I Don’t Know

A little over three months ago, I wrote a post about hope and what it’s meant to me. I told you about how it’s been a sort of sign in my life and how I operate on it. Both are true, but there’s another truth as well. There’s another side of me that reflects the opposite of hope. It’s the part you don’t see, the one that comes to the surface right before bed, that comes when I’ve failed and/or when I have a lot on my plate.

Before I continue, please know I’m not doing this for attention. I’m not even posting it on my social media or anything like that. I’m not sure who might be reading this, but for those people who used those magical search terms in their Google or WordPress searches and found their way here, thank you. This is the toughest post I’ve ever written and I’m grateful for your willingness to read this.

I started going to therapy earlier this year. Specifically, I started to go to a therapist that specializes in dialectical behavior therapy. According to a brief Internet search, it’s an “evidence-based psychotherapy that began with efforts to treat borderline personality disorder. DBT has been proven useful in treating mood disorders, suicidal ideation, and for change in behavioral patterns such as self-harm, and substance abuse”. I’m not going to go into details about what it was that led me to go. It’s not something I’m proud of, but it’s something I need to keep private for my own sanity.

My therapist and her office are great. It’s a very welcoming environment (that, okay, has maybe one too many Sarah McLachlan songs on its playlist), and she particularly has been extremely supportive and validating of my emotions. I haven’t actually told her the truth behind why I’m there, which I know I need to, but she listens with open ears all the time.

Something I’ve learned in therapy is that I’ve been neglecting some of the things that make me me. For instance, theatre: my last show was in 2013, when I was a senior in high school. Sure, I go to shows in New York all the time, but I haven’t actually performed in forever. My therapist opined that I should give community theatre a shot. When she said that, I can’t begin to tell you how hopeful I was. I envisioned a great, elaborate scheme where I’d be playing one of the most complicated and cherished characters in musical theatre, singing one of the most complex songs Sondheim has ever written, and finally finding myself some peace in all this mess.

I drove the twenty-five minutes to where the audition was taking place. I had my resume and my headshot all ready in my black padfolio. My piano track was in it’s own separate playlist on my phone (for easy navigation). I was prepared. Heck, I had been practicing/rehearsing since March. I was beyond ready.

I never went in. I parked my car in a random little parking lot, about a block away from the theatre, and sat there for the whole thirty minutes before auditions were supposed to start. I get everywhere early, so this wasn’t out of place for me, but me getting there as early as I did allowed even more room for the following thoughts (which, by the way, is not a full, comprehensive list by any means): what if I crack on that note again? You weren’t a theatre major, you don’t deserve this. You use your hands too much. You haven’t taken a legitimate voice lesson since you were 12. They aren’t going to like you. You can’t go in there. I drove home and didn’t speak about any of it.

I guess I’m writing this now, a month after the fact, because ever since, I’ve felt the opposite of hope. My panic attacks right before bed are only increasing and I feel super lazy. I’m not as motivated to be around friends as I once was and my anxiety when talking to others has spiked. My mind wanders and wanders and I can’t seem to get a grip on it. I hate it.

Lately, I’ve felt like such a failure. Mistake after mistake seems to be happening and I don’t feel like I can do anything to stop it. I wish I knew how to end this post. I wish I knew what to say, or how to make sense of all that has happened. But I don’t. I don’t know what to do anymore. I’m grateful for you being here to read this, but I don’t feel hope.

The Best is Yet to Come

Today was my grad school commencement ceremony from Drexel. I’m someone who is super into graduations. Just ask my colleague Claire, who was astounded at how much I knew about everything from the music to the regalia to why hoods have different colors to how schools calculate honors, etc., while we were at Moore’s ceremony a month ago. I’ve mentioned before that I can be a bit obsessive when I like things, but with commencements, part of it is that I really love the pageantry of it all. When I was in middle school, I would love seeing all of the high school seniors in their caps and gowns. I loved sitting with the band playing “Pomp and Cirumstance” and singing the alma mater with the choir. I wished endlessly that the six years I was at Gateway could go by as soon as possible so that I could wear the regalia and be the graduate, finally.

