Dear Mimi.

It’s been a year since you left us peacefully, and still my heart hurts.

The day I got the phone call, I knew. I saw my dad’s number on caller ID and saw what time it was (8:26 a.m., June 22, 2009 ) and wanted to ignore the call. I wanted to do anything to avoid the news. When hit by the news I lay still, waiting for the waves of pain. But they didn’t come then, Mimi. I got up and worked out, let my boyfriend know and went to class. I went to work that evening and pretended I was OK. I joked with my coworkers and ignored the roaring sound in my head. I found a poem I wanted to read at your funeral.

I thought that would make it all OK.

Now a year later, I pray you’re still here. I still carry the angel wings a family member gave me the day of your funeral, and I have to believe that you, my beautiful grandmother, are my angel.

You looked after me when I was a child, and I know that you have to still be looking over my shoulder today, whispering softly that you love me.

I hope you know how much I miss you. I hope you know that, even though I gave the world and my family a different reason for it, I read the poem at your funeral as an apology to you.

An apology for not loving you the way that you loved me: unconditionally. The disease terrified me, Mimi. I was so young and didn’t know how to handle what was happening to your body and your previously sharp mind.

If I could re-do those years (for my sake, selfishly—I would never want you to go through that again) I would smile and blow you a kiss when you looked me at me.

I would hold your hand when we visited.

I wouldn’t focus on the TV instead of you.

I hope you know I miss you. What I remember most about you is cuddling on your lap on the nights I slept over and your and Papa’s house. I felt so safe there. You let me snuggle with you and I loved being wrapped in your arms while Papa told me an Angelina story. I never let anyone else hold me that way when I was young.

I have to make those few memories I have of you strong, because I can’t bear to think of you in any other way.

Mimi, you were the epitome of true beauty. Every person I’ve met who knew you said you were a beautiful person, inside and out. You had the uncanny ability to make other people feel special and you had the most radiant smile. I love looking at old photographs of you. I love my baby pictures and seeing myself wrapped up in your arms.

When I see something beautiful it always me think of you. Maybe you’re part of it—maybe now you’re in the wind, making the trees blow gently. Maybe you’re in the soft rain that patters on my window in Boston, or in the way the sun dapples the grass. On sunny days I stare at the sky and wonder if you’re in the clouds, watching over me. When I feel the wind rushing past my face in West Texas I pretend you’re in the air, giving me a kiss on my cheek as you race by.

When something happens to me, good or bad, I always think of you. Maybe it’s because you stopped knowing me when I was young and immature, sweet Mimi. I want you to know me and be proud of me now. That sounds so selfish, but it’s absolutely true.   

I’m always thinking of you, sweet Mimi.

Hair-raising success.

Hello, everyone. Say hello to me, Boston’s newest freelance writer.

Hmm? What’s that? How did this happen, you ask? I’d be happy to explain. It goes way back. Settle in; it’s a good story. And it begins with my hair.

I’ve had issues with my hair a long, long, very long time.

It’s curly. It makes me look like a fourth grader. I switch products weekly because nothing ever seems to work well at controlling the curl. Or keeping it straight. A couple years ago I finally took the plunge and chopped it short, which I loved.

When I moved to Boston I decided a new life meant a new haircut. New place, new me. That was the idea. Because I was trying to save money at every turn I held my breath and went to this place called Blaine Beauty School. Basically the place gives cheap haircuts and highlights because the students are the ones who are the stylists. They are watched over by their instructors, but still, it’s a little nerve-wracking.

My experience was great though. This guy named Jason cut my hair, and he was the sweetest man ever. We hit it off and talked about everything while he painstakingly cut and highlighted my hair. Three and a half hours later he was finished. And he told me wanted to give me a haircut that made me more distinctive. He said my haircut would help prospective employers take notice of me and notice me more.

Two months later this is exactly what happened.

Last Sunday I was working in the flower shop when this woman came in. She wanted to buy flowers for her mother-in-law, and she didn’t care what she got. In her words she “despised the woman.” Haha. While I was wrapping her flowers for her, she commented on my haircut and how much she liked it. She asked me where I got it cut and from there we just started chatting. One thing led to another and I mentioned how I recently moved to Boston from Texas, then I told her I’d just graduated from college.

She asked me what I’d studied and when I told her journalism her eyes lit up.

“Journalism? So you write then?”

Yes. I write. Not well. But I try.

But I didn’t tell her that. I told her that yes, I write and I love it. I told her I’ve been looking for any sort of job that would give me more experience.

