with him? As the years went on, it seemed less and less likely that we would ever find our time. Another relationship ended for me, and I decided it was time for me to figure out what the heck I was doing.

I started practicing yoga. I started journaling. I graduated pastry school and got a new job. I hung out with friends and did the things I always wanted to do. I traveled all over the world.  I asked myself why my life was the way it was, and I found the answer: it was how it was because of me. Not because of anyone else. Everything I did in my life was my responsibility. Once I came to realize this, old unresolved relationships began to either mend or end. I was able to confidently move in the direction of my dreams. I was able to forgive myself for my past mistakes. I was able to admit them to others and to myself, and say sorry.

By now, it was early 2013. I had just returned from another trip. I was thinking about “the guy” again, since this seemed to be the only relationship left that I still hadn’t gotten any closure on. One day, on a walk with a friend, I told him the whole story. I said I thought I might always wonder what could have been. We chatted about a few other things, and somehow on that same walk, I recounted a random story about how some girl was jealous because she thought i was interested in her boyfriend and how ridiculous that was. My friend stopped in his tracks. “How is this any different from the first story?” he asked. I told him it was because I actually DID have feelings for the first guy so that made it ok, and he went on to say, “that doesn’t matter. This is the exactly the same thing.” I argued with him, but began realizing he was absolutely right. The reason it never worked out with “the guy” was not because of him or his girlfriend our our friends – it was because of me. I suddenly was sorry for how I handled things. And I felt, at that moment, that I could move on and be just fine.

A month later, out of the blue, “the guy” emailed me. He was single, I was single. We agreed to meet. Two years later, we were married. We’re both 39.

photo taken by The More We See.

photo taken by The More We See.

The point is not that everyone is worth waiting for, or that you should sit around and let love find you. The point is that once you find you, meaning once you realize your own faults, your own hopes, your own dreams – only then can you be the person you would want to be in a relationship with. And the door to the underlying wonderful opens. :)