(And HUGE disclaimer, six years after the fact: the blue National Honor Society stole was a huge reason I ran for treasurer that year – bad reason to run, but it was my favorite color and literally no one else ran for the position, so…sorry to any of my fellow classmates in NHS who actually wanted it.)

Throwback to 2013 with my Aunt JoAnne and a jubilant Natalie wearing the blue NHS stole

I decorated my cap, too, because thinking about it gets me excited (and I’m pretty sure crafting is a great coping skill – I’m an arts administrator, right?) I’ll admit, I did somewhat model this after someone else’s graduation cap from a few years ago that I saw recently and really liked. It’s not necessarily the most original or creative, but I think it represents me as I am today well enough. Plus it gave me some extra skills with a hot glue gun, so score. I technically graduated in December of 2018 (so ignore the 2019 on the cap) but otherwise I’m very pleased with how it turned out, especially amidst months of indecisiveness.

Indecisiveness is another big word in my vocabulary. Take me to a restaurant and you will definitely learn that I am one of the most indecisive of people. The same applies to grad school. Arriving at this day wasn’t something I necessarily planned on. If you had talked to me two and a half years ago, I would have told you I’d be in Yankees Stadium in May of 2019 graduating with an M.A. in Performing Arts Administration from NYU. It was hard deciding to let that dream go and go to Drexel instead, especially with what I had been through approximately four years prior with my undergrad experience. But as I look back on that decision now, a little over two years after I made it, I couldn’t have been happier I did so.

But before I tell that story, there’s another that needs to be told about the journey I’ve been on since 2013. My first choice school for undergrad was Fairleigh Dickinson University. I couldn’t have been more excited. I was going to a school where my longtime high school idol had gone, majoring in theatre, in close proximity to New York City, enrolled in a program where I would be required to study abroad in England at Wroxton College for a semester, and where I had been accepted into the honors program. Going to that orientation in July was like I never imagined. I was so excited. But with excitement comes disappointment, in particular with a funding gap I didn’t think would happen, and that dream went away. Coming to terms with it was hard. I hated that I felt ungrateful. I was so privileged to have even being given a glimpse into that opportunity, when there were so many others that didn’t have the things/opportunities I had. I know there were a few friends of mine that also felt a sense of disillusionment when they went to community college. Why was I being, as I called myself, such an elitist? Why did I think I was better than everyone else, thinking I was entitled in some way to have that experience? On the other hand, why couldn’t I have the four year college experience the majority of my close friends were going to get? Why was I the odd person out? They’re questions I still struggle with to this day, and it’s still hard.

Now, looking back on my higher education experiences almost six years after the initial dissapointment, I’m glad it was the road I took. I’m thankful for the struggle. It made me resilient in a way I didn’t think was possible. It changed how I viewed my future in a way I honestly didn’t think would ever happen. I ended up graduating from Rowan, a school I have come to cherish much more than I possibly thought I could. I graduated with a long time elementary school friend, was granted an eternal English buddy, and learned from some of the most insightful professors. My own experience is why I’m so grateful to be working in fundraising at an arts college. My work, within the context of my own higher education journey, gives me a huge sense of fulfillment. To know that I’m working to ensure that funding gap doesn’t happen for another student who wants to attend their dream college – it’s incredible.

2017 – same people, unexpected journey

And with that, I’m so, so grateful to have gone to Drexel. NYU was my dream, like I said. Living in New York, studying performing arts management, wearing a purple graduation gown – I can’t even tell you about how obsessed with that dream I was. If there was something I gained from my FDU disappointment, though, it was the reality that I was paying for college and that NYU would cost a lot (let me say again- a lot). Working in the nonprofit arts sector, the pay wouldn’t necessarily correlate to the debt load, and the INFP in me became a realist.

