Personal Essays

It happens in dark hallways. It happens in the car and at the beach too. I felt it in Paris, in Greece and San Francisco with you and you and you. It’s a feeling, a sensation that used to have a name but these days I can’t blame it on a diagnosis, my parents or heartbreak; I’m just like this. A tourist in my own life who is perpetually searching for a tour guide. I merely feel like a visitor who is afraid of the water but not death, yet I am still amazed that we can see the m

If I follow the notion that we live in a simulation, which I often do these days then it would be obvious and expected that I am in control of my fate. Perhaps that’s contradictory because fate has no place in a simulation I suppose. Nonetheless it would be ideal that my actions would ultimately lead to favorable outcomes however I’m still trying to work that part out. What interests me isn’t whether we’re living in a simulation. It’s why I want it to be true. If nothing els

When we met I was dipped in tragedy and wrapped in remote solace. With a cherry on top of course. Now in my brief intermission of objective perspective I find I have the same reservations. Is this where I begin? Or should I start with when? I told my daddy I loved him and he told me to go to bed. I told my mother I wish I was dead, she held her head. When grandpa died, I pinched him so hard my fingers bled. I don’t remember much from my childhood and I’m not sure I want to,

And what do I know about belonging? I asked him, the one with silver hair. I can’t look ahead so instead I look down at the carpet through gray foggy eyes. A simple subject at first, yet the more I ponder it, it seems to become convoluted beyond approach. I surmise that it’s related to a feeling of safety. When do you feel safe? A byline I also can’t speak to. So, I go forth and, in the days to come I began to think that many of the things and spaces that I belong to are ones

Fake it ‘til you make it. That’s what they say, isn’t it? "Kailyn, turn your empathy button on." That’s what my mother used to tell me. Maybe if I feigned empathy it would come to me. So I performed it until it became muscle memory. I studied emotion as if it was a foreign language. Some people learned etiquette and manners from a young age, and I did as well so when it came to empathy, I watched people closely. Mirroring appropriate pauses, softening my voice at the right mo