Category: Lifestyle

I just spent a week in crisis mode.

My mom was in and out of the hospital, and for seven straight days my brain was locked into that sharp, electric state of What changed? Is she okay? What now? Every phone buzz meant something. Every nurse walking in meant something. Every sound could mean something.

When you’re in that space, everything else in your life feels small. Work stress? Whatever. Bills? Annoying but not urgent. Dog drama? Please. There are bigger things happening.

And then you come home.

And all those “small” stressors are still sitting there waiting for you — except now you’re exhausted.

I got back and immediately started a new job. No buffer. No recovery day. Just straight from hospital mode to “Hi, nice to meet you, I’m so excited to be here” mode.

My female dog is still in heat. My male dog has apparently decided this is his villain era and has started marking everywhere. We live next to a train, so there’s always noise, always rumbling, always something happening. And I’m trying to keep up with my mom’s medical records and doctor updates from a different state because love doesn’t magically get easier with distance.

Oh, and my car decided this would be a great time for the CVT transmission to start acting up.

And I’ve had migraines every single day since I’ve been back.

It hasn’t even been a week.

And then, because the universe apparently loves timing, I got a conditional acceptance to one of the colleges I applied to.

Which should feel exciting. And part of me knows it is. But it also feels heavy.

The acceptance came before I dropped out of school, so now I don’t even know what that means for me. I don’t even fully understand what “conditional acceptance” means. Does it mean I’m in? Does it mean I’m almost in? Does it mean I have to fix something first? I don’t know.

And the thought of going to the community college I’m currently attending just to track down a counselor and figure out what I’m supposed to do feels overwhelming. I don’t have the energy. I barely have the energy to manage what’s directly in front of me right now.

So instead of feeling proud, I feel this creeping fear that this is just going to be another opportunity that slips through my fingers.

Like I’m watching doors open and I’m too tired to walk through them.

While I was with my mom, all my normal life stress felt so silly. Like why do I let this stuff get to me? Why do I care so much about emails, deadlines, paperwork?

But now I’m back, and everything feels louder than it should.

I’m usually a deep sleeper. Like, nothing wakes me up. But at the hospital I trained myself to wake up at every tiny sound. Every shuffle, every monitor beep, every door opening — my body was ready. And now I’m home and I’m still waking up at every little noise.

Two dogs. A train. Neighbors. Just the normal sounds of life.

My brain is still on duty.

I think that’s the part no one really talks about. You don’t just switch off crisis mode because you changed locations. Your nervous system doesn’t care that you’re technically “back to normal.” It’s still scanning for danger. Still listening. Still bracing.

And I didn’t give myself any transition time. I didn’t land softly. I didn’t rest. I just went straight from Crisis Daughter to New Employee to Responsible Adult to Dog Referee to Long-Distance Medical Coordinator to “Figure Out Your Academic Future Immediately.”

Of course I’m tired.

The migraines, the light sleep, the snapping over small things, the feeling wired but exhausted at the same time — it’s not me being dramatic. It’s a stress hangover.

I think I’m realizing you can’t shame yourself into calming down. You can’t tell your body, “This is dumb, relax,” and expect it to listen. You actually have to let yourself come down. Let yourself land. Admit that even if other people have it worse, this is still a lot.

Maybe the answer isn’t solving everything perfectly right now. Maybe it’s sending one email instead of planning out my entire academic future. Maybe it’s telling myself before bed, “There is no emergency tonight.” Maybe it’s accepting that I’m overwhelmed instead of pretending I’m handling it flawlessly.

If you’ve ever held it together for someone you love and then tried to jump straight back into regular life, you probably get it.

Sometimes the hardest part isn’t the crisis.

It’s the quiet after.

I turned 29 this week. Literally yesterday!

And if I’m being honest? It feels tender.

When I was younger, 30 had a checklist. A baby on my hip. A degree framed on the wall. Keys to a little house that smelled like cinnamon candles and fresh paint. I thought if I just worked hard enough, loved hard enough, pushed hard enough — it would all line up neatly.

A few weeks ago, I wrote a post called “Reclaiming Myself in 2026.” At the time, I thought I had already hit my wake-up call. I talked about burnout. About abandoning school. About trying to “keep up with the Joneses.” About how the only decision from 2025 I didn’t regret was getting my dogs because they were my only real comfort in a year full of wrong turns.

I meant every word of that post.

But I wrote it before my mom ended up in the hospital with a stroke caused by stress.

