I’ve spent nights howling at the moon, with a bottle of cheap red in a paper bag, surrounded by a bunch of wild, vulnerable characters who are just as lost as I am.
Because it’s okay to be silly.
I’ve woken up in someone else’s bed and shamelessly taken myself out to lunch in last night’s heels and makeup, getting drunk on the memories as I watch people walk by and smile.
Because it’s okay to be promiscuous sometimes.
I’ve spent entire weekends wrapped up in the sheets, dropping acid with someone, making sweet, intense love—the kind of love you make when you barely know someone yet feel like you have known them your entire life.
Because it’s okay to give a little bit of yourself away and take a little bit of them with you.
I’ve been so broke that I’ve slept on the beach, the ocean my lullaby and the sand my bed. I’ve been so rich that I had a home full of things, stuff that I thought would make people I don’t even respect like me. I’ve been starving and I’ve been gluttonous. Never have I felt richer than sitting outside in Barcelona, drinking cheap wine and hearing the loud, bellowing laugh of my friends.
Because it’s okay to find homes in other people.
I’ve gotten dressed up in my favorite outfit and taken myself on various spectacular dates around the world, creating five-star experiences on a one-star budget, and loving the shit out of my own company.
Because it’s okay to be aggressively single.
I’ve held my own hand underneath my pillow and kissed my own shoulder after a tough day. I’ve smiled at myself in the mirror and said, “I love you,” even though external situations made me feel like a monster. Myself and I have gotten through a lifetime of downs—and we are still standing tall.
Because it’s okay to love yourself for the warrior you have become.
I’ve believed in people over and over again and been hurt more times than I could possibly count, but it doesn’t distort my love for the world.
Because it’s okay to keep believing.
I’ve “reinvented” myself and started so many projects I never finished. I’ve packed up my life and lived in three countries and five cities in the space of one year. I’ve felt scared, alienated, petrified. But I’ve also felt unconditionally loved and understood.
Because it’s okay to fail and start again.
I’ve spent hours at the gym and covered myself up in cling wrap so I sweat more, in order to be skinny before a gig.
I’ve starved myself and overindulged; I’ve yo-yoed between depriving and purging. But now, I shamelessly lick my plate and only go running when I feel like it.
I’ve watched people’s reaction when returning home after a year of lapping up European food.
Because skinny sure as fuck doesn’t taste as good as tapas and sangria.
I’ve given way too many fucks about opinions and humans not worth giving a fuck about. In doing so, I neglected giving them to the people and things in life that deserve them.
Because you can always stop giving a fuck and save them for what matters.
Because it’s okay.