So I chose Drexel. And it was everything I hoped for. The people I was surrounded by during my grad school experience were nothing short of inspiring. They were full of passion for the arts, and they brought perspectives I had never considered. I studied with people from all around the country and the world. My instructors shared insights about the field that amazed me and prepared me to ask the questions that need asking. The entire Arts Advocacy Day network inspired me to be a champion for the arts, helping me feel 99% empowered and only 1% nervous when I spoke about the NEA’s impact on lower-income Philadelphia communities to Bob Casey’s staff. The group of friends I’ve gained have been more than I could have hoped for, listening to me rant about my own life stressors while I almost religiously ate Chipotle for dinner and taking me out for my 23rd birthday after class.

I’m thankful for the lessons I learned about myself most of all, though. I learned that I was capable of conducting primary research and writing a thesis. I learned how my anxiety could get the absolute better of me, in a way I never would have thought imaginable. I learned how to take a break, albeit a short one, and how to ask instructors, colleagues, friends, and whatnot for advice/help. My passion for law and for helping others has grown, and has led me to believe that in four years I might be wearing another cap and gown.

Me and my bud Mario!

My life has always been a bit of an enigma to me. There are many times, and maybe even most situations in my life, where something that I want to happen doesn’t happen and I become really disappointed, or where I feel as though something that was once promised to me fades away with no rationale attached as to why. It’s hard for me to make sense of it most of the time, in all honesty. What I think I can definitely conclude, though, is that there always seems to be something even more amazing right around the corner, even amidst that initial disappointment. I never would have imagined how much of a rewarding experience going to Drexel would be, or how the journey I’ve been on these past six years would shape me into who I am at this very moment.

It’s a reminder that even though this chapter, as turbulent as it has been, has closed, the best is yet to come. Thank you to everyone who has been there for me through it all and for reminding me of that sentiment.

A Story of Hope

I’ve been writing some non-Gratitude Project posts lately, which both confuses and fulfills me. I don’t want to continue the project, for reasons I’ve stated before, but I do want to continue to write. So how do we resolve that conundrum? Well, I don’t know what the best answer to that question is. But what I do know is that writing helps me feel a sense of purpose, even if no one is around to read what I’ve been writing. Sometimes I leave a post feeling more confused about it. Sometimes I leave one feeling angry. But I can tell you how I always feel when I start to write a post, or when I start to write anything for that matter: hope.

Hope is a pretty significant word in my vocabulary. I think a lot of people would consider me a relatively hopeful person and as someone who usually is able to inspire hope in others (or at least I hope so). Today in particular, I’ve come to realize how prophetic the word has been for me, and how truly important it is to my unique self.

As such, I want to give you a few vignettes that explain how the word “hope” itself has played a crucial role in my life, more specifically in my adult life. I have to rewind all the way back to ten years ago in order to detail it for you, so I hope the bolded “2009” below doesn’t give you any anxiety about the almost-over decade of the 2010s or uncomfortable flashbacks of Michael Jackson’s nationally televised funeral.


There’s a song that not a lot of people know about. I only came across it in 2009 when I was a fourteen year old high school freshman doing my weekly Glee-stalking. When Idina came on the show to play Jonathan Groff’s glee club coach and Lea Michele’s biological mother, my own self-constructed rabbit hole led me to a piece of music I would come to adore to this day. It was a song called “Hope”, written for the at-the-time extremely popular “Stand up to Cancer” campaign in partnership with the MLB. Proceeds from purchases of the song went toward the initiative to fund cancer research. If you haven’t heard it, then please do yourself a favor and take a moment to listen (link provided here).

Image result for idina menzel hope song

I wrote about this song in my freshman year fall semester Music Appreciation class in college for an assignment in which we had to analyze a piece of music we loved. There were a ton of songs I could have chosen. I could have written about a song written in 3/4, like “The Hill” from Once, or one that fused the orchestral sound with rock, like Muse’s renowned “Exogensis”. But I wrote about this one. I chose this song because I needed a lot of hope then. It was a time when I felt defeated, forgotten, and disappointed by all that I thought was promised to me. This song was a big reason why I was able to lift myself out of that and accept my path, and it only felt right for my first assignment ever in college to be centered on this exact one.

