Oh Boy.

Deep breath in. Exhale out.

That has been my routine for the past seventy-four hours, a routine that is physically helping the weight that’s currently chained itself around my heart, to be lifted.

Sifting through a variety of emotions that range from confusion, attachment, heartache, and longing, I sit here in Alaska having just returned from a delightful weekend down south.

A weekend that was spent in the company of a friend, a male friend, the kind of friend who, since dropping me off at LAX, has clouded my judgement and muddled my emotions.

This friend of mine is someone I’m attracted to and whose company I genuinely enjoy. Flying down there, I armored myself with the intention of having a good time and not getting emotionally invested in someone who’s definitely not in the right place to date.

3500 miles of distance between us and one of us currently studying an esteemed degree (you guessed it- not me), our circumstances make anything more than friends (with benefits?) near impossible.

But there’s this charming chemical called oxytocin that got in the way of my plans. Coupled with the realization that I may like this guy a little bit more than I intended and you’ve got yourself one emotionally distressed young woman.

Having been through the bolts to the bathroom to weep in silence, the crushing reminders of my fun trip popping up whenever I find evidence of his cat’s hair in my bag, and grisly rips through tissue packs whenever I feel a wave of heartache come my way, I’m confused now more than ever as to where I stand with this guy.

It’s the 21st century and we live in a day and age where we’re socially encouraged as women to be be emboldened in our choices when it comes to who we sleep with.

Problem is, a vast majority of women (myself included), succumb to natural and biological chemicals that cause us to become attached and emotionally invested in someone after intimacy. We suddenly become slaves to our emotions, which pressure us to hunker down and attach to said person, as part of a survival method that we’ve been programmed to do since the beginning of time.

It’s natural, but it hurts like hell when we leave their apartment and wonder if we’ll ever hear from the guy again.

As if I wasn’t confused before where I stood with him, I had to make it more complicated by dousing my senses with the love drug.

I was talking to my friend about this, a friend who happened to be the first whom I shared my weekend with (over a fabulous meal at the Blue Bayou restaurant in Disneyland-really no better place to gush about my love life), and her advice resonated best with me.

Upon hearing about my emotional roller coasters (plural, there have been many), she encouraged me to feel what was happening. Let the tears flow, let the reminders affect me and let it ride, the ups and the downs. Suppressing or ignoring telltale signs that my body is in dire need of a good cry only makes my thoughts and feelings fester in an uncomfortable way. And as childish as I feel to succumb to the inevitable bout of tears coming on, I know the best way to move forward is to let myself feel whatever it is I’m feeling.

This pickle of mine is temporary, my friends assure me. Catching up on my bathroom floor with another one of my besties on the phone, I was assured that it was COMPLETELY normal to feel what I was feeling and that it will eventually clear, leaving me with a better understanding of what I’m actually feeling, and not what my body is tricking me into thinking I’m feeling.

Having the knowledge that my body is simply following biological processes helps me understand my emotions and will eventually help me move forward in whatever direction I choose. Despite strong urges to call him up on the phone and delve into what our relationship is, I know that at this point, this “what makes women crazy” drug (oxytocin, gotta love it) is completely disrupting my judgement and that I need time to get through it’s high before I’m back to a safe and sober state.

Eventually, and in due time, I’ll fess up and open up to the guy about our relationship, if there even is one. But it’s not happening while I go through this natural phase of attachment. It’ll be after I have time to reflect and proceed forth with a clearer understanding of what I’m feeling

In the meantime, I’m going to let myself cry it out and when my emotional state has been washed thoroughly through with tears, I’ll bravely make the move to talk to him again.

Luckily, I’ve got some incredibly wise and been-there-done-that friends who have been able to kindly help guide me through this first of mine, with inspiring stories and encouraging words.

But boy, oh boy, you gotta love those emotions.

A HUGE thank you to my friends Whitney (for spending a day at Disney with me) and Jordan (who maternally helped me through many tearful breakdowns).

The Write Time.

A couple of months ago, I received a random text from one of my best friends, informing me that Julia Child, world renowned cook and author, was 6ft 2”.

I myself stand 6ft2” and let me tell you, it’s not everyday that I hear of other women who are above average in stature, let alone are world famous.

With that little tidbit simmering in my mind like Julia’s iconic bouef bourguignon in a rich red wine gravy, it came as no surprise that during my daily bath, I decided to re-watch the darling film, Julie & Julia.

As I settled in under the blanket of bubbles with a nice glass of Merlot (I’m finding that Merlot is becoming quite a common subject in my blog posts as of late), long legs stretched before me in the tub, I pushed play and became immersed in Nora Eprhon’s film about two unlikely ladies following their passions with bravery and lots of butter.

In it’s clever screenplay, I found similarities in both story lines that aligned themselves incredibly close with my own story. Aside from the fact that I shared a rare and special height advantage with Julia Child, I also empathized with the struggle of wanting to do something with my life, but having hesitations and doubts about it going somewhere of importance.

In Julia’s case, we have a forty-year-old woman living in Paris searching for something to do with her ample time. Trying her hat at millinery (pun definitely intended) and bridge, she soon discovered that the only thing she simply loved to do, was eat. Throwing herself alongside professional (and all male) chefs at Le Cordon Bleu, she then went on to co-write an incredibly successful cookbook called The Art of French Cooking.

And this was all because the woman loved to eat.

Fast-forward about sixty years and we arrive in Julie’s small apartment in Queens, where we discover an exhausted woman tired with her job and determined to starting a goal and following through with it; in this case, cooking 524 recipes in 365 days, all out of Julia Child’s cookbook. To keep herself motivated, she decides to record it by blogging, which in 2002, wasn’t a popular outlet to document on. So we follow her through her many breakdowns and blogged musings and sympathize with the question of wondering if there’s anyone out there listening, and do they really care?

As the two stories interconnect with each other over delicious table settings and mmmms! and bon appetits!, I begin to unwind a little as I find comfort in the fact that I am not alone in my search for purpose. What both of these women shared in common was that they loved to cook. And where each of their paths took them on different routes, they both ended up being successful in their fields because they followed their passion for food. And butter. Let’s not forget about the butter.

In my story, I have a passion for writing and like Julie, I’m communicating out into this void wondering if anyone out there is listening or cares. Whilst she’s documenting her recipes, I’m documenting my life, and I have to believe that when the time is write (pun intended, yet again), I too will someday find success in my field.

An acquaintance of mine asked me the other day if I had any advice for her young daughter who was about to leave the family nest. She, too, was in the process of figuring out what to do with her life and after thoughtful consideration, I replied simply.

I told her that it doesn’t matter if she didn’t know what to do next. In my experience, following that thing that makes your heart sing, regardless of whether it’s your job or just a passion you have on the side, is the most important thing. Pursuance of your passion eventually leads you to your purpose.

Hearing myself say those words aloud made me realize that that passion for me, was writing. When I sit down at the computer and let my fingers dance across the keys or when I put that magical pen to paper and scroll across the lines with fierce abandon as my thoughts come to life, I swell with joy. And I’ll continue to write, despite not knowing what the future has in store for me.

All good things take time, and whilst I patiently wait for my writing to bring clarity as to what I should do with it, I’ll continue to type into the void because it’s my favorite thing to do.

Like Julie and Julia, I’m going to pursue the thing that makes me feel like Julia when she tastes the perfectly cooked bouef bourgoinon that’s been cooking for seven hours.

Because one thing is certain: writing is a part of who I am and how I express myself, and stopping that is stopping the one thing which makes me feel the most alive.