(photo of some fallen stars on the sidewalk by my apartment)

I have been very fortunate with the people I surround myself with. I have friends from different cultures and of different ages ranging from mid 20s into their 60s. I have close male friends and female friends.

I am very lucky in this area of my life — especially as an introvert with a strong personality.

However, I have one less friend than I used to have.

I sat across from her at the table of the restaurant in shock.

She hurled insults and angry accusations at me fast-pitch style.

“You are a miserable person. A few years ago you just became embarrassing to have as a friend.”

A few years prior I had been battling suicidal depression and anger, which I had confided to her. I was not exactly fun to be around, but embarrassing seemed a bit cruel.

“You don’t give people a chance. You shut them down the minute they don’t agree with you.”

In general, I admit, I am not easy to get close to. I am very observant, selective, and guarded. Until I’m not. I’m an open book, in a dark corner of the library covered in dust. If you are persistent and you find me, then patiently brush off the debris and hold space for me, I will tell you almost anything you want to know about me.

This means most of my closest friends had to put in some work to build the relationship. Once they are in, they are in for life — or not, apparently.

“You are a mean, shallow, judgmental bitch.”

Okay, fair enough. I don’t need a lot of information about someone to know if I want to build a friendship or not. In this conversation she was mainly referring to one of her good friends that I did not connect with. She was a hometown conservative woman upholding the patriarchy. We did not have a lot in common.

She also brought up an incident from seven years prior where I had caused a scene arguing with the best friend of her boyfriend about politics. What she doesn’t seem to remember is I did not start it, but I did take it too far. I apologized for that and owned it years ago — SEVEN YEARS ago.

Also, it is not my fault he was easy to humiliate. Okay, sorry, old habits…I regress and digress.

“You need to be more open because you are really missing out on some great people that could be in your life.”

I have never felt the need to be friends with every person I meet — quality over quantity. I recognize the difference between a friend and an acquaintance.

She, on the other hand, kept a very large circle of people and was always expanding it. I do not need to be friends with the friends of all of my friends. This seemed to really bother her and be the entire basis of her anger with me on this day.

“You pretend to be happy in your new life, but I know you — you are not happy.”

Well, she clearly had not kept up with the times. I dedicated time to therapy, I took control of my life, and I found more peace than I had had in years. I tried to explain this, but I was cut short.

“And seeing all the photos of you with Melissa and Michelle in Colombia and whoever else…nice they got an invite.”

I had invited her — it was an open invite. I invited everyone, but some friends actually made the time and plans to do it. My mom and I had actually talked about how she would likely be the first one to visit me. I guess we both lost that bet.

“Nice to see you spending so much time on your visit here with them. Glad they knew you were coming to town.”

I had reached out to her to tell her I was coming to town — she did not respond. I was not going to continue to send messages into the void. I was not the one that distanced myself and could not communicate. She was unresponsive and apparently had a lot of pent up feelings she never expressed to me. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess.

Also, the trip was made on short notice.

Again, I explained her fault in the lack of communication. Again, she quickly moved on.

Her next point hit as tears streamed down my face and people stared in the restaurant.

“This is why you can’t have meaningful relationships with men either.”

She was being deliberately mean. She knows my history with men.

She is the one that struggles to build healthy relationships with men. I can, but I am selective. I do not need to be desired by the male gaze, love bombed, or showered with attention to be happy whereas she did. She got bored easily. In fact, this entire scene unfolded after she brought up one of the guys she had been entertaining on and off for years behind her boyfriend’s back. A man I very publicly disliked.

She had also mentioned when she arrived at the restaurant her plans to leave her long term boyfriend. She talked about this at least twice a year.

She is codependent. I am very independent. We used to joke that we needed to find our way to the middle of the space between.

“You go from man to man acting like it makes you happy.”

This was a very wild statement coming from her in particular.

She was referring to me enjoying dating and having casual partners — by choice. I had been single for years and had only recently started to enjoy dating again.

“He [her boyfriend] has done so much for you and we have done a lot for you and you are such a bitch to him because you think he is stupid and beneath you. You are arrogant and think you are better than everyone.”

He is stupid, but I never said that, she did though — several times.

Her boyfriend and I had a good relationship for years. I disagreed with his politics — I mean, he was dating an immigrant and hired undocumented immigrants to work construction for him, but was also very pro-Trump politics and anti-immigrant rhetoric. I did not think the two of them were compatible, but I supported her and got along with him.

Until I saw the video from the Ring doorbell cam where he put his hands on her and screamed in her face.

“Listen, you know why I have an issue with him and it is not because of politics or arrogance.”

She shifted focus again.

I sat there in that booth for over an hour while she launched missiles at me. I said very little.

I was no longer the reactive and angry person I once was and she tried so hard to bring that person back. She wanted me to yell back, to insult her back, to have a reaction other than devastation.

When she did not get the reaction she had wanted she got meaner and cut deeper. She was deliberately trying to hurt me and desperate for a reaction — she was trying to make me snap. She was using my personal relationships and my past struggles to cause me emotional pain. She still had not given me an example of something I had done to her directly. It was all defensive about people in her life that I did not choose to have in mine. She actually admitted this at one point.

I sat there listening in disbelief when it hit me — she was jealous.

Everything she was saying to me was defensive. She was unhappy in her relationship, she felt judged internally for continuing to place her attention on other people that were carbon copies of all of her exes — muscle bound, arrogant, controlling, abusive, conservative men with money.

She liked attention and I never did. For once, I was receiving a lot of male attention and enjoying it. That was supposed to be her thing.

She was also jealous that I had moved abroad. She had wanted to return to her home country for years. She was always a little resentful that she never did.

I also believe she did not know what to do with this new version of myself that was healing. I was no longer the sad and depressed faithful friend that was available to run to support her without notice. I had my own life now. I was building something good. I was no longer in need of someone to drag me out of my house or pity me. I had changed. I had grown. The medication, therapy, and move abroad had all created a positive space for growth. I was proud of that. I thought my friend would have been, too.

I knew this was not the time to argue, not the time to point out counter arguments. She was angry and emotional and honestly being a raging fucking bitch.

She called her boyfriend — the one she had arrived planning to leave — and abruptly left, the restaurant, not him. She still hasn’t done that.

If I had been shallow, arrogant, miserable, and judgmental I would have told him why the argument started — the guy she was seeing behind his back, again.

