⚠️ WE HAVE A GURGLE

So.

1989 finally went down.

Thirty-seven years of emotional gunk loosened, swirled around like it was auditioning for a horror movie, and disappeared into whatever cosmic sewer system handles the stuff we’re finally brave enough to stop dragging around.

I didn’t even get a chance to do a little victory dance.

Rude.

Gurgle.

Oh no. Absolutely not. We are not doing this again.

I know that sound now. I recognize it the way you recognize a text from an ex you swear you’ve blocked in every timeline.

Hekate knows it too.

She looks at the drain like it personally insulted her ancestors.

I look at Hekate.

Don’t.

She already has the flashlight in her hand. Of course she does.

Of course she does.

Apparently something was wrapped around 1989, and instead of flushing peacefully into the Great Beyond, it caught on the spiritual plumbing.

One little question.

Four words.

Who will choose me?

Well. Fuck.

I knew this one was in there. I just didn’t realize it had migrated all the way down the emotional plumbing like it was setting up permanent residence and forwarding its mail.

Can’t I Just Choose Myself?

That’s the obvious answer, right? Sure. If you’re a motivational poster or a yoga influencer with perfect lighting and suspiciously no laundry in the background.

Choose yourself.
Love yourself.
Validate yourself.
Be enough for yourself.

All very tidy. Very inspirational. Very “put it on a mug and pretend it fixes everything.”

And I do choose myself.

I’ve spent years learning how.

I know who I am now in ways I never did at nineteen. I know what I like, what I don’t like, what I’ll tolerate, what I absolutely will not, and what makes me genuinely happy. I can entertain myself without external input or a support group. I actually enjoy my own company—most days she’s hilarious and doesn’t steal my snacks. I don’t need a room full of people to confirm I exist or matter.

So why isn’t that enough?

Why does some stubborn little corner of me still want someone else to choose me?

Because I’m human.

There. Done. Case closed. Put it in a folder labeled Obvious Things We Still Somehow Argue With Ourselves About at 2 a.m.

Can we please stop pretending self-love is supposed to turn us into emotionally self-sustaining robots who never, ever want another person to look at us and go, yeah… that one?

Because that expectation is ridiculous.

And also exhausting.

And frankly, I don’t have the energy for that level of spiritual CrossFit.

I have a heart.

Not one of those dainty little decorative ones with glitter and aesthetic vibes you hang on a wall and pretend you’re emotionally available.

No. Mine is the oversized Costco industrial-strength model. Bulk size. Heavy duty. Probably came with a lifetime warranty and absolutely no return policy.

I love hard.

I give.

I remember.

I forgive.

I worry.

I check in.

And I notice when somebody disappears—like I’ve got some kind of emotional motion sensor installed that nobody asked for. No manual, no off switch, just beep beep—“hey, that person you care about just vanished into the void, enjoy your day.”

I remember the tiny things people tell me months later. Not because I’m trying to be impressive, but because my brain apparently hoards emotional receipts like a raccoon with trust issues and a filing system.

I will see something in a store and immediately think, Oh, so-and-so would love that. And then I stand there like an idiot holding a mug or a candle or a ridiculous pair of socks, emotionally shopping for people who are not physically present and may or may not even deserve my level of dedication.

Apparently my heart has been running a nonprofit organization for decades without consulting me about the operating expenses. No board meetings. No budget reviews. Just vibes and overcommitment.

And no, I don’t do those things because I’m keeping score.

I’m not over here with a clipboard like some emotionally unhinged accountant from the Department of Friendship Metrics:

Called you Tuesday — one point.
Remembered your birthday without Facebook reminding me — three points, gold star, possibly a small parade.
Listened to your seventeen-minute rant about your asshole coworker — bonus round, emotional endurance unlocked.

Although… if I’m being honest… I probably should’ve issued punch cards by now.

“Buy ten emotional support conversations, get one existential crisis free.”

At least I’d have a toaster by now.

I Just Want Someone to Think of Me

That’s really what it comes down to.

Sometimes I want somebody to think of me first.

Not because they need something.

