Where I’m at on a Sunday in November

(Note: I haven’t written anything in a while and I’m feeling that Sunday blues sort of thing so I brain-dumped here and then clicked publish. This is the result. Sorry.)


Usually, I’m an over-excitable bumblebee who can’t stop talking about good things and wants to show you this band and this song and oh have you heard this acoustic set and that reminds me of this artist and let me tell you a life story about where I was when I heard this song for the first time.

And then I need to go home and lay in my bed for two days and think about how my voice was too high-pitched when I said that one thing and I sounded too eager and I need to tone it down and oh God why did I say that and maybe I shouldn’t have used that emoji and I wish I talked less but somedays I can’t find my off switch.

I’m like a glitchy flashlight that you just have to let run out of battery and leave in a junk drawer until the power goes out and then you replace the batteries and start over fresh.


The other night, I tripped over an uneven crack in the sidewalk. I instinctively sputtered a “Sorry” to the kid walking toward me, as if my blunder had caused him some sort of discomfort or inconvenience.

When I get really excited about a band or really flustered about a crush or drink too much wine and (heaven forbid) start to cry, I can’t stop saying “I’m sorry.” I apologize for my personality more often than I own it. I try to tone myself down, to dam the tsunami, to tell the high tide in my chest “Hanna, dude, calm down.”

And then it all breaks loose and not even pounding on tables or capslock or canvassing the entire town can adequately express my love.

Speaking of which, have you ever listened to Bear’s Den?


Most days, my body is too big and achey and doesn’t move and bend in the swan-neck-ballet-dancer-I’ve-never-thought-about-it type of way I’ve dreamed of.

Most days, my body carries me and I am grateful.


I miss Paris in the rain every day. I miss Brussels with an ache I never expected. I miss the mountains of Alaska. I miss the river in Austin. I love Columbia with my whole heart, but my body is restless.

I’ve been listening to the same three albums on repeat for weeks now. I’ve imagined you singing them and then I’ve immediately screamed into a pillow. I’ve thought about the man from Leeds who I met in a bar in Brussels every day for the past month. I’ve woken up with butterflies and a goofy grin on my face because my subconscious is a runaway train.

I told myself I would start journaling again.
I haven’t found my journal yet.


It’s officially winter and my bed is an expanse of sheets and laundry and lost socks. Every November, my bed gets too big and it doesn’t shrink again until the snow finally melts. It’s silly and stupid and very noticeable change once the days get shorter.

My sister and I are two sides of the same coin. She puts up walls and can remove her emotions and I can’t figure out how to stem the flow of feelings from my heart. I am a child of the sun and she is a child of water. We are getting matching tattoos in a week. She loves me better that anyone I know.

It is freezing cold and dark in both of our towns right now. We are both messes in our own right, 320 miles apart.

“I hate winter,” she types.
I pause. Stare. Type. Hit enter.
“Me too.”

Winter means buche de Nöel and Christmas lights and endless sweater weather and Bing Crosby and a constant excuse to drink hot chocolate. It also means seasonally affective depression and finals week and dry skin and runny noses.

Winter means my bones ache in their ball-and-socket and synovial joints. Winter means I forget what green grass feels like under my shoes. Winter means December 15th must come again.

Winter can buzz off.


Things aren’t all bad, all stagnant. I am seeing The 1975 for the second time a week from tomorrow. I am seeing Ben Howard in 81 days. I get paid on Friday for 59 hours of burrito rolling.

There are so many good concerts and shoe sales and potential coffee dates in my future. I am going to graduate from college (?!!!?? ?!?!?!?!). I am going to move again (ugh) and start somewhere different (!!!).

I have plenty more chances to listen to my favorite records, to make a fool of myself in front of cute boys, to drink good beer with better friends, to sleep through my alarms, to spend $20 on the perfect shade of lipstick.

Things are gonna be okay.
Winter is always going to end.


9 thoughts on “Where I’m at on a Sunday in November

    1. “Islands” from Bear’s Den, “I Forget Where We Were” from Ben Howard and “Dream Your Life Away” from Vance Joy. I have a Spotify playlist here and it’s just been on repeat.

  1. Seems like I could have written this myself. I speak ‘too much’ and I feel everything then I spend my nights going over every conversation from my day with a fine tooth comb. I don’t live in a climate for winter, I live in the tropics, in the Caribbean, however I can still feel the difference in the temperature at this time of year, I notice that the days are shorter as well while so many others don’t. Specifically with the holidays ahead there is so much shopping and traffic that everywhere gets congested but it’s looking forward to the small things that get me through this time of year. All the best to you, I’ve always wanted a sister but my brother is just fine.

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