I could have judged her a million times over, but I stood by her. I was always there to give her truth when others told her what she wanted to hear. I still did not judge her; I knew life was not black and white. I accepted her and valued our friendship.

I am human. I am not perfect. However, I believe in direct communication and resolving conflict. Clearly she chose other approaches.

I cannot fix what I do not know is broken.

Once she left, I sat there in shock and processing the wild accusations and intentionally mean personal insults. The waitress walked by and left me a chocolate on the table.

“Here, I think you could use this.”

I managed a smile back at her.

I spent the next week emotionally grieving and replaying the scene. I was deeply hurt. So many of my best memories were with her at my side for the last almost fifteen years. I loved her, her kids, her parents.

The next day I saw her son at graduation and he invited me over to the house. It took a lot to keep my composure and let him know I had just had dinner with his mom the other day and that maybe I would stop by before I left town — the last part being an obvious lie. I watched all three of her children grow up and taught two of them in primary school. They are great kids. She is a good mom. They called me Aunt Tara.

When you have a break-up, you also break-up with the family. Although, I still share texts with her daughters from time to time and her mother every Christmas.

I wonder if she knows that.

After I moved abroad, some friends stepped up and some stepped away. Life gets busy, I understand that and I am not without fault either. However, the friends that endured were prioritized. Mutual effort is needed to maintain a relationship of any kind. When you reach out and get little response in return, it feels lonely.

Some people need to make you the bad guy to move on. I think that is what she was doing. I did not serve her the way I once had. That’s fine; dynamics change and relationships falter. This is not the first time I was the bad guy in someone else’s story, and it likely will not be the last. The next time it happens, maybe I actually will be the villain. Shake things up.

I have a very hard time with goodbyes and letting go, so sometimes I hang on a little too long when I shouldn’t. I take loyalty and authenticity seriously.

This time I knew to just let go. Not to hold any anger or resentment, but to simply let go — with love.

However, there was still a deep hurt. This hurt was layered. It was a loss that felt heavier than any relationship break-up I have ever had. I was grieving someone I had not expected to lose.

Break-ups are very similar to deaths in the sense that they are losses. They need to be grieved.

Grief is a very wavy ocean and I cannot swim, but I am learning to tread water and use a life jacket to preserve my peace.

No one gives condolences for the loss of the living and some losses don’t get a funeral.

*Thank you for reading Mid-Life in Medellín. I would love to hear your thoughts below and your friend break-up stories or feelings. We do not talk about it enough and we need to!

Please consider hitting the subscribe button (it’s free!) and browsing my previous articles. I cover topics about life, growth, self-discovery, sex, dating, and starting over that I think multiple ages can relate to and hopefully find some piece of knowledge to take away. I hope you will pull up a chair and join me.

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(A single rose, left in the street.)

Some mid-week poetry about the surreal concept of aging and time.

Measuring Time

I’m waiting now,

as the years go by,

reminding me of how slowly time passes,

but how fast it seems

whenever I walk by a mirror or a memory.

The Time Has Come For Time To Go

Good things come to those who wait.

I don’t like waiting.

I’m impatient,

because I have already waited

and waited

and watched all the stories unfold around me.

One day tips into the next.

The days fall like dominoes.

I don’t wear a watch,

I tell time with my reflection.

I tell time with my memories.

I tell time to give me more time.

Until my time is up.

Thanks for reading! If you can relate, I would love to hear more about it and connect in the comments! Let’s talk about this crazy surreal concept of aging.

I write personal essays about starting over mid-life, post trauma, post divorce, in a new country and culture. I hope you will pull up chair and subscribe to read more about my journey.

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Also, if you like poetry, here is another publication of mine:

(photo taken overlooking the city)

This is a story about my friend Brayan. And even though his ego can sometimes be a little inflated, and I mean that affectionately, I am about to add more air to it.

When you are starting over in a new city, in a new country, and on a new continent, it can be isolating. The language barrier makes this more of a challenge, because locals do not have any incentive to slow down and develop a friendship with you like you do with them. People were friendly, but meeting and making real connections was difficult.

When I first arrived, I attended events posted in some tourist Facebook groups to try to bridge the gap between connection and language. The events were in English, but gave me exposure to both tourists and locals.

I was invited to join a tour of Comuna 13 by a woman in a Facebook group that was staying nearby my neighborhood. We met up at the park, and we got along well. She was very social, so it worked out well for me. Extroverts are great at collecting introverts.

A Brief Detour: I had recently toured Museo Casa De La Memoria, a museum dedicated to the victims of the armed conflict in the region. It depicts the deeply emotional history, told in the voices of the victims themselves. I mention this because the tour I attended on this day was the site of Operation Orion — an intentional strike on a civilian neighborhood ordered by former President Álvaro Uribe in the early 2000s, who was later convicted for tampering with paramilitary witnesses set to testify against him. They are still excavating the bodies of the civilian victims of this incident. I think it is very important to understand the full impact of the history and not just the vibrant artistic and tourist scene it is today. If you visit the city, I recommend both Comuna 13 and Museo Casa de la Memoria.

Now, back to the story.

Our tour guide this day was a local named Brayan who spoke very good English and provided an engaging tour experience with a lot of supporting information about the past conflict and the resilience of the people as they rebuilt this area into what it is today. In the 1980s, 90s, and into the early 2000s, Comuna 13 had such high murder rates it was considered the most dangerous neighborhood in the world’s most dangerous city: Medellin, Colombia.

Brayan did an excellent job of showcasing the way they turned this neighborhood around and into the most touristic neighborhood in the city. He showcased local talent and artists while providing details of the complicated and violent past.

I am very inquisitive on tours. As I mentioned in the first part of this series, I am someone that can hyperfixate on details. I studied for this tour. I was excited to see what I had read about, to connect the stories from my visit to the museum to the physical environment of where some of the events happened. This led me to ask questions, to be front and center, and to converse more with Brayan than some of the others in my group.

Brayan was very charismatic, charming, and tried to hide his annoyance with some members of the group that interrupted or added in their own opinions, without being invited to do so. As a teacher, this was easy to spot and comically relatable, but as an everyday person, it would have been difficult to detect — and this is one of the things that made him good at his job.

Brayan was also good at people; he knew how to socialize and engage — especially with women. He had a gift, and he was very aware of it. He had the perfect job to live the life of a playboy — and live it he did. Women passing through easily fell for his charismatic charm and easy confidence. He knew all the best places to impress someone new in the city — the city viewpoints, the rooftop bars, and engaging nightlife were his playground.