Celebrating my birthday after sitting for 5 days in a hospital room, listening to machines beep while pretending everything was fine, changes you. Watching stress physically take down someone you love is sobering. It makes all the arbitrary timelines feel small. It forces you to ask what any of this pressure is actually worth.

Last year, I was so burnt out I scared myself. I was so stressed I didn’t want to exist anymore. And all of it was because I was trying to force a life by 30 that just isn’t here yet.

All I wanted was:
A baby.
My degree.
To start buying a house.

And right now? I don’t see any of that happening anytime soon.

That makes me sad. Deeply sad. I’m grieving the version of 30 I built in my head. The Pinterest board version. The “you’re right on time” version.

But I’m also realizing something bigger than milestones:

I don’t want to stress myself into the same hospital bed.

Twenty-nine isn’t about scrambling to catch up anymore. It’s about choosing my health. Choosing steadiness. Choosing to go back to school because I value it — not because I’m trying to prove something to hypothetical children. And that doesn’t mean going back right now. It’s choosing workshops and clubs and monthly solo dates because I deserve a full life now, not just once I hit certain markers.

That earlier post was me saying, “If I’m already in hell, why stay?”

This birthday feels like me actually walking out.

I still want the baby.
I still want the degree.
I still want the house.

But I want to be alive and well enough to enjoy them.

So 29 is the year I stop abandoning myself to please others or a fictional version of myself.

It’s the year I build a foundation that doesn’t crack under pressure.

And maybe that’s the most grown-up thing I could do before 30.

Valentine’s Day really said, “Let’s keep her on her toes,” huh?

This morning? Elite. 10/10. Would recommend. Hector showed up like my Uber Eats delivery knight in shining armor with both Chick-fil-A and sushi because I couldn’t decide what I wanted and apparently my love language is “bring me options.” Nothing says romance like nuggets next to a spicy tuna roll. Honestly, that’s balance. That’s growth. That’s protein diversity.

My niece and her friend are having a full-blown Galentine’s sleepover, so I popped over to supervise the chaos. We ordered pizza, set up nail stations, and entered that sacred pre-teen ceremony where glitter becomes permanently bonded to every surface. We were painting tiny nails, talking about crushes, and I’m crushing it at being the fun aunt.

And then.

Life said, “Plot twist.”

My mom is in the hospital.

So now I’m sitting here with half-dried nails, trying to figure out the fastest and cheapest way to get to Las Vegas by tomorrow. Because flights are either affordable or on time — never both. And my mom? Being her wonderfully stubborn self, does not want me to tell my siblings. Which is wild because this is literally the moment siblings were invented for. They live minutes away from my parents where I’m in a different state!

It’s such a strange emotional whiplash — from heart-shaped joy to hospital logistics in a matter of hours. One minute I’m debating gel top coat, the next I’m googling last-minute flights and whisper-yelling at airline websites.

So here I am. Grateful for Hector. Grateful for pizza and giggling girls. Grateful I can go if I need to.

If you’re having a sweet, simple Valentine’s Day, I love that for you. If yours turned into an emotional rollercoaster with a side of airfare panic — hi. We’re in this together.

Love shows up in waffle fries.
Love shows up in glitter.
Love shows up in hospital rooms.

And apparently… love also shows up with a carry-on and a last-minute flight to Las Vegas.

Happy Valentine’s Day. Hug your people a little tighter tonight. 💗

Let’s talk about Valentine’s Day before it happens—because once you’ve been married a year and live together, the vibes shift. Not in a bad way. Just in a we know each other’s coffee orders and financial anxieties kind of way.

Mornings are quieter now. Or maybe they’re just filled with the hum of the coffee maker instead of heart-fluttering “good mornings.” The mystery is gone, but the comfort showed up early and never left. Big, dramatic gestures have turned into small negotiations: who’s doing the dishes, what’s for dinner, whether the dogs really need that much food (they do—apparently they’re still growing???), and how we’re stretching the budget this week.

Because here’s the real part: I wasn’t working for a while, and while Hector is working, we’re still a little poor. Real-life, checking-account, “let’s think this through” poor. Our new car needs all four tires replaced and an alignment, which feels aggressively disrespectful timing-wise. So money is tight. And as romantic as fancy dinners sound, I’d rather have a working car than a $150 evening that disappears in two hours.

And before anyone panics—no, we didn’t stop dating. We just date… realistically. Planning things is trickier when income shifts, two growing dogs eat like linebackers, and adulthood insists on being very loud about budgets. But we still go to the movies pretty often. We just ate sushi recently like the romantic icons we are. Sometimes date night looks like going out. Sometimes it’s splitting a pint of ice cream on the couch and calling it intimacy.