Not because they’re upset.

Not because they need advice, help, information, reassurance, or a human emotional support hotline disguised as a friend.

Just because something pinged their brain and went: oh hey, Rae.

I saw this and thought of you.

That’s it.

Five words.

And somehow they hit like they come with a shipping fee, emotional taxes, and a side of existential longing I didn’t order.

But they do.

I want someone to notice when I’m quiet.
Not in a “huh, she’s probably busy” way.
In a “wait… where is Rae?” way.

I want somebody to wonder where I am.
Not because I forgot to answer a text from Tuesday and now it’s Friday and we’re all pretending that’s normal human behavior.

I want someone to reach out because they miss me, not what I can do for them.
Not tech support Rae. Not emotional support Rae. Not “she’ll know what to say” Rae. Just… me.

And yes, I have people who love me. This isn’t some dramatic declaration that nobody gives a shit about Rae and I shall now wander tragically into the fog wearing a black shawl.

Please.
I’d trip over something in the first five feet and take out the whole tragic wandering-in-the-fog aesthetic. Probably a decorative rock. Or my own feelings. Hard to say.

This isn’t about having nobody.

It’s about that old familiar thing.

The one that’s apparently been living rent-free in the emotional plumbing since long before 1989 and absolutely refuses to move out, no matter how many times we “flush and spiritually evict.”

Will somebody choose me without me having to earn it?

Oh.

There you are.
I was wondering when you’d stop pretending you weren’t in the room.

Apparently We Found the Real Clog

Oh this one.
Not a polite little hairball either. No. This is the industrial-strength emotional lint trap that’s been quietly ruining the plumbing since forever.

Maybe that’s why belonging has been such a stubborn little bastard.

Somewhere along the way, I learned to make myself valuable.

Be useful.
Be funny.
Be generous.
Be forgiving.
Be the one who remembers.
Be the one who shows up.
Be the one who doesn’t make it hard.
Be the one who’s low maintenance—emotionally speaking, like a houseplant you forget to water but somehow still feel guilty about.
Be the one who is easy to keep around.

Because somewhere in the wiring, the message got installed like bad software:

If you’re useful enough, you’ll be chosen.

Cute.

Adorable, really.

Like a raccoon trying to earn affection by color-coding your recycling and aggressively judging your compost bin.

And the worst part? It worked.
Not in a healthy, sustainable, emotionally nourishing way—but in a look at me over-functioning my way into temporary belonging kind of way.

Which is basically emotional coupon clipping. You keep collecting little “maybe I matter” discounts, hoping one day they’ll add up to a full-price human connection with no expiration date and no fine print.

And I am tired of clipping coupons for my own worth.

Remember things.

Show up.

Help.

Give.

Don’t ask for too much.

And those aren’t bad qualities.

I actually like those things about myself.

I don’t want this Big Flush to turn me into somebody who stops caring just because caring occasionally comes with a side order of emotional whiplash.

Fuck that.

I’m keeping my heart.

I’m keeping the part of me that loves people like it’s a full-contact sport.

I’m keeping the woman who gets ridiculously excited over small things, remembers something you said six months ago like it was carved into stone, and genuinely wants the people she loves to be okay—even when they’re being absolute chaos goblins about it.

That’s mine.

That stays.

What can go down the drain is the belief that I have to do all those things to deserve a place in somebody’s life.

Ah.

There it is.

Hekate, stop looking smug. You’re not helping your case as “mysterious guide” when you look like you just won emotional bingo.

Maybe Choosing Myself Was Never the Whole Answer

Maybe I misunderstood the assignment.

Maybe “choose yourself” was never meant to mean become emotionally self-sufficient to the point of spiritual isolation like some kind of enlightened raccoon living in a dumpster of independence.

Maybe choosing myself doesn’t mean I stop wanting other people to choose me.

Maybe it means I stop abandoning myself while waiting for them to do it.

Well. Shit.

That one’s going to need a minute. Possibly a snack. Possibly a nap. Possibly a full exorcism of old conditioning.

Because there is a difference.