I say this not to paint him as a fuck boy, but because it is true and at the same time it is also true, and I will explain shortly, that he is one of the kindest, most loyal, and helpful people you will ever meet. After all, he is Paisa, remember?

(Brayan and I in Comuna 13, 2023)

We connected and kept in touch after the tour. We both kept very late schedules and our relationship grew through late night conversations and messages. Then one night he invited me out to join him on his evening tour — a move he used when he wanted to impress a woman. So, I went.

When I arrived, we were talking with a woman that had been on his tour that night. She had mentioned her birthday and how old she was — 26, I believe. She turned and asked him how old he was. He looked at me for a moment, and I said, “Yes, how old are you exactly?” (this was a question he had managed to avoid previously.) He responded, “Almost 29.”

ALMOST TWENTY NINE. I choked on my drink. I knew he was younger, but I thought he was early thirties.

Also, he was not “almost 29”, his birthday had been only a few months prior to this meeting so he was very much 28 years old. I was 40.

I decided to enjoy the moment anyway. It was one of the best decisions I could have made.

We had drinks, bar-hopped, and danced while the whole time playing the will we or won’t we game. I found him to be amusing and endearing in the way he thought he was running the game, but I was ahead of it. My game is to make a man feel like he is “winning”; it is like playing with your food before you eat it. And my dear readers, as you learned from my last article, I did a lot of playing and eating.

Needless to say, we ended up at his place that night. And several other nights.

Brayan deserves so much credit for giving me back my confidence — he was the first man to truly make me feel empowered and sexy in a way that was entirely unfamiliar to me, and he didn't just say it in charming words, he demonstrated it — very well, I might add.

Beyond that, I owe him a deep debt of gratitude for showing me genuine emotional affection. He was the first man that made me feel safe enough to be emotionally vulnerable. He made me feel cared for in ways I hadn't even realized I was missing. Those pieces of emotional connection were a foreign concept before him. Through my early relationship with him I realized that I was capable of emotional vulnerability with a man. And for that, I am forever grateful.

Brayan and I continued to see each other casually within those first few months of meeting, because unlike other women he hooked up with, I actually lived here. Through this time we developed a genuine friendship.

He was my first real friend in the city. Our relationship slowly morphed into late night visits talking about life and drinking wine, and the sex part tapered off after a few months. We went from friends with benefits to just friends — and that was the benefit.

During these late night visits or afternoons drinking coffee and sharing chisme, I would give him advice on the women he was seeing, helping him understand why some of them may have felt put off by his bounce between the boyfriend experience with the noncommittal fuck boy approach, and when he genuinely started dating someone, I was there to support him and help steer him in the right direction so he didn't sabotage it. He showed up for me in return when I would be overthinking a connection with a man I was seeing, or when I would doubt myself and my value he was there to offer support and tell me “Girl, stop overthinking.” We gave each other balance.

Also, when I became seriously ill with an infection — literally unable to speak with a fever that would not break — he helped me navigate the healthcare system here, which eventually led to me being admitted to a clinic for treatment after passing out in the waiting room, which turned out to be a reliable way to skip the line. He checked in on me daily, making sure I was okay and offering help with anything I needed. We even spent my first two Christmases in Medellín together in the city.

He became like a little brother to me — like family.

(Brayan and I at the Feid concert for his 30th birthday, December 2024)

I truly do not believe my life here would have been the same if I had not met him when I did. I often tease him and say he has grown up before my very eyes, and honestly it is true. I am proud of him and proud to call him my friend. In just a few years I have seen him grow and learn, fall in and out of love, navigate building a business, and at the time of writing this, he is in a happy, healthy, and committed relationship.

He is also still a great friend.

(Brayan and I in La Ceja, Antioquia — A day trip for his first tattoo.)

If you enjoyed this please let me know below. Maybe we can connect and build community! Also you can subscribe for free so you don’t miss the next installment of Mid-Life in Medellín. I appreciate you for following along!

(Spoilers: this series covers mid-life, self-discovery, reclaiming sexuality, dating, and navigating life as a woman in a new culture. I hope you’ll pull up a chair.)

*This is a personal narrative series. Feel free to browse each segment by title on my main Substack page.

If you want to start from the beginning, you can do so here:

(full moon over the city of Medellin - photographer unknown)

I started dating men in Medellin within two weeks of arriving. I figured if I was going to embrace this new life, I really needed to go all in.

Generally speaking, I have a complicated relationship with men.

I was married young, and after an almost 10 year abusive marriage, I divorced in my early thirties. During my marriage sex was used as a tool for manipulation, humiliation, or it was just taken without permission. So after a few years of being single and trying to find my balance and some semblance of peace with it all, I started dating again. However, it was not until dating abroad (and a lot of therapy) that I really started to explore and enjoy sex again.

My marriage was not the only unhealthy relationship in my life. I grew up in a very toxic relationship with my body. I have struggled with body dysmorphia my entire life. I have been to therapy for it and have had a complicated relationship with disordered eating and hyperfixating on hating every part of my body since I was around 12 or 13 years old. I am a very clear product of the 90s diet culture and “heroin chic” Calvin Klein super model era — for the record, I was never “heroin chic,” but I wanted to be. I mean, I bought every diet fad the commercials threw at me. I once destroyed myself for being a failure after straying ever so slightly from the Special K diet — a diet marketed by a cereal brand nationwide that promised if you only ate their cereal for every meal, you would lose inches off your waist in no time.

When I started dating abroad, an entirely new set of body standards was placed on me, but this time they leaned in my favor. Men were attracted to my pale skin and my wide hips. They did not care about my cellulite, stretch marks, or extra fat — of which there are plenty. They devoured me in ways I was not used to experiencing — I was the “exotic” one here. It must have been the glow the city gave me, because this happened with foreigners and locals. I was suddenly dating men, most of whom were way out of my normal league. Some were average in appearance, but others were very attractive, some uncomfortably so. Honestly, it made me slightly suspicious.

I found myself getting ready for a date, standing in front of the mirror, and examining every angle with scrutiny. Only to show up and have my date look at me as if I were the only woman in the room. There was also a strange sort of discord in having a man compliment the pieces of you that you spent a lifetime criticizing. I still fight the urge to correct someone when they tell me I’m beautiful, because a compliment in intimate moments feels too vulnerable.