I’m listening to this song right now, hoping it gives me much needed inspiration to write the rest of this post.

February 2019

Approximately ten years after being introduced to the song, I was introduced to what may have been the most appropriate show for me to be introduced to: Crazy Ex-Girlfriend. It was a fictional show, but one that made me feel less alone in my experiences. There’s a scene in season 3 that really stuck with me, and it’s when Rebecca is on the airplane going back to LA after a visit with her mother on the East Coast went completely haywire. I won’t divulge the specifics of that scene for anyone that has yet to watch it. But I will share a picture I found on Google Images that depicts what I am trying to convey:

Image result for Airplane Crazy Ex Girlfriend

There at the very bottom of the picture is that word “hope” again. But before that is the word “help”, a word that I hardly ever used before. Others would use it around me, so freely even, but for me it just didn’t feel right. It’s why I never went to office hours during undergrad and part of why I didn’t ask for it when I was auditioning for college theatre programs during my senior year of high school. It felt as though if I said the word “help”, that I was asking for too much. This moment in the show though encouraged me to ask for that help. I’ve been getting that help for about three-ish months now. I’m not cured. I don’t know if I will be anytime soon, especially given the fact I haven’t told my therapist the full truth of what I did. But I know that there’s hope things might one day be different.

I’m someone who, at my core, believes in redemption. It’s one of the things I love about Christianity. It’s why I love Snape’s character arc in Harry Potter. It’s why I rooted for Rebecca Bunch throughout the course of her show’s run. I think that, if I’ve had faith in so many other people in my life, I surely deserve to give it right back to myself.

June 1, 2019

Hope Word Bracelet

Four months later, I’m watching one of my YouTubers’ “Day in the Life” vlogs and have become fascinated by a piece of jewelry she highlights in the video. She doesn’t mention the name of the store from which she bought it nor the maker. Regardless, I utilize my Google search talents, complete with my refined Boolean search techniques I picked up in grad school, and find it: Sashka Co., a store which sells glass beaded bracelets made by artists in Nepal and which donates ten percent of their entire proceeds to charities around the world.

I bought the same bracelet my vlogger had- no, not because I was trying to copy someone yet again this time (though Diana is in fact amazing), but because what she showed was simply gorgeous and I thought it would be a nice addition to the white dress I am wearing to my Drexel commencement in a little under two weeks. I perused the website some more and found they sell charms with words to go along with it. I look through the collection and the very first one says “Hope”. I buy that, too.

Seeing the word sparked something in me. It made me want to forgive myself and try to move on. I can’t tell you that I’ll be doing either of those things in the near future, but I can tell you that I hope I can. There’s no excusing or negating any wrongdoing or misbehavior. But there is hope that things will work out in the end. There’s hope that things will change as they should. Hope that the sick will be healed. Hope that those who desire it will find their fulfillment. Hope that there’s a purpose to this blog and to this story. Hope that I can grow from my experiences. And more specifically, there’s hope that I can use everything that I’ve learned to transform into the person I know I’m capable of being.

Tonight I was reminded of another piece of art I studied in college that talks about hope and, like Idina’s song, characterizes hope as a bird:

Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –

And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –

I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me.
” – Emily Dickinson

I’m unsure of the species of bird that personifies hope. The obvious might be the phoenix, the one that rises from the ashes. It could be like the eagle that has come to represent American hope. But it could also be a mockingbird, one of the most annoying of the entire species that many seem to hate, with their persistence and their noisiness.

Let me say, I’m probably the mockingbird in this situation. What I love about the arts and about poetry is that there are multiple interpretations and point of views to consider (which is part of why I can see the double entendre in Harper Lee’s title, whether it be intended or not). And that’s why I think any one of those birds is a perfect substitute for the “bird” Emily writes and Idina sings about. And even if I am the mockingbird, there’s hope for me, too. There’s hope for anyone that wants hope. For hope can be heard in the darkest, loneliest, and strangest of places, never once giving up the song it sings so beautifully.