I can want friendship without begging for it.

I can want connection without twisting myself into whatever shape keeps somebody interested—because I am not emotional origami, thank you very much.

I can miss people without chasing them like I left my dignity on read.

I can love someone without turning it into a full-time job application for “Please Validate My Existence, LLC.”

I can be disappointed when somebody doesn’t show up for me without immediately turning it into a courtroom drama where I am both defendant and prosecution witness.

And I can still hope somebody thinks:

I haven’t heard from Rae. I wonder how she’s doing.

Not because I’m sitting by the phone like it’s 1987 and I just heard dial-up tones of destiny.

But because I exist in people’s minds the way they exist in mine.

That’s not weakness.

That’s not failure.

That’s not me “not being healed enough,” whatever the hell that even means this week.

That’s just… being a person.

A person with a big fucking heart who occasionally would like another big fucking heart to go, “Hey. Where you at?”

Preferably with snacks.

Always with snacks.

Because if you’re going to emotionally choose me, you should at least bring carbs.

So, Who Will Choose Me?

I don’t know.

And honestly? That’s the most honest answer I’ve got in the whole damn system.

Some people will.

Some won’t.

Some will choose me for a season like it’s a limited-edition subscription box.

Some will stay.

Some will drift off like they just remembered they left the oven on in another emotional state.

Some will love me deeply and still be absolutely terrible at showing it—like emotionally fluent in Morse code but only using one broken flashlight.

And yeah… some people I would’ve crossed oceans for wouldn’t even step over a puddle for me.

That one stings.

Not in a collapse on the floor and question the meaning of existence way.

More like a huh… so that’s what that feels like way.

And I can live with that now.

Maybe that’s the difference.

Nineteen-year-old me thought being chosen was the receipt that proved I belonged.

Almost-56-year-old me knows I was never a rental in the first place.

I already belong to myself.

Fully furnished. No deposit required. Slightly haunted, but we’re working on it.

But here’s the part I didn’t used to understand:

I’m allowed to want people.

I’m allowed to want friendship.

I’m allowed to want reciprocity without writing a dissertation on why I deserve it.

I’m allowed to want someone to initiate the damn conversation once in a while so I don’t feel like I’m running a one-woman outreach program.

I’m allowed to want to be remembered without having to tattoo myself on someone’s calendar.

I’m allowed to want someone to choose me.

And none of that cancels out the fact that I choose myself.

I just don’t have to stand outside anyone’s emotional front door anymore, rehearsing speeches like I’m auditioning for entry into my own life.

If the door opens?

Beautiful.

I’ll bring snacks.

If it doesn’t?

Fine.

I’ve got my own house.

And the locks work.

Did We Get It?

I look at Hekate.

She looks at me.

The Universe is suspiciously quiet, which—let’s be honest—never means peace, it means plot twist loading. That kind of quiet makes me itch in places I didn’t know had opinions.

We wait.

Nothing.

No gurgling.

No bubbling.

No ominous spiritual plumbing noises that sound like a haunted espresso machine trying to confess its sins.

Which, frankly, is worse.

Because now I know something is thinking about happening.

Holy shit.

Did we actually—

glug.

…

Of course.

Hekate slowly turns her head like, There it is. I was wondering when you’d stop pretending you were done.

I close my eyes.

Because at this point, looking directly at it feels like consent.

What now?

She shines the flashlight down again.

Of course she does. Because why would anything in my life ever be a one-and-done situation?

Apparently something else has surfaced.

Of course it has.

Because the Universe is like that friend who says, “Just one more thing,” and then shows up with a truckload of emotional baggage and no intention of helping you unpack it.

My birthday is three days away and apparently the Universe has decided we’re using every minute of this spiritual purge package I definitely did not read the terms and conditions for. I’m pretty sure I just clicked “accept” while distracted and now I own a lifetime subscription to Emotional Plumbing Maintenance.

Fine.

Hand me the flashlight.

At this point, I’m not just invested.

I’m employed.

Let’s see what else is down there.

Because clearly, we are not done excavating my soul’s basement.

To be continued…