I didn’t know what to do with it all. So, I chose to believe them. I may not have believed it myself, but if they did, who was I to argue?

It gave me a newfound confidence that dramatically changed the way I experienced sex and pleasure. Some might say this is internalized patriarchy, and it probably is, but I found power in sexual desire and it was so liberating at this stage of my healing journey. I had fully embraced being a single woman, enjoying life day by day, without expectations, and pushed through my anxiety around starting over. I was ready to experiment, to have fun, and to push my limits. So that is exactly what I did.

I was not dating with any real intention, which made dating a lot easier. I was dating to be social and have fun, with no intentions of pursuing any committed relationships. In these days, I did not speak Spanish very well, so knowing English was a must. I dated men passing through, tourists, businessmen, usually solo travelers, and bilingual locals.

I genuinely enjoyed the majority of my dates. I am not a person who enjoys “small talk” so even without knowing someone at all I tend to guide the conversation into deeper topics. I love learning why people are who they are, what experiences shaped them, and take interest in the details. I met men of different ages, with various backgrounds, with different stories, different professions and nationalities. Some of these men crossed my path temporarily, and others I still keep in touch with today.

There were also a few that needed to be told to fuck right off.

For example, I recently ran into an ex-situationship. He was seeking another opportunity to go out with me. I asked him if he remembered why I ended it with him — he did. “I did not treat you the way I should have…you said I needed therapy.” This was true — it still is.

Sometimes you need to speak to certain men in their native language so I thought, how would I explain this to a two year old? I told him calmly, with a slight tinge of deserved condescension, to grow the fuck up and no hard feelings, but also, no.

Five days later I received the following messages from him:

“I wanna make love with you again (tear drop sad emoji).”

“I know I am immature in other ways. I miss you.”

“Sorry for everything (prayer hands emoji)”

I have never been dryer in my life — desperation makes me a desert. First of all, of course you do. I’m fantastic (that newfound confidence, remember?). Secondly, “make love” is just so — ugh I don’t know, but I hate it. Lastly, the crying and pleading “please fuck me, boo-hoo” might have been the most off-putting thing a man has said to me — and that is saying A LOT.

Of course, I left that all on read. And off he fucked.

Reclaiming my sexuality as a power was life-changing for me. I had enjoyed sex before, but if you had told me years ago that the same woman who was groomed by purity culture nonsense, who grew up with parents who were not physically affectionate, and with an intense hatred of her own body would be casually having a threesome, experimenting with BDSM, and having sex in front of strangers, she would have locked herself in her room, put on three layers of clothing, and turned the lights out.

Yet here I was, at forty, doing all of those things. (gasp!)

I met one guy in particular that fascinated me. He was from New York, a former sex worker and a dom in the BDSM world. He was the perfect gentleman, very traditional. I stood up to go to the bathroom, and he stood up at the same time out of respect. He opened doors, pulled out chairs, and was highly offended if I offered to pay. I saw him several times when he came to visit the city from the US.

A common misconception in doms is that they are aggressive or assertive against your will. While he was not either of those things, he was still a little unsettling to me. His calmness and controlled demeanor made him the kind of man who, given my trauma history, should have sent me running. But at the height of my sexual exploration, I was slightly reckless — also likely a trauma response — but I learned a lot.

For example, I am a “switch” — someone that enjoys being both dominant and submissive (to a degree) depending on mood.

Not all of my connections were strictly sexual. I connected differently, on different levels, with different men. I had interesting discussions on politics, music, tattoos, philosophy, mental health, and stories about their past relationships, their families, and their future goals. Many of the conversations were genuinely interesting.

All of my dates were not great though. I also had some bad experiences. Some were nice guys, relatively interesting, but the sex was lacking. Others were obnoxious, slightly unsafe, and were left sitting alone in the restaurant or bar we met at.

One night, while cuddled up with a Colombian man in a dark bar, his phone lit up "Mi Vida” (my life) across the screen with a photo of a beautiful woman. I looked at him, paused, and asked “Your sister? No, no, your mom, right?” And as he stuttered to explain, I hushed him and said, “don’t speak, it’s fine.” and I left him — and his excuses — sitting there in the dark.

There is a well known stereotype that Colombian men have the gift of being able to talk so sweetly, compliment you with such charm, and to lie, lie, lie. To be fair, not ALL Colombian men are this way — but that one was.

Throughout this stage of sexual exploration, I found myself pushing my own boundaries and experimenting with themes I never would have imagined trying. Some I enjoyed and others were not for me, but I regret none of it.

One weekend I had a man come over Friday, a different one Saturday, and Sunday another. And now you know how I quickly became the topic of the building's chisme (gossip) that I mentioned in my last post. I can only imagine what my portero, Rafa, was texting to his wife.

When my mom used to have certain awkward or embarrassing interactions in public she would say to me, “Who cares, I will never see those people again.” I took this approach to my sexual exploration.

I am fairly certain that is not what she had in mind with that piece of advice, but here we are anyway.

During the peak of my sexual shenanigans, my friends couldn’t keep track of who was who. So, as most women do, we created nicknames for them all: “Sir licks-a-lot", “Grey”, “Donkey Kong”, “Mr. Worldwide”, “Fire Hose”, “Stage 5 Clinger”, “Bartender”, “Bondage Bob”, “The Venezuelan”, “Driver”, “Mr. Moto”, “Band Guy”, “Miami”, “El Niño”, and so on. To be fair, I also had a nickname, courtesy of my friend Melissa: “The Penis Fly Snatch.”

(Messages between me and my friend Melissa — research for this publication.)

The point is that I learned a lot about myself, I felt empowered, and I was finally in control again — and having fun. It was a stage of personal growth and I met a lot of interesting people. I went on a lot of first dates or sometimes a series of dates with the same men, and had a lot of “adult sleepovers.”

Once when returning from a date to my apartment at 3:00 am, Rafa was standing at the stairs to greet me. I said “Goodnight” and his response back was, “Good morning” as he pointed to the clock on the wall, pressed the elevator button for me, and went back to his camera station. I felt a little like my dad had scolded me, except Rafa was younger than me and obviously not my dad.

Awkward.

If a man was with me, he was usually kind enough to just unlock the door from his little camera room without getting up. His way of making it less awkward for us all, maybe?

Okay, sure, maybe it was a little awkward. However, I am a single woman, in my early forties, and I do not care much about judgement. I spent enough of my life being judged harshly by others and myself, and I am in a new era.