Hope is being able to see that there is light despite all of the darkness” – Desmond Tutu

They Need You, And You’re Where You’re Supposed to Be

I watched the series finale of Game of Thrones last night. I’m pretty sure the finale evoked a lot of emotions from fans of the show. Some people thought it was a fitting end and were happy. Many others (and probably the majority) thought it was a horrible ending. I’m on the fence about it, but erring on the glass-half-full side, I was pretty content.

There was a moment during the finale, though, that really stuck with me. (Disclaimer: there are definitely major spoilers, so don’t read if you don’t want to know). It was toward the end of the episode when Jon is leaving to head back to the North and he says goodbye to his two sisters, Sansa and Arya, and Bran. His moment with each of the three is special, but what he says to Bran is that moment that has been stuck with me. To Bran, Jon says “I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me.” Bran, exercising the patience and mercy the new leader of Westeros needs at that point, says “you were exactly where you were supposed to be.”

If you’ve paid at least a little bit of attention, then you probably know I’ve had a lot of difficulty with abandonment. I’ve been struggling with a particular abandonment for a little over a year. Before everything with this situation had ever happened, I didn’t deal with it. I didn’t acknowledge it. I never confronted anyone or got outwardly angry. I just swept it under the symbolic rug and called it a day. When someone would ask at all about it when I was younger, I wouldn’t want to talk about it.

But I was hurt. I just felt like it was stupid for me to feel like that- I got perfect grades, was deemed mature for my age by literally everyone who knew me, was able to do six sports/activities all at the same time, worked and went to school full-time, and just generally seemed like the type of person that had it all together. Me feeling that hurt didn’t feel valid. So instead of talking about it, I’d isolate myself to feeling what I needed to feel at night, right before I went to sleep. I still do it and it’s not pretty- I have a pillow full of mascara to prove it.

Yes, being the Disney lover that I am, I hoped and prayed for some sort of sign every single night. And I got it for two months. This, I am sure, sounds like the corniest thing I could say, but it honestly did feel like God heard me and gave me what I had been asking for. Having that knowledge alone made me feel great. It felt like I had gotten a wish of mine that was deserved and fair. Of course, life happens, and that wish went away. I cracked. The thing I struggle with a lot is that while I was doing what I was doing, I knew it was wrong. I guess I just felt entitled to an answer of some sort. And even when I got that answer, I felt even more entitled to not being abandoned again. It was a horrible situation that I provoked, and it’s been a really hard year full of continued confusion, disappointment, and frustration on both ends.

But I think what I’m really trying to say is that, even if it seems like the last place on earth you’d want to be- whether that be a literal geographic location, a life experience, or a mental state – there is a purpose. It’s not necessarily fair. Most of the time, it’s really hard. And it’s hard coming to terms with that unfairness. I honestly don’t feel like I’ve yet experienced the fruits, if there are any, of what I myself have done and been through. There probably isn’t a whole lot positive to come from this all, in all honesty. But grounding myself in the knowledge that there was a reason for all of this, even if that reason is unapparent right now, does me a lot more good. And I think it is the truth. Because that person was where they needed to be. One-hundred percent. They were being a builder for people that they were absolutely obligated to be there for. As for me, I needed that experience to finally go to therapy. Actually, if it hadn’t been for it, I wouldn’t even have thought about auditioning for a community theatre production in the next couple of months. I wouldn’t have written any of these posts or discovered my love to write.

It’s easy to get sucked into the vortex of feeling like you’re not needed. It’s easy because it’s a valid feeling. Let me say, though, even if I don’t know you or anything about your own life story, you are needed. You are. And you’re where you’re supposed to be.


