The Cruise Where I Stopped Waiting to Die

(And Remembered Why I Started at All)

It’s day one of my weekend cruise, and I haven’t even gotten access to my stateroom yet. But something inside me already knows — I will not walk off this ship the same woman who walked on.

Six months ago, I stood on a different deck — on a different cruise — and made a plan. Not a travel itinerary or a business model, but a soul-level decision about how I wanted to live the rest of my life.

It felt solid. Grounded.
Something I could build on.

I came home from that cruise and did the damn thing.
I launched the website.
Started the social accounts.
Began documenting my days, sharing my truths.
I even did Instacart deliveries to fund my goals, pouring my whole heart into every order.

But slowly, quietly, the plan started to unravel.

The Performance I Didn't Mean to Give

When I first picked up journaling again at the beginning of the year — scribbling in notebooks, filming soft moments, capturing the sunlight on my wall or the steam from a solo meal — it was just for me.

I didn’t know what would come of it, but I needed a record.
Not for followers or fans.
For evidence.

I needed to know how I moved through this chapter.
How I treated myself.
What I tried.
What I survived.

But somewhere along the line, that sacred process got hijacked.

I started shaping my life into a story for other people.
Curating. Packaging.
Waiting for approval in the form of claps, clicks, and comments.

When it didn’t come — when the silence was louder than the applause I never admitted I craved — I spiraled.

I Let the World in Again

Even though I had set out to live on my terms, I found myself performing again.

Chasing engagement.
Strategizing content.
Trying to squeeze my messy, sacred process into something “relatable” or “valuable.”

But underneath it all, I was just a woman still aching to be understood.
Still wanting someone — anyone — to care that I had been here.
To wonder.

And I started breaking in that quiet way only women who’ve held it together too long know how to break.
The kind that doesn’t show on the outside.
Just looks like stillness.
But on the inside, it’s collapse.

A slow, dragging depression set in.
And the cruelest part?

I blamed myself.

I’d done everything right.
Why wasn’t it enough?

Then, a Simple Realization: I’m Still Alive

It took hitting that low to see the truth:

I had a plan for the final years of my life —
but once I made that plan, I was just… killing time.

Checking off tasks. Following steps.
Waiting to die, but with purpose.

And that was the problem.

I don’t want to pass the time.
I want to live until I die.

This Cruise Is Different

Today, before I even reached the ship, I recorded a voice memo in my car.
Not an affirmation. Not a to-do list.
A proclamation.

A declaration that I’m done performing.
Done begging.
Done asking the world to get it.

I’ve been handing out pieces of myself in hopes that someone would say,
“Yes. You matter.”

And every time I did that — every time I veered off my truth to make others comfortable or engaged — I ended up miserable.

Every. Single. Time.

But when I return to my way — to raw writing, quiet documentation, and unpolished truth — I feel peace.

Maybe not joy.
Maybe not connection.
But peace.

And that’s enough.

I’m Still Walking

I’m back to daily documentation.
But not for the same reasons.

There’s no marketing strategy now.
No plan to boost traffic or build a brand.

Some days I’ll write.
Some days I won’t.
Some posts will be messy. Some will be beautiful.

I might whisper something about Pajama Life… or I might just let it sit quietly in the background.

Because this isn’t content anymore.
It’s my life.
And I’m living it.

I used to think that posting everything meant it would live forever.
But forever has an annual fee.

And if I stop paying?
Maybe the record disappears.

Oh well.

I Am Not a Campaign

Tonight I’ll be eating at the Chef’s Table on the ship.
No recipe from me. No cozy solo dish paired with my emotions.

Because today, the nourishment isn’t on a plate —
It’s in the clarity.
The reset.
The truth I finally returned to:

I’m not here to be inspiring.
I’m not here to be digestible.
I’m not here to build a brand.

I’m here because I was born.
And I get to live however the hell I want.

The Life I Can Live With

Some would say my life is sad.
I have no partner. No friend group. No family texting me every day.

But you know what I do have?

A quiet that doesn't hurt.
A rhythm that feels like breathing.
The cats on my bed.
The ocean within reach.
Freedom from performance.