And flowers? They’re not a grand gesture anymore—they’re a lifestyle choice. We live across the street from a flower shop, which means romance can be purchased for like $10 a week. Efficient. Sustainable. Frankly iconic.

Spending $50 on a single dessert now feels… unhinged. When we could eat something just as good (or better), affordable, and do it at home. Case in point: he recently brought me banana pudding. Sweet gesture. Truly. But it was bad. Like objectively bad. And it was $15. I looked at him and said, “I love you, but I’ll just make it next time.”

Romance didn’t disappear—it just got practical. And honestly? I kind of love it.

The excitement didn’t die; it softened. It turned into laughter over burnt toast, shared looks in the theater, and that quiet moment when you realize this person still feels like home—even when life is loud and the car needs tires and the bank account needs mercy.

Pinterest would hate our version of love. But it’s messier, realer, funnier, and honestly sweeter than anything perfectly curated ever was.

And yes—my Valentine’s Day gift is still a scrapbook. The same scrapbook I was supposed to give him a year ago. Time happened. Unemployment happened. Life happened. Here we are. Growth is realizing “better late than never” still counts, right?

So this year’s Valentine’s vibe is cozy, imperfect, and very us. No thousand-dollar gifts. No dramatic splurges. Just memories, inside jokes, maybe a movie ticket stub or two, and a scrapbook that took the scenic route.

Because love isn’t about being flashy or new forever. It’s about choosing each other when things are quieter. When money’s tighter. When the dogs are hungrier than expected. When the car needs four new tires and an alignment.

It’s about still dating—just with more intention, more honesty, and a fully functioning vehicle.

So… apparently, I’m not just a Pisces. I know, I know—I thought that was the whole story too. But then I got curious and decided to look up this whole Mayan calendar zodiac thing. i saw it all over tiktok and people saying it was accurate and had to put it to the test. And let me tell you: not one, not two, but three different sources confirmed it. All three pointed to the same thing: I am Storm. Yes, Storm. Like… lightning, rain, upheaval, the whole dramatic weather package. And honestly? It’s a zillion percent accurate. My zodiac just looked at me and said, “Eryn, we see you.”

Here’s what being a Storm (or Rain) means, according to Mayan astrology:

• You have a soothing, nurturing energy and may even have healing powers. Translation for me: I’ll happily bake you banana pudding, do a TikTok dance with you, or talk your ear off about why journaling before coffee is the key to life.
• Restless? Check. Always on the go? Check. Need to be fully engaged in whatever you’re doing, or else suffer from extreme boredom? Check and check. If I’m not cooking, writing, scrolling memes, or chasing a new playlist obsession, I get twitchy real fast.
• Social butterfly vibes: I probably have a lot of friends and thrive in social settings. But, beware—you also need your “me” time to recharge—usually in the form of a cozy blanket, hot tea, and some self-reflective blogging.
• Childlike curiosity and love of learning are non-negotiable. Whether I’m experimenting with a new recipe, testing the weirdest snacks I can find, or diving into Greek mythology (again), I need to know everything—or at least pretend I do.

Some other key vibes:

Strengths: Healing, spiritual, friendly.
Weaknesses: Idealist, delicate (so yes, I do get dramatic when someone eats the last cookie).

Apparently, Storm energy is strongly tied to the divine feminine, even if you’re a guy. And while you’re soft and nurturing, you also have a knack for leadership. Family, friends, and community empower me—but a gentle warning: there’s a risk of misusing that influence if you’re not careful.

Speaking of family, bonds run deep. Support from parents and extended family is a given, especially with my mom. But… these strong ties can create attachment challenges, so part of my life’s work is learning to loosen up and embrace independence, and maybe finally stop texting Hector 17 times a day—jk, never.

The ultimate challenge for Storms? Becoming a healer for others.
The remedy? Learning under a master teacher. Or, in my world, reading every self-help book I can get my hands on, trying to live ethically, and occasionally throwing in a pun or two.

If you’re wondering about personality traits, it’s basically: lively, talkative, friendly, curious, constantly on the move, and always learning. Storms are versatile, natural students and teachers, seekers of purification, and purveyors of life lessons through experience. Sometimes that means jumping into the water without knowing how to swim—but eventually, you figure it out.

