In Italian, when we want to express the feeling of being love struck for the very first time, we say that someone has experienced “il colpo di fulmine,” which directly translates to “lighting strike.”

Almost nine years ago, on an uncharacteristically warm Halloween, I met Kiwi, and let’s just say that I was hit by not one, but ten-thousand flaming lightning strikes all at once.

Reader, I never truly thought that I would have the courage to write this. Kiwi and I’s story is one of golden happiness, but it has since been laced with the inkiness of grief. I lost him almost one year ago, and in fact, the thirteenth of this month marks a whole year around the sun that I haven’t felt his soft, flaxen fur, seen his rocking horse canter, or shocked a very confused waiter by sneaking a whole pocketful of restaurant peppermints into my purse for my little snowflake, knowing that he’ll be happy as a clam to see me strolling up to his stall with some treats.

I’ll never forget something that my aunt had shared with my mom after the passing of my grandmother. She said that grief never really goes away, but instead, you just learn to carry it with you and move about your business, albeit sharing space with its presence.

There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t miss him voraciously. I often find myself talking to him, wondering which path he’d lead me down if I let go of the reins and permitted him to decide for me. I notice my decisions are influenced by the strength he imparted into me through his feisty bucks and rears. He never let me get away with anything. Fear seemed to be nonexistent to him, and he always made sure that I conquered it before moving on. Reader, he took care of me…and I believe he still does. I needed him before I needed anyone else in my life. He was the best of me, the help that I never knew I needed, the one who could put a flashing, debonair smile on my face in the midst of a toilsome schoolyear or a day filled with color blue. Any sort of anger, bitterness, or fear melted when I curry combed clumps of excess springtime fur away. It was like freshly fallen snow, and as hair clung to my breeches, sadness let go. A simple one of his sighs or a twitch of one of his ears calmed my racing heart and mind swimming with schools of thought far too complex to breed happiness.

Yet, reader, I’m here to tell you that as much as I have immortalized him through memories and countless stories, I have learned to love again—to brush another horse and allow myself to give him a sweet little cowboy kiss. I have learned that loving does not mean forgetting, and opening your heart is a part of healing. I have learned that life’s biggest trick is making you believe that love and joy ends when pulses stop. If anything, it begins once more. Closing myself off to loving again was something I vowed to never do. What good is a shiny heart ? Don’t the greatest ballerinas dance on pointe shoes broken down by experience and pain ? Look at a mosaic…it’s not beautiful because it’s seamless, but instead, its colors are far more vibrant because it is made up of broken parts. Kiwi is my everything, and I will never speak of him in the past tense, because he is far more alive than I am, and when it comes time for my pulse to end, I know that he’ll be waiting for me, flaxen fur and all, ready for a peppermint and a cowboy kiss, because truly, “il primo amore non si scorda mai” (the first love is never forgotten).

I’m writing my third blog post from the bay window of my childhood bedroom. It’s been my “luogo di rifugio” since I was the tender age of fifteen. It’s housed the fluffy, warm bed of my dog, Callie, seen my style change, smelled the soft scent of young perfume and the transition to older notes from Chanel, providing me with a sense of safety amidst the cold teenage years and the beginning of my early twenties. However, if someone were to ask me—especially on the precipice of my European trip—if I saw myself handling a quill at the same writing desk from my sophomore year of high school, I would have thought them touched by the moon.

But here I am, reader. Two degrees and three months into…freedom ? I guess that’s what they call a life lacking the rigidity of five classes and a to-do list longer than the State of the Union address. I swore to be honest on this blog and I am not one to sugarcoat my life. I know exactly what it feels like to be on the receiving end of someone’s perfect existence, struggling to piece together an answer to, “I’m heading off to graduate school in the south of France !” “How about you ?” What I’d like to do instead is create a space where you see my desire for change and appreciation for the wings that got me to where I am.

My university years were a gilded struggle. From the outside, most watched me frolic around a beguiling campus blanketed in a lavender haze of Jacaranda trees and the smell of success. Although I loved my time being a Torero, hardships weren’t scarce, and what many did not know was that I suffered four family losses, a surprise diagnosis, and a dad in the hospital during the final stretch of my senior year. Reader, I’m after authenticity. If no one is honest about thorns being present in a rose garden, then what is the purpose of the pen ?

I often think about my experience as the transformation of a butterfly. Cliché, I know, but bear with me for a moment. I have been in my chrysalis for years, to the point of almost wondering if I was to ever be blessed with my wings. I’m here to tell you, please don’t beat on the walls of your own chrysalis. Butterflies do not hastily move around and urge their wings to form faster, but instead they wait…ever so patiently. I’m pleased to say that I’ve made peace with my chrysalis. Do not cheapen little victories. Yesterday, I was speaking to my mom about this very topic, and I was reminded of a scene from one of my favorite movies, Alice in Wonderland, where Alice in searching incessantly for a way out of the woods, and as she is trying to look back at where she came from, a dog with a muzzle in the shape of a brush starts sweeping away her previous tracks. For years I have brushed my own tracks away and disregarded many victories as not “good enough,” or “battles unworthy of the pleasure of a pat on the back.” Reader, I was achingly wrong.

As I approach the autumn, I am reminded of how beautiful my chrysalis is, and that one day, very soon, when I least expect it, effervescent wings will scare me straight into believing that I truly am a butterfly.