I haven’t written a gratitude post in a while, and there are a lot of reasons as to why that is that I myself am just now coming to terms with. The thing is, the reason I started this blog was because I read someone else’s blog and I wanted the life they had, or at least the life they had written about. I thought this blog would help me get that somehow, in some way. I thought if one person in particular read it, they would come back, and it would make me feel less alone. I was seeking attention. It was creepy, weird, borderline, and looking back, I can’t believe I let myself get to that point.

I’ve slowly but surely been learning a lot about myself. I’ve learned in particular that I copy other people I admire, whether it be Rachel Berry from Glee, my high school idol with the word “picski” and my first choice college of Fairleigh Dickinson, my older cousin when I dyed my hair blonde in middle school, Lindsay Lohan in The Parent Trap when she cuts her bangs, or someone I’ve never even met. Why does that seem to be a common thread in my life? Well, if you had asked me a year-ish ago, I don’t know if I would have had an answer. But I think now I just might. 

I think part of it stems from me being someone who, when I like something, I really, really like it. It’s part of what has driven my musical-theatre obsession and whatnot. I’m a pretty passionate person. That’s both a blessing and curse. I’m someone who gets hooked on a musical one day, and continues to listen to/research that musical for the entirety of the month. I have a hard time letting go and moving on, too. I fixate on things I have no control over, hating the fact that I can’t control everything I want. Remember the title of my last blog, “Come What May”? Aside from being a song from one of my favorite movie musicals, Moulin Rouge, I only named it that because it was the exact opposite of how I handled a situation in my life. I know it would have been much better to actually handle that situation by those three words, but I couldn’t.

I think another big part of this, and this is the toughest for me to share, is that I have a pretty low sense of self-esteem.  I’ve had a lot of people that I really thought would be there for me, and to be clear – who should have been there for me – leave without any sort of explanation. Those disappointments have left me feeling a lot of shame I haven’t wanted to admit or acknowledge. I don’t feel like I’m enough, or that I don’t do enough, to keep people around. I feel as though I’m constantly being replaced. It’s something I think about every minute and, though the logical side of me knows that I didn’t do anything wrong, it’s been a really hard thing for me to actually accept. So, I think in a sense me copying/imitating others is a result of that. If I could just pretend for a moment to be someone else that had the things which I perceived to have lost, then maybe the hurt I’ve been feeling could go away. And in a sense, it has made me forget. It’s served its purpose as a distraction.

Back to the reason I haven’t written in a while, well, it’s complicated. As I’ve been writing lately, I’ve felt like a fraud. This wasn’t my own original idea. This was someone else’s. I know that I’m grateful to have certain people and things in my life, but the big question I’ve been thinking about lately: am I doing it just to seem like this happy, joyful almost 24-year-old? The tough answer is yes, I think so.

I’m really confused right now. I hate being confused by this in particular because I really admire the principle of this blog. It left a really big impression on me when I was introduced to it, but it just doesn’t seem to be serving me in the way I wish it would or could.

I haven’t read any of her books yet (though it’s certainly on my bucket list), but someone once mentioned to me that Brene Brown talks a lot about how important expressing gratitude is and that, if that’s the case, this blog might be a good way for me to cope with everything. But even though Brene (who I really admire and just watched her Netflix show) says what she says, the circumstances around this blog just don’t make me feel that great. It’s hard to explain and a confusing conundrum. It’s as if for every second I derive some sort of pleasure from the gratitude I’m expressing, it’s accompanied by an hour’s worth of sadness. You guys don’t see that part. I hide it pretty well. I could literally count on one hand the amount of people that have been subject to my absolute worst. And, to be ultra-honest, I feel cheated. I feel like the exception, that I’m not needed like I thought I was, that I don’t have the full truth. Or that me expressing my own truth isn’t acceptable, and that my writing is too dramatic. Most of all, it’s as if my loneliness isn’t a valid thing for me to feel when there are so many others feeling the same way and who are dealing with a whole lot more than I am. It’s a horrendous thing to write, and I’ll admit a really hard thought I’ve been wrestling with, but right now that’s how I feel.

