Well it certainly has been quite some time since I’ve sat down to share what’s heavy on my mind! The truth is — nothing truly has been heavy on my mind. The past few months have picked up and has made me a very busy lady! I kept telling myself, “I need to write a new article, I need to write something.” Maybe I can finally own up to being a writer since I’ve been experiencing this phenomenon known as writer’s block!
But life has been steady. Life is normal. Ordinary. I haven’t been feeling bouts of inspiration. I couldn’t just put pen to paper just to do it. However, as I am wrapping up my first year living in DC full-time in my first apartment, this is as good a time as any to spill some of my thoughts.
I’ve realized also that I write best when I am experiencing extreme levels of emotion — whether that be in joy, anger, hope, and especially despair. I find that I am even more prolific when these are happening in a sinusoidal pattern (ie. emotional roller coaster). I am happy to say, however, that the past few months have been in steady-state (another engineering term, more self-explanatory). For the first time in my life, I have a peace that I’d never known and contentment that I never thought I’d get out of life. No hustle of being in five places at once, no homework to bring me down in the latest hours of the night, no opposing obligations tearing me into fractions of myself. That was who I was. Chaos. Busy. High stress. Bottomless pit of energy. Limitless social battery.
I thought my life was over when college ended so abruptly in March of 2020. I was lost. Life was lonely and sad. Sure, the blog helped with loneliness to a certain extent, but after a while, alas, it was not enough.
However, our first homecoming since graduating brought a sense of closure. We had a formal ceremony FINALLY and reconnected with old friends and classmates. We celebrated from sunrise to well after sunset in honor of every fear, failure, success, and triumph we all experienced throughout our four years of undergrad. We remembered the ghosts of the eighteen-year-olds who grew into the adults we have become. Who were those kids? How did we get here even though we had no idea what we were doing? Remember when this and that happened?
I remember my first day on campus. I moved into Regan Hall and was welcomed as a Rose of Regan, a title given to the residents of Regan to create a sense of community with the fellow freshman girls who lived in the dorm. We all received a tiny fake Rose to keep as a sign of this new chapter in our lives. The Regan Roses carried me throughout college. We were a strong feminine force who wordlessly supported each other, no matter who it was — be it a best friend or a friendly girl who I met in the bathroom that one time. This sisterhood continued well past freshman year and even well past graduation. There have been a few occasions when I’ve been out and about in DC (whether it be on the metro, walking on the street, at a bar) when I’ve run into a fellow Rose and exchanged a familial smile and/or engaged in an excited speed-catch-up / trip down memory lane. It is truly one of the best gifts I received from Catholic University. Heck, two of my best friends are both Regan Roses — one of whom is getting married in December, the other of whom is my fellow bridesmaid!
And we were just kids when we met. Eighteen years old. We were truly delicate as rose petals, and yet we had each other to fold into and support each other, creating that soft yet mighty structure of a beautiful blooming flower, holding onto the stem of friendship for dear life. Sure we had our challenges — our thorns. But we shared them. They were a part of that stem, but it was our stem, and without that stem we’d be nothing but withered petals on the ground.
So you can imagine the wave of emotion that overcame me when someone handed me a beautiful rose without context or cause at the homecoming tailgate. There was no reason for a single red rose to be over there. A guy just handed it to me. I looked down at it and felt a rush of nostalgia (albeit, it was the tailgate so maybe I was feeling a rush from something else…). It was a cheesy moment in my head, but it really did feel full-circle. From receiving a crappy plastic rose from my freshman RA to receiving a beautiful full living rose five years later, I finally felt that release. That sign from God to finally let go and move forward.
It wasn’t really a sign to move on though, was it? It was a sign to recognize that I already had. A sign to open my eyes to this past year of living truly on my own. I really did build a good life for myself here in The District. It is obvious that I formed solid roots at Catholic University. I know I will always find a home there. Yes, the campus is beautiful and a huge part of why I loved my experience there. But as I always say, home is not a place. It is the people who I fell in love with there. It is the joy in the good times and the support in the hard times that ignited that longing to never settle for less.
Moving back to DC mid-pandemic was a huge reality check. Many classmates and friends moved away. Where had all the Roses gone? The job market was absolute shit. I was incredibly lucky that I found a job in the midst of that turmoil. Life was hard for everyone, but especially for my classmates and me. We were spring-boarded into a global pandemic of mass hysteria, fear-mongering, political unrest, economical crisis, mental health deterioration across the world, and oh, did I mention a virus?
As this pandemic is still wildly real and ongoing, we have moved forward with that extra edge, that bit of hunger that we would not have had otherwise. Most people from my class at this point are more or less settled into a job, whether it be a career or not. And I guess we’ll take what we can get, right?