Another name for this Day Sign is Community, which makes sense because Storms have a deep connection to their social group. Family, friends, neighbors, classmates—my purpose is to serve, support, and engage with my community. Not necessarily for fame, but because I genuinely care. Also, I probably overbook myself in group chats and events because I just can’t help it.

So yeah—turns out I’m more than a dreamy Pisces drifting along. I’m a Storm. A force of nature. A cozy friend. A pun-loving whirlwind. A coffee-fueled experimenter. And yes… sometimes a chaotic little mess who writes long blogs about zodiac signs at 2 a.m. Honestly? I’m kind of here for it.

There are a few things that will always crack me open emotionally: a good cup of coffee, a dramatic orchestral swell, and a pair of skates carving clean lines into fresh ice.

Lately, I’ve been glued to the Winter Olympics—not just for figure skating (though, obviously), but for everything. I am a schedule girl. If there’s a heat, a final, a qualifier at an unholy hour? I’m there. Wrapped in a blanket. Snacks within reach. Living my best spectator life.

But figure skating is the heart of it all. It always has been.

I was telling Hector the other night about when I first fell hard for the sport—back when Meryl Davis and Charlie White were everything to me. I loved them so much it actually felt unfair when they retired. And yes, I know, they retired in their early 30s, which is completely reasonable and healthy and adult. But teenage-me (and honestly current-me) wanted more. More programs. More chemistry. More moments that made you sit forward on the couch like, don’t blink or you’ll miss it.

That kind of love doesn’t really go away. It just… waits.

Watching the Olympics this year brought that feeling roaring back. I didn’t even realize how deep I was until I caught myself planning my days around events. And it’s not just nostalgia—this era of skating is unreal. Watching the 2025 Cup of China is how I was introduced to Shun Sato, who’s now repping Japan at the Olympics. When he skates, it looks like he’s floating. Like the ice is optional. Effortless in a way that makes you forget how technically impossible it all is.

And yet—despite how much I love watching him—I have to support American chaos king Ilia Malinin. I mean… come on. The man beat his own world record at the 2025 Grand Prix Final. That’s not confidence, that’s GOAT energy. Watching him skate feels like witnessing the sport actively evolve in real time, and it’s wild to be alive for it.

I think part of why skating lives so deep in me is that it’s been threaded through my life forever. I was the kid who watched Ice Castles (both versions, thank you very much), The Cutting Edge, Ice Princess. If there was an ice rink nearby, I wanted to be on it. Not because I was Michelle Kwan (I was not), but because it felt like flying in a very specific, very cinematic way.

And honestly? I got that love from my mom. She grew up watching Tonya Harding—watching skating as something powerful and gritty and complicated. Not just pretty. That got passed down to me, whether she realized it or not.

Last year, I tried to go skating again, thinking it would feel the same. Spoiler alert: it did not.

I’m heavier now. Less balanced. My body moves differently. I stepped onto the ice and immediately felt like a baby deer who had made a terrible life choice. I felt clumsy. Slow. Like gravity had a personal vendetta against me. There’s a very noticeable difference between skating at 120 pounds and skating closer to 200, and my hips were not subtle about letting me know.

It was humbling. And frustrating. And weirdly emotional.

But here’s the thing—watching the Olympics this year reminded me that my love for skating was never about being perfect at it. It was about the feeling. The drama. The music. The way a good program can make your chest ache a little. I don’t have to be the one on the ice to still belong to it.

There’s also a very real, very practical reason this feels like it’s coming back into my life right now: I live near a skating rink. Like… dangerously near. Close enough that I don’t really have an excuse anymore.

It’s $18 total to skate—$15 for the session and $3 to rent the skates. That’s less than a lot of my impulse coffees. Less than most forms of “I should really be moving my body” motivation. And honestly? I need to start losing weight. Not in a punishing way, not in a shame spiral way—but in a I want to feel steadier, stronger, more at home in my body again way.

So I’ve decided I’m going to force myself to go more often. I’m going to force myself to get comfortable again. Not Olympic-good. Not Michelle Kwan-good. Just… me good.

I was never a jumper. I was never doing choreographed routines or chasing spins that made people stop and stare. What I had was comfort. I knew how to move on the ice without thinking. I trusted it. And that comfort is what led me to roller skating, and eventually roller derby—because once you understand balance and edges and momentum, it follows you.

So I’ll keep watching. I’ll keep cheering. I’ll keep romanticizing the glide, even if my own attempts are a little more Bambi on ice than Olympic podium.

Some loves don’t fade. They just change shape.