romanticizing my real life (not the aesthetic one)

i used to think the goal was to become someone who bought croissants on sunday mornings and had a signature perfume and never left the house with chipped nails. someone who had a skincare fridge and a morning routine and a home office with soft lighting and a marble coaster for their iced matcha. someone who lived in a world that looked like it had been filtered through good taste. but lately, i’ve been thinking about the gap between a life that looks good and a life that actually feels like mine. and i think i’m more interested in the second one now. not because i’ve cracked the code or become more evolved or finally transcended consumerism — but because i’m tired. and real life, as it turns out, doesn’t wait for the vibe to be right.

i want to talk about what it means to romanticize your life when your apartment smells like something weird in the fridge and your inbox is giving anxiety and your face is breaking out for no reason other than cortisol and fate. i want to talk about what it means to romanticize your life when you’re not on a trip to tuscany or in a neutral-toned linen outfit, but when you’re wearing yesterday’s t-shirt, microwaving the same leftovers, wiping down the high chair, and trying to remember if you already had caffeine or if that was just a dream. i want to talk about the version of romanticizing your life that doesn’t mean adding something, but noticing something. the way the afternoon light lands on the floor in a way you’d pay to see in a museum. the way your dog sighs when he settles next to you like he’s exactly where he wants to be. the way your favorite mug makes you feel like you’re someone worth caring for.