Healthy Love-Vanilla Edition

I had just come back from a healing trip to Cairo—and yes, I mean that kind of trip.

Goddesses. Essential oils. Incense thick enough to make a stoner jealous. They purified me

with smoke and ancient oils, rubbing this shit into my skin while chanting in languages I couldn't identify but felt in my bones. The ancient goddess of healing, Sekhmet, apparently cracked open my chest with one massive paw and said, "Let that shit go."

I cried so hard my ribs hurt. It felt like someone had excavated forty years of accumulated

emotional garbage.

Then they gave me one cumin seed. ONE. To bring back home to New York.

The instructions were very specific: Put it in a bowl of water. Leave it outside for seven days.

On the seventh day, burn an old-school match with sulphur over it.

And as ridiculous as it sounds, I followed every instruction like my life depended on it.

Because maybe it did.

Something shifted after that. I came home lighter, like I'd finally cleaned out my soul's storage

unit and made space for something else. For someone else.

But let's not get too mystical here, because sexual withdrawal is real and I'm not a monk.

The morning after I got back to New York, I lit my first cigarette, made coffee, and reflexively

opened Scruff. That app had become muscle memory by then. Swipe. Compliment. Ghost.

Regret. Repeat until your self-worth needs therapy.

But that day, something in me just said no.

Not a dramatic voice from above. Just a tired, firm internal boundary that said, "We're not

doing this anymore."

I'd put in the work. Years of it. Therapy twice a week. Gym twice a week. Every self-help book

on the shelves. Even sensory deprivation tanks—basically sitting in your own warm piss in

complete darkness and silence. Very trendy in the early '80s after that movie Altered States

came out. I wanted solutions to break the crushing pattern of always choosing chaos over

love.

This was profound work. The kind that strips you down to your foundation and rebuilds you

from scratch. I don't think I'd be the person I am today without going through all of it.

The therapy, the crying-in-the-bathtub-to-Björk sessions. The facing of demons that had been

living rent-free in my head since childhood. The long walks through Brooklyn where I forgave

people who never apologized and probably never would.

I'd seen what death looked like when it was honored in Varanasi, felt ancient protection

carved into my back in Cambodia. I'd collected breadcrumbs from holy places without

knowing why. Now I wanted something different. Something that didn't require a passport or a

trauma bond.

I wanted love. Real, grown-up, boring-in-the-best-way love.

So I made a profile. A real one. With actual effort.

Got proper photos taken in August. Professional photographer. White t-shirt, jeans, natural

light. The kind of photos that say "I'm not running anymore."

I wrote a bio that was... honest. Revolutionary concept, I know.

"I water plants and return texts. If you're still figuring out how to be a functioning adult, this

won't work."

Direct. Clear. Zero tolerance for bullshit.

And you know what? It worked.

One month later, there he was: François.

Did I mention he's 22 years younger than me? Yeah. From New Caledonia—a place I had to

Google like the geographically challenged American I am. Blond, grounded, cultured. Can

water ski and fly a plane. If Bradley Cooper and Tom Hardy had a love child and raised it in

French paradise, that's François.

Me? I'm so universally looking I fit in anywhere on the planet. People ask me where I'm from,

and when I answer, they always follow up with "Yes, but where are you from from...?" I get

mistaken for everything—Middle Eastern, Latin, Mediterranea