The era of zero fucks to give — figuratively speaking, that is.

(Me, black and grey with a little lace, 2024)

And another thing…

I feel a short note is necessary to address the topic of this installment — sexual exploration. I know it can be a taboo topic. Here I am, sharing intimate details with the internet void about my sex life, but my goal is to break the stigma. I am not ashamed and have never had a problem talking openly about sexual pleasure from the female perspective. A woman that stumbles across this that carries shame, guilt, or fear may find something herein that can inspire them in some way, that can empower them, that can make them feel less shame. Whether it's finding the courage to explore their sexuality alone, with a partner, or simply becoming more familiar with their own bodies, I hope to inspire curiosity, safety, and confidence in women whom society, across cultures, never stops trying to silence and diminish.

If you enjoyed this or found it relatable— please let me know below. Maybe we can connect and build community! Also you can subscribe for free so you don’t miss the next installment of Mid-Life in Medellin. I appreciate you for following along!

(Spoilers: this series covers mid-life, self-discovery, navigating life as a woman in a new culture, dating, and reclaiming sexuality. I hope you’ll pull up a chair.)

*This is a personal narrative series. It is not necessary, but if you want to start from the beginning, you can do so here:

(Photo taken from the balcony of my first apartment in Medellin, Colombia at sunset)

*This is part two of a multi-part, ongoing personal narrative series. To fully understand and follow along, read part one in the link below or continue reading past it for part two.

Part Two:

I arrived. After all the goodbyes, airports, layovers, and lines, I made it. This was it. Everything was so unfamiliar and the Spanish all around me sounded like turning on the radio to 100 stations at once.

I was exhausted. I was nervous. I was juggling my two large suitcases, a carry-on bag, and my dog, Kona. Clamboring outside with my bags, clearly a foreigner, I waited for the driver I had hired to collect me.

Feeling relieved that my bags did not get lost, my dog went through inspection at the airport smoothly, and I was able to manage locating my driver, I settled into the backseat of the vehicle ready to take in the scenery on the way to the apartment.

Except I am me, and nothing tends to go exactly as planned in my life.

I received a message from an unknown number, in spanish, that read: Hola señora, tenemos su maleta en la oficina. (Hello Miss, we have your bag in the office [at the airport])

But I had both of my bags.

I had both of my bags.

Did I have both of my bags?

In these days I relied heavily on the translation app on my phone for communication. These apps often do not get it right and can create more confusion before the riddle is solved. I needed to communicate with the driver that I had the wrong bag and we needed to return to the airport and swap the bags. Instead I explained that “mi maleta no esta bien” (my suitcase is not okay), as in not feeling well. This created some obvious confusion and follow up questions that I did not understand and could not answer. After some back and forth, the message was finally received and we stopped to check the bags in the trunk of the car.

I, in fact, did not have both of my bags. I did, however, have two bags. Whoops.

In a chain of events, I was the asshole that caused panic for someone else and delayed their final destination — literally, not like the movie curse.

After a return trip to the airport, a second bag swap (this time intentional), and a very apologetic please-forgive-me-I’m-a- dumb-gringa interaction with the visibly irritated people waiting for their bag, the ride into the city was relatively peaceful. I was studying the surroundings as we made our way from the countryside into the city.

The neighborhoods blended together, but I remember more so the people. I was taking in all of the city business — a group of men gathered around a chessboard on a random corner like a real life scene from a generation gone. Salsa music carried through the air from the window of an apartment where a woman was hanging her laundry. A group of teenagers were laughing, chatting while washing their motorcycles and blasting reggaeton. A group of men sat around a table at a bodega in front of the TV watching a soccer match and sharing a bottle of liquor as if they had nowhere to be and had no intention of changing that. Motorcycles filled every space between the cars on the streets and some had two or three people stacked on them like it was nothing — because here, it was. Street vendors were on every corner and street performers danced and did acrobatics at the intersections for tips.

Through these observations of everyday life, I learned quickly that the people are the heart of this city. The history of the area is a testament to their resilience and perseverance. They also dream big, work hard, and live simply. Family is everything and the parties are joy personified. They will almost always offer you a drink or something to eat — the trade off is a chat that can be anything from a short pleasant exchange to an hour long interaction. And there is always music, sometimes salsa or pop music other times reggaeton, and if there is vallenato music and aguardiente involved, a corner bar, or even a side walk with some folding chairs, becomes an impromptu karaoke event.

My landlord, an American that had been living in South America twenty years, met me at the apartment, was friendly enough to give me a walking tour of the neighborhood, and accompanied me to the grocery store for a few things. Being the silly American from the US that I am, I mentioned that I would love to buy some beer but I did not have my ID with me. My landlord chuckled before informing me that IDing people is not enforced, and even teens can often be seen purchasing an alcoholic beverage or two. Very different from in the US where my 80 year old father still gets asked for his ID in the grocery store, despite his grumpy old man protesting (and him obviously being over 21 — the legal age for alcohol in the US).

My landlord later introduced me to the portero (doorman), Rafa, who would become my first real example of the kindness and helpfulness of the people of the region (from here on known as Paisas - people from Medellin and the greater department of Antioquia).

Rafa was charismatic and very excited to interact with me. In the beginning we used a lot of charades and Google translate, and he liked to sneak in a word in English — always random — and flash a proud smile. He became almost like a family figure for me. I got to know him and his wife and daughter throughout my time in that first apartment and we loosely stayed in touch after I moved. I even brought my mom to meet him when she visited and every Christmas I use the Christmas tree in the lobby of the building he is still stationed at to celebrate opening Christmas presents with my dog. (I’m an elder millennial dog mom — what else would you expect?)

This is how the Paisa people are: friendly, charming, welcoming, — and nosy. They LOVE some good chisme (gossip).

Porteros are the school secretaries of everyday life. They keep things running, they know how to get things done, and they know everyone’s business in the building. And offering them some buñuelos on your way back from the bakery on the corner, buys you some quality time with them.

You see, I too, like chisme.

I learned a lot about my neighbors through these interactions. My favorite was the ongoing feud between my nextdoor neighbor and the woman on the 7th floor that were arch rivals on the board of supervisors of the building. Rafa explained that they would both try to befriend me and to be careful navigating that, because I did not want to upset either of them, or pick a side.

