It’s been a minute since I’ve written—too long, really. I’ve been out of the habit. Out of discipline. And I’m not proud of it. Writing used to be my space, my anchor, and I know I need to return to it—not just when things feel calm, but especially when they don’t.

Right before spring break (April 20–27), I went to ASL Misc show on Friday night, April 18. I told myself I needed to go out, be around people, feel something other than what I’ve been stuck in lately. I wanted to enjoy myself. But as soon as I got there, that familiar ache of anxiety bubbled up in my chest like an old friend I never wanted to see again.

Instead of mingling or chatting with new faces, I found myself scanning for comfort of familiarity. I clung to known faces like they were little life rafts in a noisy, uncertain ocean. And even then, my words ran dry. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t have the energy to pretend. So I ducked away and found an empty seat, just to breathe.

That’s when it hit me—I missed Jenna.

Not in a loud, sobbing kind of way. It was quieter than that. Like a ghost brushing against my thoughts. I sat there wondering what I was even doing, how I got here, and why she wasn’t beside me. I keep catching myself thinking of her in moments like this—when I feel out of place or lonely in a crowd.

To shake it off, I made myself focus on who was next to me. Chatted a little. Smiled. Nodded. But something still felt off. Like I was floating. Like I wasn’t fully here.

Then, out of nowhere, a wild idea hit me—dirty ASL jokes.

Yup. That’s how my brain works.

I got up and volunteered to go on stage, unsure if it would bomb or fly. I acted out a ridiculous dirty ASL joke, just throwing myself into it—and to my surprise, people laughed. Real, loud, belly laughs. The kind that ripple across a Deaf room like electricity. For that moment, I felt alive. Like my silly, chaotic self had finally come out to play.

But after the laughter faded, the stage cleared, and no one else stepped up, I felt it again—that empty space. That “I wish Jenna saw this” space. And then I wondered, what if she didn’t come because someone talked her out of it? Maybe Norma said something. Who knows. Either way… she wasn’t there. And it’s not my job to keep guessing.

I’m trying to accept that we’re not together anymore.

I’m trying to believe that maybe one day, we can be friends. Maybe.

At 8:50pm, I checked my watch and realized I had to go. I had a 6AM flight to San Diego the next day, and I hadn’t even packed. So I walked around, said goodbye to the people I care about, gave a few hugs, whispered my thanks, and slipped out.

Later, at home, stuffing clothes into my bag, I kept thinking: Will I enjoy this trip? Or will I cry again when I feel the ache of her absence? Will I be okay sitting in the quiet moments by myself?

So many what-ifs. So many questions that spiral when the world finally slows down.

But I had to stop myself.

I had to breathe.

I had to remind myself that this is my journey. That I’m allowed to feel sad. That it’s okay to miss her. And it’s okay to hope. But I also have to keep moving forward.

I’m learning—slowly, stubbornly—to accept this chapter of my life. Not because I want to. But because I have to.

To My Readers: Let Me Ask You…

• Have you ever gone to an event hoping to feel better, only to realize you still felt kind of lost in the crowd?
• Do you ever find yourself missing someone in the most unexpected moments?
• When anxiety creeps up, how do you ground yourself—especially in social spaces?
• What do you do when you catch yourself spiraling in “what ifs”?
• Have you ever had to accept a chapter of your life that your heart wasn’t ready to close?

I’m still figuring it out. But I’d love to hear your thoughts, your stories, your ways of coping. Let’s be real together. 💬