Take what we can get. Take what I can get. Nihilistic? Possibly. But not necessarily pessimistic. As some people may know, I hate the cold. This season now is truly sad girl fall — just knowing that dark, long nights and bitterly cold wind await. Winter of 2021 was difficult. But then March came around, and my favorite season fell upon DC in no time — cherry blossom season and daylights saving. Warmer weather and longer days allowed me to get out of my apartment and run around and see not only the flowers but also other people, and dogs, and the monuments, and nature! Slowly but surely, my old self began to trickle back. I took what I could out of life at the time. I stayed hopeful that things would get better.
There is a DC locals Instagram page that most residents follow for local news, insider jokes, and events going on. It started connecting people during the pandemic through a series called “besties” which was a tool to help locals make friends as we were all locked inside our home with nowhere to go. I messaged a girl who was my age and we seemed to have a lot in common, and we started hanging out and turns out we had inadvertently crossed paths throughout the past few years and knew a few of the same people. I can’t believe I have known her less than a year, but I am so happy we met and became fast friends. Exploring DC, meeting each other’s friends, and sharing in the struggle of constant Metro construction has been ridiculously fun and special.
My birthday at the end of May was bittersweet. I had invited some friends from college out to a winery for the weekend before, however a majority of them cancelled last minute or just didn’t show. I did have a great time with the friends and family who came to celebrate, but I couldn’t shake that disappointment. The next weekend was Memorial Day weekend, so I went back up to Long Island. It was a great weekend filled with family and friends. My twin sister and I had a wonderful birthday celebration, and I had almost forgotten about the disappointment from the weekend before. In the back of my mind I truly doubted if I had made a mistake moving back to DC. I would have had everything I needed right there. So what was I thinking? I returned to my apartment that Sunday afternoon confused and discouraged.
However, I remembered that Memorial Day weekend was the first weekend the pool opened! I grabbed my book and a towel and went up to the rooftop. Long story short, I did not read my book. A friendly group started talking with me and offered me a drink, and before we knew it we were laughing and dancing and exchanging stories as if we were old friends.
A few weeks later after Sunday Mass on Capitol Hill, a woman around my age made an announcement about a women’s retreat. I was frankly not too interested in the retreat, but it was awesome to see someone my age in a leadership role at a parish close by, so I decided to find her afterwards and introduce myself. I had been searching for young Catholics since I moved back to DC, but because of the lockdowns, it was impossible to find events that were in person. I asked her what young adult events were happening in the area and she immediately invited me to a young adult event at the sister parish down the street that was happening the next day.
It rained the next day, so I tried to use that as an excuse to talk myself out of going to the event. Of course, I told myself to get it together and finally showed up 20 minutes late (And I am never, EVER late).
Thank God I forced myself to go.
I met so many new people. They explained to me that the event was made up of a weekly young adult Bible study group and many invited me to join the weekly meeting. I could tell they were enthusiastic and truly enjoyed each other’s company. I began to attend weekly and began to get to know the regulars there. I was wary about joining a Catholic group because of the hurt I experienced in college (that deserves a whole separate article in its own time). But these people were special — they were different. They weren’t holier-than-thou and buttoned up collared shirts and floor length skirts. They were beer-in-hand-Bible-in-the-other. They were chefs and “workers on the Hill” and waitors and aunts and uncles and so much more. They were real.
This past summer into autumn has been a blessing beyond my wildest dreams. I never could have imagined I could make such fast friends in my apartment building, at Bible study, and through Instagram. Brunch dates, sushi runs, drag bingo, breweries, Jonas Brothers concert, fundraiser gala, girls nights in, happy hours, piano bar, Nats games, nights on the town. The young adult group asked me to be the pianist for the new parish praise and worship adoration. This has truly been a freaking incredible year. It is by the grace of God that my doubts and fear that I felt after my birthday were quelled and He reassured me three, four times over that I am where I am supposed to be.
There is a common phrase, “Every rose has its thorn.” I have always understood it to mean that even if something is beautiful, there is always potential for danger and hurt. And there is certainly truth to that.
Upon further contemplation, I view the thorn as armor. Armor as an outward display of resilience. Armor to protect the rose in all its beauty. Armor to hold fast to its core, its stem.
I can’t speak for all roses, but rest be assured this Rose has a fair share of her own thorns, however they have enabled me to grow into full bloom. The plastic rose from freshman year of college will never die (it’s plastic, duh!), but this life filled with love and passion and true companionship is truly a continuous living, breathing organism, blooming into the ether, right to the face of God where He is saying, “Wake up and smell the roses.”
Congratulations again to the Class of 2020. We finally fucking made it. Thank you for a beautiful four years, but we have a life to live! Cheers to the beauty and riches that lie ahead of us.
Once a Rose, always a Rose.
Not Really A Writer 