I don’t really know how to end this post. I want to keep on writing, but I know that this blog hasn’t necessarily been making me happy or as fulfilled as I thought. I’m grateful for all of you, I really, truly am, but I think for right now I need to leave this project to rest.

No. 118: Jersey Sangria Berry

My mom went to a baby shower November of last year and came back with a new staple in our wine cabinet: Jersey Sangria Berry.

This particular wine has a fruity, yet tart flavor, and it’s the perfect drink during the spring/summer months when you need that alcoholic juiciness. If you want to try it out, you can order it right here at this link or you can go to Heritage Winery in Mullica Hill and see if you can pick up a bottle. I promise it’s worth it.

I had this wine last night, and I’m grateful for helping me relax and for a taste that I find just sweet enough.

No. 117: Sabrina’s Cafe

I’m a true millennial, meaning I find/rate restaurants I want to go to by judging their Instagram accounts. It’s actually been a pretty great way for me in finding quality restaurants, so don’t judge me or my tendency to take a gazillion pictures of my food (yeah, I’m one of those people).

So with that knowledge, of course, I just HAD to get to Sabrina’s in Collingswood one day. I mean, basically everyone but me has been there, so what was I missing out on?Turns out, I was missing out on a lot: great service, wait staff, menu selections, and a casual, yet chic aesthetic. And best yet- a Game of Thrones themed brunch in honor of the final season.


Thanks, Sabrina’s, for being everything I wanted you to be. I’m pretty sure I’ll be visiting you again in the near future.

Image result for sabrina's cafe collingswood nj

No. 116: Fresh Haircut

I took off of work today mostly because two of my other coworkers did, the hectic-ness of crowdfunding week, and me saying “why not?” (note: I acknowledge this may not be the best reason to take a personal day, but I had two left to use in the span of the next two months and it needed to be used anyway, so deal).

I decided to actually honor this day as a true personal day and do the one thing I have been absolutely needing to do literally for the past year: get a haircut. A truly amazing family friend usually does my hair (thanks Aunt Reenie!), but I went into Woodbury to Images, a place I’ve been going at least once or twice a year since I was about nine.

It was glorious. The feeling of getting your hair washed and conditioned is always amazing, the conversation with the hairstylist was pretty decent, and having my hair blow dried felt really great (yes, even when you forget there’s a tornado warning and it’s supposed to thunderstorm – see below Instastory caption).

Thank you, Images, and thank you, new haircut.

(Plot twist – my hair survived!)

No. 115: NFL Draft

In case you are truly NOT a sports fan at all, the NFL Draft officially started tonight.

While I fortunately (or unfortunately?) missed working on the Parkway when the draft was in Philly two years ago, I like the excitement of the draft. I love watching fresh-out-of-college players get that phone call from their agent while surrounded by friends and family. We get to see these people’s lives change in the blink of an eye and it’s inspiring.

You may have your issues, NFL, but just know that your annual draft gives us a lot to look forward to and a whole lot to be grateful for.

No. 114: Crowdfunding

Today was a big day at work- it was crowdfunding day.

I’ve never actually participated in a crowdfunding day, but let me tell you- it’s thrilling. I entered work today pumped to start sending out messages to our constituencies. It was absolutely amazing connecting with alums and friends who loved our personalized efforts. It was great talking with them about why they love Moore, and I became even more grateful to work where I do.

We’re still short of our goal, so please please please seriously consider making some sort of a donation. You can donate right here: https://www.givecampus.com/cmux5h.

Every donation counts. Even $1.00. Yes, even $1.00. Just know that, if you do decide to donate, that you’ll be donating to an institution that I’ve grown to love and cherish. It’s one with a mission to educate and prepare women for careers in the arts that I am fully behind. I know that every single dollar makes the biggest difference- I see it every day. These students are exceptional. They inspire me with their passion and talent, and they so so so deserve every single dollar we can raise for them.

Now help us get to 100 donors by midnight! I promise, you won’t regret it. 🙂