She whipped out a piece of paper and started talking again, telling me about what she does and that I should e-mail her. She told me she knew people at the Weekly Dig and at Stuff and at the Boston Phoenix. She told me she was looking for someone to work on writing projects for her. This woman moves very quickly and before I knew it she was out the door, leaving me with her e-mail address in hand and a fluttering heart. I was wondering if it was some sort of a joke.

A couple days later I decided to shoot her an e-mail to see what whould happen. I kept it quiet from everyone because I didn’t want to be embarrassed like I was with that other job. But after receiving a positive response from her I started to feel better. We set up a meeting for my next day off, which was today, to talk about getting started on some writing projects.

Basically, this woman is an event planner for JP Centre/South Main Streets. It’s an organization in Jamaica Plain that’s focused on keeping the community a part of the big cities. It focuses on shopping locally and drawing tourists into areas of the city that are off the beaten path, so to speak.

I wasn’t sure what to expect when I went in today. I was afraid to hope. I didn’t want to be disappointed again.

But, my readers, I was anything but disappointed. 

I met with the woman and she started reeling off story ideas for me to begin working on immediately.

She wants me write about First Thursdays, an art event in JP. She wants me to do profiles over interesting people in Jamaica Plain, one of whom is the former personal assistant to Steven Tyler. Yes, the Steven Tyler. She wants me come up with my own ideas and be creative. I have a bit of free rein with this project, I was excited to learn.

After picking my jaw up off the floor I started furiously writing everything down. She threw names and numbers of contacts at me so quickly I could barely get it all down. She suggested I write a story a week. She told me she wanted me to write a few press releases for her events; press releases that will possibly be in the Weekly Dig and the Phoenix, and if she can swing it, the Boston Herald and the Globe. The Boston Globe. Yes, the Globe. Me. In the Globe. It’s a slim possibility, but it’s a possibility nonetheless. (And in case you forgot, possiblity is my favorite word.)

She set me up with a more professional e-mail address and is getting me in touch with a designer to get business cards. She wants me to be able to hand out my cards as a freelance writer at events, because apparently, I get to attend them with her.

She wants to help me because by writing these stories for her I’m helping her out.

Why do I deserve this? I feel so blessed. Three months ago I was at home in Midland and had graduated 10 days prior. Now I’m in Boston, working at a flower shop and acting as a freelance writer.

What if I had never done this? That thought scares me even more than actually moving here scared me. What if I had never moved here, had never gone to that beauty school on that one night that Jason was there? What if I’d never started working at the flower shop and never met this woman?

What if I’d listened to the professors and advisers at school who told me not to move to Boston?

I have to wonder what I’d be doing right now. 

I know this isn’t a “forever” job. I know that it’s not permanent and I know that it sucks to not get paid for my work.

BUT.

But it’s something to put on my resume. It’s more experience and it’s a way to get my name out there in Boston. I am a writer in Boston. How supremely awesome is that?

I’ve always been told how difficult it is to get “in” in Boston; that it’s an extremely closed community to outsiders. This is how I picture it. Boston is a closed door. But I shoved my foot in the miniscule crack and I’m forcing my way in and won’t stop until I make it. I’ve got my foot in the door.

So tomorrow, I get to start working on my first story. And that makes me so unbelievably happy. I feel like I’m about to burst out of my skin with joy.

It’s days like today where I’m going to be so happy I smile widely at strangers. This is when I feel less skeptical and cynical about the world. This is the type of day where I’m able to believe in magic and in hope and in the power of dreaming.

Because look where dreaming big got me.

Peace.

I’m trying to take this whole job fiasco in stride. You know, let it roll off my back. Shake it off. Get back on that horse. Walk it off.

Looking for jobs is a love/hate thing for me. On the one hand, I hate looking for them because it brings to my attention all the things I can’t do. I don’t have ten years experience in this or that, or even three years.

All I bring to the table is a winning smile and my sparkling personality. Heh.

It’s daunting, to say the least. But searching for jobs does remind me that I am unlimited in my search. Yes. I just moved to Boston, but really, who’s to say Boston is where I have to stay? That’s the part I love. I love the freedom.

Hey. Just wanted to say thanks to everyone this week. Your encouragement and prayers really meant a lot to me and I am absolutely humbled me the support I received.

Peace. Like my dove. That’s supposed to be my reminder. So I really need to start remembering this.

I wish I lived in a children’s book.