Of course there are two sides to this. The other side is that I was also a topic of the chisme. I was the only foreigner in an eleven story apartment building. That alone drew attention, but when I started to have after hours guests and adult sleepovers, well, I accepted that I might also end up being a hot topic around the building. However, my strong relationship with Rafa usually kept him fairly discreet, I think — I guess I’ll never know.

My second day I had an interaction with a local that was a bit of a culture shock, but another testament to the kindness of strangers here. I was wandering around in my neighborhood, slightly lost, when an older man shouted and waved to get my attention. I had no idea what he was saying and avoided eye contact. This prompted him to get up, walk up to me and ask me if I was lost and needed help. I could make out a few words from studying spanish for travelers before my move. I politely refused the help and tried to scurry away thinking what does he really want because as an American from the US, if I am in a big city and a strange older man approaches me, it usually is not to be helpful. He did not let it go, insisted on helping me, gave me some directions that I did not understand, and I thanked him and walked the way he gestured not knowing where exactly he was sending me but also not wanting to be rude and ignore the help he worked so hard to give me. He really did just want to ensure I knew where I was and where I was going.

I still did not know either of those things, but I figured it out — eventually.

That is Medellín. A big city with a small town feel. Most people are genuinely friendly and not because you earned their kindness, but because they are just that way. It is a city where if you frequent the same cafes and corner stores, they will learn your name — and you can say you have a friend.

Later in the day I explored the nearby dog park with Kona. This park would become my first language exchange playground. I met other dog owners and was forced into basic small talk. Having the dogs around helped ease the stress of it and gave us something in common without making any real effort. The regulars in the neighborhood recognized eachother’s dogs by name, but I don’t think any of us ever used our own names. Kona learned Spanish faster than I did and made friends with two regular visitors, a mutt in the mornings every day at 8:00am and a daschund puppy in the afternoons around 11:00am. These routine interactions helped me move through my anxiety and everyone there was so patient and supportive of my attempts to communicate.

My first two days had drained me. I still had barely slept from the adrenaline and I had a literal headache from the amount of focus it required to be alert and navigate daily tasks with little ability to communicate and a lot of anxiety in doing so.

It was in the quiet, after those first few days, when I had settled into my apartment, that I was able to sit with myself and think about who I wanted to be. Nobody knew me here. For the first time in a long time, I could have been anyone. The thing is, I have never learned how to be anyone other than myself — for better or worse, authenticity is one thing that sticks to me. I decided that instead of reinventing myself, this was my opportunity to push my limits and to break out of the comfort zones. Afterall, I packed a lot of things, but my blanket of misery was not one of them.

I decided to do my best to leave my trauma in its country of origin and to live the life I wished I had lived in my 20s — the one that got lost before I was old enough to know I was losing it. Rather than allowing my anxiety to follow me, I cut it off at the turn. I pushed myself to socialize, to interact with strangers, to explore my own limits.

And to date again — and I kissed and plan to tell.

Part Three — Coming Soon.

I would love to hear your thoughts in the comments and it helps a lot to generate engagement, so if you enjoyed this — please let me know below. Also you can subscribe for free so you don't miss part three. I appreciate you for following along!

Spoilers: this series will cover mid-life, self-discovery, navigating life as a woman in a new culture, dating, and reclaiming sexuality. I hope you'll pull up a chair.

(photo taken from my balcony of a rainbow in the cloudy sky overlooking the city of Medellin, Colombia)

In early summer of 2022, I began to daydream about what my life could have been. This was rooted in the resentment of missed opportunities in my twenties, where I was wrapped up in an abusive relationship. A relationship that lasted far longer than it ever should have—an unfortunate pattern.

Living abroad was something I always wanted to do, something I expected to do in my twenties. I had a few opportunities to teach abroad, but I never had the support of my husband. He was not only a parasite sucking the livelihood from my life, but a boulder that weighed me down and yet without him, I had no financial support to accept those opportunities, and so they passed me by, or rather I passed them by.

Then came the divorce era. I divorced his ass and instantly turned my life around and started living again!

Just kidding. For a variety of reasons, I became a walking panic attack.

With my divorce era came a host of financial issues, health issues related to my autoimmune disease, and mental health issues. I will likely expand on these more in a future piece, but for now what you need to know is that I spent the next few years living on credit cards and loans, avoiding life, isolating, and battling my own mind and body. Also, once I hit my mid-thirties, I considered myself “too old” to move abroad and start over. I resigned myself to a bitter lonely old crone at the age of 35, and so I ruled it out altogether. This was it; this would be my life: just me, wrapped up in a metaphorical blanket of resentment, anger, and self-loathing. Cozy.

Now, though, there was no husband holding me back. The only thing standing in my way was me and this was a very difficult truth to digest. It forced a different kind of accountability on me that pressured me to face some uncomfortable facts. I had to not only want to change my life, but I had to actually make the changes — and not just therapy and medication, but real structural changes.

My anxiety preferred the cozy metaphorical blanket of misery.

Though much of my current work could easily be done remotely, I did not believe my employer would allow for full-time remote work, and the idea of selling everything I owned to embark on some wild, spontaneous life choice as I approached my 40th birthday was quite out of character for someone with PTSD-based Panic Disorder — my parting gift from the aforementioned abusive relationship with the parasitic husband. I pushed this thought aside and went on with my routine, day-to-day living while harboring regret and resentment of lost time and all the things I should have, could have, and would have done — if only things had been different. I found myself falling back into the same mindset that had already robbed me of years of my life: a lack of self-worth.

I lamented to my therapist and questioned, “Why couldn’t I be that person?” Why wasn’t I capable of making such a bold move? Why was I so attached to the safety and routine that I also found so mundane and stagnant? I liked my current job, had some amazing people in my life, was close to my family, and had a home that I loved in a town that I didn’t. I was smothered by memories I would have preferred to pack away. So even though there were good things in my life, I was unhappy, but I was comfortable in my unhappiness. This is the paradox of depression.

I reassured myself that moving abroad would never work. I began to work out all the angles in my head to prove it.

For some reason, I felt drawn to Colombia. Maybe it was due to my strangely-out-of-character-for-a-white-girl-that-does-not-speak-much-Spanish love of reggaeton and salsa — to say that I have a VERY eclectic musical palette would be drastically understated. And while it is amusing to think I moved abroad searching for my very own Maluma, honestly and all jokes aside, I did not have a reason. Probably to the detriment of my imaginary Maluma’s Colombian ego, I really did not have an objective or inspiration to choose Colombia. It was completely random. But once I chose it, I started basic research on a few cities in Colombia, passing time by daydreaming and planning an adventure that I wasn’t actually planning on taking part in. I explained these things to my therapist, and she listened and watched me go on emphatically about what my life could be like if it weren’t, well, my life.