It’s a life I can live with.
Maybe not flashy.
Maybe not admirable to the outside world.
But it’s mine.

And I’m no longer apologizing for how I live it.

I’ll Keep Walking

Not because someone’s watching.
Not because I think it’ll be remembered.

But because when I walk this way — honestly, openly, messily —
I feel whole.

So I’ll keep writing.
Keep recording.
Keep uploading pieces of myself, not to impress, but to be at peace with the truth of my days.

Maybe someone will stumble on it later and wonder.
Maybe not.

But the wonder doesn’t have to happen while I’m here.
It just has to be possible.

Where I Thought I’d Shrink, I Thrived

There was something else different about this trip.
Something I didn’t expect.

The vast majority of passengers were Black — maybe 90%, if not more.

And me? A white woman who grew up in a family where racism wasn’t subtle — it was preached.

It’s not a belief system I carry, but it is one I had to unlearn.

The truth is — I’ve never had close Black friendships.
A few acquaintances over the years, some friendly coworkers, but never something deeper.
Not because I avoided it, but because it just… never happened.

So when I got on that ship and noticed the demographic, I assumed I’d hide.
Spend my time in the room.
Avoid activities, stay invisible, keep my head down.

But I didn’t.

An Honest Moment at a Loud Table

At dinner with a large, celebratory Black family — full of laughter, noise, and energy — one woman turned to me and asked, point-blank:

“Are you uncomfortable being the only white woman here?”

And without hesitation, I said:

“No.”
Quickly. Firmly. Honestly.

And I meant it.

I’ve never seen so many Black women in one place in my life — not in person.
And yet I didn’t feel out of place.

Even when I was the only white person in a crowd of two hundred.
Even when I passed through groups in the early morning hours, weaving through conversation and music to get back to my room.

I felt present, not panicked.
Grounded, not guarded.

It wasn’t about race.
It wasn’t even about the crowd.

It was about me.
Not shutting down.
Not dissociating.
Not disappearing.

Not just existing — living.

Unexpected Joy (and a Few Paintings)

I didn’t over-participate in the cruise activities.
I did what I wanted and skipped the rest.
I sat alone when I wanted to. Joined in when I felt like it.

And then, for reasons I still can’t explain, I bought three expensive paintings.
I’m not a big art person.
I have some sentimental pieces from trips, but nothing extravagant.

And yet… I saw them. I loved them. I bought them.

I also bought another ring I’ll rarely wear.
But it made me happy.

None of it was logical.
None of it was planned.
All of it felt right.

Why I Keep Coming Back to Cruises

Here’s the thing:
I don’t like being out in public.
I don’t eat at restaurants alone.
I don’t go on adventures by myself.
I often don’t even leave the house.

But I love to travel.
I love good food.
I love the ocean and new places and the soft kind of awe that only comes from watching the sun melt into water.

Cruises give me all of that — without forcing me too far out of my comfort zone.

It’s like going to a giant floating mansion full of things to do…
where I never really have to “go out.”

The ship becomes my home.
And every need — every craving for beauty, novelty, movement, luxury — is met in one place.

I booked my next cruise before this one was even over.
And by the time I got home, I’d planned three more.

Are they realistic? Probably not.
But they made me excited.
And that’s reason enough.

The Truth I Came Back With

This weekend reminded me:
I am not someone who needs to be understood by everyone.
I don’t need to be liked, or applauded, or invited in.

I’m someone who finds freedom in unlikely places.
Someone who thrives when she gives herself permission to belong.

I walked through social anxiety.
Sat in unfamiliar spaces.
Let go of the rules I was raised with — about race, about etiquette, about worth.

And I came out the other side smiling.
Quiet. Whole.
Unapologetically me.

“I don’t owe anyone a version of me they can understand.”

That’s it. That’s the line I’m taking with me.
The only map I trust now.

Not for defiance.
Not for applause.

Just for truth.
And peace.
And me.

I am going back and forth on whether or not to post the voice memo proclamation I recorded. It is extremely raw, vulnerable, and honest. It will come with a warning before listening.

Comment “yes” or “no” if it is something you would want to hear.