Today the only thing I wanted was a Starbucks chai tea latte. It’s my favorite drink in the world. My go-to drink of choice. A grande extra-hot chai. It’s delicious. Slightly spicy and sweet. A hint of cinnamon.

Good day or bad, this is always the drink I choose when I go get coffee. This drink has the ability to make a bad day seem good or a great day even better.

That’s all I wanted today. I needed the warmth. I needed to wrap my hands around something hot and breathe in the smell and relish its comfort. Because today is a bad day. Today is a terrible day.

Today I am Alexander and I am having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. I need to move to Australia, where everything is upside down and I will have a super, wonderful, amazing, very good day.

But because I do not live in a children’s book and this is reality, I must face up to it. And I must confess that I made a mistake. A very big mistake. So here goes. Please don’t judge me too harshly, and please realize that I’ve been beating myself up over this for the last two days. So I don’t need anyone else to give me crap for this.

My job that I was supposed to start Monday turned out to be some sort of a hoax. Long story short, I found out today that it was not real. That no wedding dress designer ever existed and that in all actuality it probably was some teenage kid who put up the job post to play a trick on an unsuspecting job seeker.

You all know me. And you know how humiliated I am by this. I feel foolish. I feel stupid. I feel like I’ve confirmed people’s expectations of me; the idea that I am the small-town girl who got my ass kicked by the city in five weeks. That’s it already chewed me up and spit me back out on the ground, broken, disheveled and dirty.

That’s how I’ve felt for two days. Horrible. Disappointed in my own self. I haven’t been honest with my loved ones because I didn’t want to disappoint them yet. I’ve been waiting for confirmation that my job truly was a joke. So for the last two days I’ve been hiding in my room, stuffing my face with junk food (it truly was a pathetic sight), and completely freaking my roommates out. I’ve been avoiding phone calls and text messages from people who care about me because I didn’t want to admit the truth. I’m so disappointed in myself. The thought that others are going to be disappointed in me breaks me. It hurts. It hurts because just yesterday I received a letter in the mail from my grandfather, the man whose opinion matters almost more than anyone’s in this world to me (besides my own parent’s opinions), sent me a letter detailing exactly how proud of me he was. He told me he knew I could do it. He told me he always knew I’d succeed. And now, the next thing he’s going to hear about me is that I screwed up. And that absolutely breaks my heart.

So let’s get back to today, and finding out for sure it was all a lie. I was on the street and trying to get in touch with my best friend. At that point I luckily ran into my friend who took me to the apartment where we both work as personal care assistants for a woman who had a stroke. (That’s my part-time job. I only work there occasionally.) Anyway. He took me upstairs where both he and Betsy listened to me explain my story and cry. Just a little. I hate, hate, hate crying in front of people, so this was tough. Betsy said something to me that hit hard. I was helping her to the bathroom and she said, in her slow, sweet way, “Any time you feel like crying, Katie, you just think of me.” Oh, Betsy. I love her. Thank you.

She made me realize this isn’t the end of the world. Things could be worse. But I’m young and alive and have my health. I have my family and friends.

It took a few hours for that to sink in though. After I left her apartment I walked slowly over to the Prudential Center so I could get lunch. I am so lucky I didn’t get run over by a car, because I was not paying attention to anything on that walk. I just was thinking about what I was going to tell my parents.

I got lunch in the food court and had the odd sensation that I was having an out of body experience. I felt like I was floating. I felt like I needed to walk carefully. I felt like if anyone touched me or jostled me or simply looked at me wrong I would cave in and succumb to the panic that was (and is) nipping at my heels. I felt like if I didn’t keep biting down hard on my lip and clenching my fists I would break apart in a thousand pieces. I felt scared and alone. I sat there in that food court for an hour. Staring. Thinking. Pondering.

Thinking. “It’s not over yet.” There’s no way it’s over yet. I’ve been here five weeks, and yes, this is a major setback. But it’s so not the end of the world.

So now I figure I have two choices. One of them is to crawl back in my bed and book the next flight back home. I can call this a good time, say I had a great extended vacation and head on back to Texas. Back to the desert, where I always felt suffocated.

Or I can look each and every one of you in the eye, say I’m sorry for not being honest the last couple days and admit I messed up. I was naive and foolish but it’s not going to be the end of this. I’m going to stand on my two feet and continue fighting for my dreams. Those are the most important things to me. This is all I’ve wanted for three years now, and I’m not going to let one (major) bad thing break me. I’m not. I’m just not. The old, immature me would have let this break her, but not me. I’ve got to develop that tough skin big city people are famous for.