But why?

When I finished my half manic rant — that I pay her well to listen to — she told me that if I was looking for validation to confirm that I am, in fact, not that person, I was about to be disappointed. She led me to the conclusion that I was not thoroughly researching all the details to convince myself that I should live abroad. I was searching for a reason not to and coming up empty. I had already subconsciously decided that I was not going to make the move. I wanted justification for that decision. I wanted something I could logically point to in the months and years that followed to explain why I didn't make the move. I wanted a reason that would keep my decision from becoming just another thread in the fabric of my cozy blanket of misery.

I was trying to justify my decision not to make the move, but in the process found every reason to make the move.

Then an opportunity presented itself. After several exchanges with a school based in Colombia, I was presented with a reason I deemed convincing enough to make the jump. I decided to attend Spanish courses full-time for a year and obtain a student visa program. The need for English teachers of all ages and trained educators is high, and there was no commitment to stay long-term, but an opportunity to learn a new language that could lead to a new career made it increasingly more difficult to convince myself to stay in the safety net I had created for myself when the world outside of my blanket fort had some interesting opportunities.

Time to get out of my own way.

I began to research and lay out the steps I would need to make such a drastic life change less drastic, or at least less chaotic and more structured. For fear of an obstacle popping up that I wouldn’t be able to work around, I slowly started to lay the groundwork. I did not want to tell many people, in case it fell apart or I backed out. I was afraid to give early notice at work, because what if things didn’t work out and I ended up stuck in this town I didn’t like and without a job? Life really could be worse.

When I finally had everything in place, I knew it was time to approach my workplace with my resignation.

For me, it has always been difficult to leave a job. The uncertainty of what comes next and the questions of whether I will be good enough make change difficult. I am also loyal to a fault. Almost every job I had held from the age of fifteen was a long-term position. At this point, I had been working in education in different roles since my early twenties. I had transitioned from primary school teacher into higher education only seven years prior, freshly divorced on a single public school teacher’s income and with my fancy new graduate degree — and the lifetime of crippling American student loan debt to prove it.

I was preparing to leave a job I was confident in, that I loved, that challenged me, with mostly supportive administrators for absolutely nothing. The reality of not having employment for the first time in my working life was, and still is, terrifying. While I spent weeks panicking about being unemployed, when I finally met with my supervisor to put in my resignation, I was pleasantly surprised that my employer was prepared to keep me on full-time, remotely.

I had nothing holding me back.

So, I did it. Just before my 40th birthday, I sold my belongings, packed my life into two large suitcases, and finalized all of my arrangements.

I spent the next few weeks defending my decision to move to Medellín, Colombia.

“Columbia — like the country?” (intentionally misspelled as “Columbia”, as many English speakers do)

“Yes, the country.”

“But…narcos…gangs…dangerous…underdeveloped…” (a conglomeration of all the comments I received)

In these moments I could have pointed out that all of those things can be applied to the US as well, but instead I played up how excited I was and how great the experience would be while largely ignoring their Netflix Narcos informed references and US American propaganda miseducation of the outside world, especially of South America.

In those weeks before the move, I did start educating myself on the politics, the history, the healthcare system, the infrastructure, the rental laws, and general information about the city of Medellin, my chosen relocation destination. I studied maps of comunas (sectors of the city), watched travel vlogs, and learned the layout of the specific neighborhood I would be living in. I learned where not to go, what not to do, how to navigate the city, and how not to give papaya. (No des papaya, or don’t give papaya, is a common phrase in Colombia that essentially means do not make yourself an easy target for petty crime — do not make it easy for someone to take advantage of you. This stems from the fact that papaya are a large fruit and easy to spot.)

I mentioned this briefly, but I am not a spontaneous person. Planning and understanding as many details as possible about any given situation I am moving toward is a necessity for me. Once, before visiting Spain, I downloaded and mapped out all of the metro routes, sights, and specific restaurants within the area of my hotel to the point where I had them memorized and didn’t need the posted signs on the metro to get around. So before I even arrived in Medellín, I had a fairly solid working knowledge of the city, its history, the basic slang, and the comuna my apartment was located in. Although, nothing truly prepares you for a move like this — not entirely.

Was I nervous? I was, but oddly not as much as I thought I would be. For the first time in my life, when facing such a big change, the biggest of my life, I had a sense of sureness. It was as if I knew that my life was waiting on the other side of customs and border control, Migración Colombia.

And it was.

(I would love to hear your thoughts in the comments! This is an ongoing personal narrative series. If you enjoyed it, please subscribe for free so you don’t miss the next installment. I would be honored if you would follow along.

Spoilers: this series will cover mid-life, self-discovery, navigating life as a woman in a new culture, dating, and reclaiming sexuality. Think of it as having a drink with your Substack Auntie who tells all. I hope you'll pull up a chair.)

Part Two Available Here:

(photo taken in Medellin, Colombia of a fallen flower, blood red, among the tangled roots of a tree and the dull earth)

This post takes a turn from my first post, an essay piece. Being overwhelmed at the state of the world feels iolating. If you connect with these poems, I would love to hear about it in the comments. I appreciate you reading.

“World War III”

The screams and whistles before the thunder of a bomb

become one shrill sound.

A warning

to say their goodbyes,

to squeeze shut their eyes,

hold tight -

and wait.

When we wished for an end to world hunger,

this is not what we meant, but

the dead are hungry no more, nonetheless.

The bloody and broken,

the casualties,

the flecks of shrapnel sparkle when the sun cuts through the haze,

and screams

and pain

and tears

mark the site of yet

another spontaneous burial ground.

The immense grieving over the rubble

left in the wake of destruction

is too vivid to be a dream

but feels too heavy to be real.

Mourning the lost,

also the living -

the lives forever changed or left behind.

There are no saviors;

hands covered in blood and filled with dollars,

too dirty and full to hold empathy.

Are there really ever any heroes in war?

And they have convinced us that we are too few to raise a fist in revolution.

Servants,

not by design flaw -

by design.

And the sun still shines,

and the Earth still turns,

and the bombs never cease.

The violence splayed before us has become background noise -

a new normal.