I’m a self-proclaimed costume enthusiast. Now, if someone were to ask me where it all began, I’d probably reply with a puzzled, I-just-crawled-out-of-cheese look. I’m actually not entirely sure where the waterfall’s source is, but I know for certain that it’s gushing and floods my world to the very brim.

Every time I approach a journey to Italy my artistic senses become heightened. Each piece of art that I touch, see, or feel is living and breathing. The midnight hours become enchanted with inspiration, and to say the very least, burning the candle at both ends as I muse with the owls sounds quite enticing during these moments.

Back in university I took a course on costume design. It was incredible. Truly a magical experience. (Shout out to Professor Corey !) I’ll never forget a particularly memorable lesson. We were to create sans an imposing environment. Meaning, that we had to sit with simply a pen and paper while we listened to “Les sirènes” by Claude Debussy. Our task was to design costumes for Shakespeare’s The Tempest, a sweeping tale set on a magic-infested island. As I listened to cascading notes, they seemed to waltz in imagination. My professor gave us the chance to truly imagine without the voices of online inspiration and others’ interpretations of the play. Joy swelled inside of me and my pen became an extension of my imagination. Felicity is a mind without the influence of those who seek to destroy your personal voice. “Les sirènes” translates to “the mermaids.” As you may guess, I still believe I am one and many days at the beach have been spent wishing upon a shell or two, (or two-hundred) for a shimmering tail and the ability to breathe underwater, because pet dolphins are totally feasible, right ?

Costumes are something of an escape for me. When Zara, H&M, and Reformation suffocate our hangers, forcing us into a world where to-do lists are created and checkmarks are the dream, Marie Antoinette’s powdered wig look extremely welcoming. I love the Rococo era. The pastels, the rejection of Baroque rigidity, the carelessness ! Messy is the new clean girl. I’m a ribbons strewn upon the floor of an old Parisian theatre dressing room type of girl.

Just today I was speaking with a dear Italian friend of mine. The topic of commedia dell’arte came up. For those of you who aren’t aware of this topic, commedia dell’arte is a subset of theatre that highlights the antics of harlequin, Columbine, and Pierrot. Carnevale is a festival in Venice that draws inspiration from this type of theatre. Back in the same theatre class that I took, I designed costumes for Niccolò Machiavelli’s famous play, La Mandragola. Scouring the internet for the perfect fabrics and feel, I landed upon the likes of medieval couture and harlequin garb, melded the two and birthed a confluence of my passions. But boy are these endeavors a feat, how can a girl hire Jaq and Gus Gus ?

Most days, you can find me on my rose-covered balcony, wistful, pensive, and inspired. I’m the type of girl who still frolics and wishes on dandelions, the sort of dreamer who stands below a fallen star and shares her deepest secrets, hoping for a miracle. You could say that I’m a bit like Peter Pan. I don’t think there was ever really a time where I felt like a true grownup. Of course, life has its ways of changing and maturing you, but I’ve come to think of myself as the sea. Her tides change and her waves crash and fall, but she is constant and true to her makeup. Reader, I believe in love. True love. Whether this comes in the form of a flower, dog, or piece of music, I love deeply and wholly, and without reservations. My heart is on the sleeve of my shimmering princess gown. Most girls stop believing that they are princesses long before anyone has to convince them that they’re not. Me ? Well…let’s just say that if I could, I’d ditch modern dating and wait for my knight in a rugged tower somewhere in Italy. I love making costumes and still get giddy when I think of donning myself in rich colors, patterns, and fabrics. Much to my dismay, however, I have recently learned that mice do not lend a helping paw to such endeavors. Over the years I have learned that horses make marvelous friends. When most girls had boyfriends in high school I was snipping mane, curry-combing copious amounts of fur, and trotting around in the blazing California sun. My heart horse, Kiwi, is in heaven now, but I’m absolutely positive that since then he’s sent me a few warning signs ushering me away from more frogs as I wait for my prince. My animal adventures weren’t solely equine, I actually had a Chihuahua named Callie for fourteen years and to say the very least, I considered her my furry sister. (Only children are prone to adopting siblings of all forms). Oftentimes, she was my homework companion, listening to Debussy with me as I wrote ferociously about Dante, Petrarch, or Romeo and Juliet. Speaking of which, I have since graduated from university. Studying both English and Italian was a vibrant dream. I spent many evenings in the library, feeling a whole lot like Belle, buried in sonnets. Starting my Italian journey was like finding the key to the deepest, most profound parts of my soul. Finding Italy meant finding others who believed in art like me, who could stand in front of Botticelli’s work for hours, picking apart each brushstroke. I live in a dreamland built around the waters of reality. Somehow, I can straddle the line between fiction and the real world, but in full honesty, I prefer the oases in my mind. This blog is meant to detail everything that enchants me. You will find poems, artwork, my everyday life, and a whole lot of animals. My dreams dictate my daily life and I do not shy away from living authentically. I find beauty in everything, wish upon stars, and play make believe at twenty-three. I prefer quills to pens, powdered wigs to Hailey Bieber buns, cappuccinos to matcha, the sea to the city, Ledger to Pitt, operas to films, and “Clair de Lune” to “Pink Pony Club.” Welcome to my wonderland.