So that’s what I’m doing. I sat in that food court and made my decision. I would get up, go get my chai tea latte (venti extra hot chai, as a special treat), and get on the T. I would come home, write this post, talk to my parents and then get it together. I would compose myself, realize that this is probably the worst that can happen for now. So what’s left to hurt me? Not too much.

Anything that happens from here on out can’t be too bad. I have to know that I can handle it. Because I can. I absolutely know I can and I will.

So that’s my story of my first big mistake in the big city. I’m embarrassed but at this point I believe that being honest probably is the best course of action. I’ll figure something out. I have people in Boston who will take care of me when I need them. God will take care of me; I know this deep in my gut. I know this because the verse “pray without ceasing” has been rolling around and around in my head for the last three days.

And although it would be nice to move to Australia, I have to realize, like Alexander, that the people down under have bad days too. It’s just a matter of not letting those bad days break us. I love you all.

New York, I love you. But you bring me down.

All right. All right. I know I just posted something, but this topic just called for its very own post. And I know my posts lately have become epic and long, but there’s just something about Boston that’s getting me to write. And write and write. I love it though.

So here we go again. Get ready.

I was worried this weekend that going to New York City would make me second guess my decision to move to Boston. Everyone who knows me a little knows that for a long time I was hopelessly obsessed with Manhattan and moving there the second I graduated. So those same people were the ones who were skeptical about me suddenly choosing to move to Boston instead. Even I was a little skeptical. There’s always been a small nugget of fear in my mind that moving to Boston was a silly, irrational choice.

So let’s dissect this. I was so excited to go to New York this weekend. I had butterflies in my belly and I couldn’t stop smiling at the thought of seeing the city again. When I saw the city from the distance it took my breath away. From far away Manhattan is beautiful. It looks almost manageable. Just a little. I remember seeing it from the air a couple years ago and thinking how crazy it looked. The city is a living, breathing, growing thing. Each block is a different community in itself. Everything is constantly changing. There’s too much going on at once. The streets are teeming with life. Buzzing. And it’s funny how things can be so different from one block to another. One might be a little bit shady, but don’t worry. Keep walking and you’ll find yourself somewhere where you feel safe again.

In Manhattan there are millions of different people moving in a million different directions. The sidewalks are packed, and getting anywhere quickly requires the ability to dart in between the vague, slight spaces between people. It requires a little bit of weaving and ingenuity to find your way to your destination. Something is always going on right in front of your face. It requires you to be on your toes at all times and always be prepared for the unexpected. Because in New York? It will happen.

Manhattan is overwhelming and bustling and crazy and scary and alive and amazing. And it’s unltimately unapologetic for it, which is incredible. The city as a whole has an “in your face, this is what I am and you better get over it and get with it” persona and if you’re not prepared for it, you’re going to get knocked on your feet. And no one will pick you back up. No one will care. People step around the homeless man laying on the sidewalk, who is using a bunch of plastic bags as a pillow and an old shopping bag for a blanket. People will mill around him as though he is simply a rock in the middle of a stream. They don’t stop. I’m not even sure most of them notice. (I really did see this when I was there. Even now, thinking about it two days later, it makes me want to cry.) It’s understandable they don’t stop for that though. New York is one of those cities where if the focus is lost for just one minute or you take your eyes off your goal just for a second the chance will have passed you by. It’s unforgiving and requires dedication and sheer determination to make it.

The whole time I was in New York I kept thinking, “I am looking forward to going home.” The beautiful thing was (No offense, Mom and Dad. Seriously.), I didn’t mean “home” as in Midland, Texas. I meant Boston. I meant my beautiful Boston, with its clean streets and slow subway system and the Red Sox and the Pru. I missed it. I realized how comfortable I have come to feel in this fantastic city, and I was glad to get back.

Boston is so much more comfortable for me. I know where I am when I’m walking around. (More so now than when I moved here.) I love its quaintness. Boston is a city on a smaller scale and I love that, for now. The rushed feeling is there, but it’s not so pressing. I feel comfortable making conversation with strangers. I love that I can walk almost anywhere within 45 minutes. It feels more small town than New York and I love that because I still get the “big city” feel. It’s a great place to be young and be alive.

I know it takes time to get used to any city, and I know that if I were given time I would get used to New York. In all actuality New York is most likely where I will end up in the next five years or so. I’m OK with that. Looking forward to it, even.

But that little nugget of worry that I made the wrong decision is completely gone. It’s a beautiful thing. For now, I know I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.