Some people’s Roman Empire is actual Roman history.

Mine is a mildly awkward chat I had four years ago at a party where I made a joke that didn’t land, panicked, doubled down with another bad joke, and then spent the rest of the night avoiding eye contact while mentally packing my bags and moving to a new city.

No one else remembers it.
I know that.
But me? I think about it once a week like it’s a pivotal plot point in my villain origin story.

That’s the thing. I can give advice about self-worth, overthinking, letting go…
But apparently I’d rather cling to this one weird memory like it’s a cursed talisman.
Why? No idea. Trauma? ADHD? Catholic guilt? Vibes?

And sure, I’ve evolved since then.
But every now and then my brain’s like:
“Hey babe, remember that one time you called someone the wrong name and then tried to play it off with a weird anecdote about crusing? Let’s rewatch that scene in 4K.”

So yes. I am thriving.
I am growing.
But also: I am haunted.