“I Read The News Today”

I don’t know how to do anything with a half heart.

I feel everything so fully - so intensely,

that even the good emotions can feel like a burden.

But these bad ones...

I am treading water

trying not to drown in these emotions.

I have to learn to breathe underwater if I want to survive

in this unrelenting world.

(*I would appreciate your thoughts in the comments below; it is nice to know we are not alone-and if you would like to read more of my essays, poetry, and personal narratives, please subscribe - it’s free. Please browse my previous work-I would love to hear your feedback. New personal narrative post on self-discovery and life changes coming soon…)

I recently began writing a series of poems that are rooted in the narrative of what is referred to as The Male Loneliness Epidemic (stay tuned for those). Through this process, I have watched presentations, read studies, and been genuinely fascinated at the audacity of men, generally speaking. The research indicates men are lonely because women are not legally obligated to them in today’s western world like they once were. To provide some examples we look at some of the historic ideas and legal constructs that demonstrate the obstacles women have had to, and still do, face in society. In the United States, women could not legally sign for a bank loan, hold credit accounts, or open a bank account, without a man until the mid 1970s. Even after it was legal it was a system riddled with discrimination. Then there is the continuing wage gap between men and women where women earn approximately eighty cents for every dollar earned by men. Also, it is a fact that it was not until 1993 that sexually assaulting your spouse was deemed illegal across all fifty states.

Societally, we have been groomed over centuries into a patriarchal society, which is not the natural order. In tribes and older societies, women were leaders or leadership was egalitarian in nature. We see a shift as organized religion began to shape the way we governed, and this is what actually started the “manosphere” we currently see surging. The manosphere is not not new, it is just resurging. In mainstream biblical interpretations, women were not portrayed in positions of power and never as autonomous. Women were portrayed as villains in religious literature, as whores, as condemned, and punished for the behaviors of the men in their lives. One common example in biblical scripture is the story of the virgin Mary. The story gives credit for the birth of a male leader to an omnipotent male gendered being. This story is also responsible for the imagined construct of virginity in women as pure and righteous. This concept centers around male control, male dominance, male power, and of female pleasure as sinful and sex outside of solitary male ownership as ruining the value and purity of a woman. These biblical ideologies that paint the picture of patriarchy bled into government structures which formed society’s modern views and informed everything from women’s medical treatment to what we deem as appropriate social interactions between men and women.

With this shift, women were left to survive by catering to men. Women needed men for financial security, for status, to avoid being shunned. They survived domestic violence for decades and had no legal means to leave, and if they did, they could not survive in a world where there was no legal support for them.

The last few generations of women have had to literally fight and navigate systems designed to hold their heads under water, learn how to use cunning and wit, in order to stay alive in the world. Yet when the world is in crisis, women are the saviors. During labor shortages in times of war, women were trained and filling the need economically and then cast out when no longer needed. Women are also responsible for over half of the world’s unpaid care work, which powers the economy.

Women have had to learn how to defend themselves, physically and figuratively, in a world that was carefully constructed against them. We can now support ourselves, sustain our own lifestyles, seek medical care, hold credit accounts, manage our own money, and the need for men no longer exists. Even with the odds still against them, women have found the means to balance their lives in order to survive, learning how to shape-shift and exist in and manipulate the spaces not designed for them as a legitimate tool for this survival and success.

Women have learned how to create bonds with other women, to network the labor of our emotional needs, because we were pushed into corners with only other women for years before being permitted in other spaces.

The idea of toxic independence is yet another example of how men run the narrative. Instead of phrasing it as an adaptive response from abusive and controlling men, we blame women by design for obtaining and maintaining high levels of independence which we developed because men were not a reliable source of stability or safety. Women are masters at adapting, because we have been forced to do so. Instead of focusing on correcting the way we raise and condition men, we innately blame women while excusing men. We have taught women the importance of women specific self-defense classes, the importance of knowing your exits, the danger of wearing headphones in public, needing to cover our drinks in bars, even sharing our location with our friends when we meet new men or when we enter a taxi or Uber. There is even an option on ride share apps that allows women to request a female driver. The pressure is always on a woman to take responsibility for the behavior of men.

This has historically carried over into romantic partnerships. Women are statistically happier single, while men report higher levels of loneliness. This occurs because the relationship stereotype is no longer being fulfilled by obedient women that are willing to take on the task of raising an adult man in a world where they do not need to rely on them. Women take on the emotional labor in a romantic partnership as well as the other historically stereotyped gender roles of home care, childcare, and service to their male partners. At the same time, because of societal need, women are still working full time jobs. This puts every responsibility on their shoulders either out of necessity, survival, or expectation.

Dating men today is navigating a mine field of potential risks. In a time where politics is more important than ever, especially for women and other communities facing systemic barriers, women see “apolitical” as a red flag, and rightfully so. To be “apolitical” in a world where politics is determining our autonomy is a privilege women do not have. Men want women “in their feminine energy” with no understanding of gender constructs being social and that femininity is not an aesthetic, but a power. Men that cannot make the time or effort to plan a date, cook a meal, help clean up, care for the children, communicate emotionally, or demonstrate basic gestures of care and love for their partners, are now villainizing women and putting the responsibility on women, again.

The reality is that women are no longer seeking refuge or security, they are seeking a partner that does not treat them as their mother, as their therapist, as their servant, or as their punching bag. When men cannot step up to their share of the emotional labor, women will continue on without them, because we have been designed to survive and thrive alone. Our happiness does not come from our role in the life of a man, but from what we have built around us.

In the same way that men are resistant to sharing in the responsibility of a partnership, they are also programmed for obedience-something society has always associated with women, not men. Men are the ones that fall in line easily in broader societal systems. They are the bulk of our military, our police force, our legislators, because they are easily trained to do as they are told and when praised for doing so, they melt with pride at the praise of other men.

Even in nature many species operate under a matriarch where the male of the species must earn the attention of the female and where the females are often the hunters and protectors.

Society wants women obedient and dependent on their male counterparts, yet here we are, defiant, independent, and rebellious. We continue fighting for everything we have and to hold onto our hard-won independence in a time where we are faced with powerful men systematically stripping us back down, negating decades of progress by wielding their legislative majority and through mass manipulation of young men and boys in the “manosphere.”

And we will not stop.

*I would love to hear your thoughts in the comments! If you would like to receive notifications when I publish my personal narratives, poetry, and essays, please subscribe for free to my substack below.