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7 shower cleaning hacks that save you time!

January 17, 2023

I shower daily, so keeping my shower clean has been a struggle. I’ve been perfecting my cleaning routine, and here are the 7 shower cleaning hacks that are going to be saving me time this year. I hope this helps…

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11 luxurious shower upgrades on a budget

January 16, 2023

Just because you’re frugal doesn’t mean you can’t indulge in a good shower, no matter how small your bathroom is! I live in a small 400-square-foot studio, and the bathroom isn’t that big. But I LOVE me a good shower.…

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Welcome!

Meet the Editor

Hi! I'm Amy, Editor in Chief of Advice for Millennials. Whether you're in your 20s, 30s, or beyond—you'll find helpful tips on money, wellness, home decor, beauty, and more.

Let’s meet on Instagram!

cat.holicnomad

No one says it like T. Swift 👌🏽✨ Lyrics//

No one says it like T. Swift 👌🏽✨

Lyrics//
I’ve been having a hard time adjusting
I had the shiniest wheels, now they’re rusting
I didn’t know if you’d care if I came back
I have a lot of regrets about that

Pulled the car off the road to the lookout
Could’ve followed my fears all the way down
And maybe I don’t quite know what to say
But I’m here in your doorway

I just wanted you to know
That this is me trying
I just wanted you to know
That this is me trying

They told me all of my cages were mental
So I got wasted like all my potential
And my words shoot to kill when I’m mad
I have a lot of regrets about that #thisismetrying

Bullet holes in street signs. Empty beer bottles i

Bullet holes in street signs. Empty beer bottles in ditches. The 25 miles of dirt road I must traverse to reach my parents’ 1,000 acres of land tell a story all their own. This is as wild as the west gets.

Last time I was here, nearly a year ago, my dad met me at a fork in the road and led me to their homestead. But this time, his truck is not waiting for me. With no phone signal and a terrible sense of direction, I begin to panic. If I get lost out here, at what point will they think to look for me?

I turn left and hope for the best. The car creaks and rattles as it climbs an unforgiving, rocky trail that a Toyota Prius was definitely not built for. Soon, the homestead rises into view.

Greetings are necessarily different this time: I hurry to put my mask on before opening the car door, and my parents stand more than six feet away and wave at me.

Besides the social distancing and mask-wearing, there is a more painful difference from my last visit: Remi, the German Shepherd we got when I was 17, is no longer here to greet me.

The only being that can safely approach me for the next two weeks is Carl, a feisty shepherd/cattle dog mix we rescued from the desert two years ago. He barks ferociously at me, then nuzzles my hand and refuses to leave my side.

For months, I have longed for this. I have pictured my tearful reaction to finally beholding recognition in another’s gaze, basking in the presence of people who know me. But after 15 hours of driving across three states, I am too exhausted and shell-shocked to feel the gravity of this moment:

I have just broken 213 days of isolation.

Later, we are sitting outside among the scrubby juniper trees and imposing boulders, savoring the gluten-free, keto banana bread my mom baked from scratch for me, when she says something that catches me off guard.

“Oh, Amy,” my mom sighs. “When this pandemic is over, let’s go to Sardinia.”

And I, wrung dry from seven months of false hope and thwarted plans, cannot muster the energy (or is it courage?) to dream with her. For in one sentence, she has accomplished two things I am no longer capable of: imagining a day when this pandemic ends and desiring to travel again.

Is this just a wasted year? I wonder, not for the

Is this just a wasted year? I wonder, not for the first time, as I sit alone in the oral surgeon’s waiting room. If I “hang out” with friends, “celebrate” birthdays, and “attend” Mass via a computer screen—does nothing I’ve done since March count? Am I living a virtual simulation, a false reality?

My existential pondering is cut short when the nurse calls my name.

“Amy?”

As I approach her, she asks, “You don't have anyone who could check on you after surgery?"

“I—I’m new to the area,” I stammer. I wasn’t expecting her to check. “So I don’t know anyone here.” Never mind that I’ve been here for over six months now.

She looks at me with probing eyes.

“I mean…I have a friend of a friend who could,” I offer.

“Is she close?”

“Physically?” I ask, confused.

“Yes, does she live near you?”

“Oh, yeah.”

The nurse hardly seems convinced, but she leads me to an operatory anyway, where I lie on a brown reclining chair with a view of a panoramic X-ray of my mouth.

"Will I see Dr. Kang before I'm sedated?" I ask, trying to make the words come out calmly, but dread has wrapped its icy fingers around my throat.

"Of course."

Soon after, I hear, "Amy, it's good to see you again!" and turn to see Dr. Kang walking in wearing a yellow surgical gown, emanating paternal benevolence. I remember what he promised me at the consultation a month ago: “We’ll take good care of you.” He even compared me to his little sister. I trust him completely.

He rolls his chair over, ties a tourniquet beneath my bicep, and begins tapping my inner elbow, searching for a vein. As he does this, the nurse tugs at my shirt and sticks leads to my chest to monitor my heart. Clinical as it is, this is the most human touch I’ve had since March.

When Dr. Kang starts asking me trivial questions, I know he's doing it to distract me from the IV insertion—which, of course, only makes me focus on it more.

“You going back to Florida anytime soon?”

I sigh. “Not this year." And this admission stings more than the ensuing prick.

“Sorry, Amy,” he says, as the needle enters skin.

. . .

[Continued in the comments below]

Some days, the sky rains ash. And for weeks, smoke

Some days, the sky rains ash. And for weeks, smoke from the 100,000 acres of Colorado wildfires distorted the sunlight, engulfing my world in an eerie, blood-orange glow.

But this morning, the air smells of pine needles and freshly cut grass. The temperature has dropped from the 90s to a pleasant 78, and the sunlight is pure again.

It feels like the beginning of something. I decide to finally visit Pearl Street.

As I drive, I look for signs of life. Lavender blooms along the curb in front of a strip mall. Sunflowers stretch toward the sky. Wild to think that while I was isolated, bees were pollinating and life was going by.

As I drive, I think about how well things turned out. I’ve always wanted to live in Boulder, and by a happy accident prompted by a very unhappy global crisis, I wound up here for more than half a year. And I’ve always wanted to live in seclusion, Walden style, to finish creative projects, and that’s exactly what I’ve been able to do. I’ve never written as much as I have since March. And yet…

I am reminded of a conversation I had with a friend two years ago, how he said that the true torment of hell isn’t that it’s a fiery pit but something far worse: it’s complete separation from community. I try not to think about how that relates to self-isolation.

When I reach Pearl Street, it is bustling. College students toting backpacks stroll by, some carelessly ripping masks from their faces and stuffing them in their pockets. A tiny hot dog stand gleams in the sun. I gasp when I spot a bookstore named Innisfree Poetry, fondly recalling the time in high school English Honors class when I recited “The Lake Isle of Innisfree” entirely from memory.

“I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree…”

On the bookstore’s outdoor terrace, two people are dining—masks off, a mere arm’s length apart from each other—and I eye them with longing.

“And live alone in the bee-loud glade…”

By the time I find parking, I can’t bring myself to pay. I can’t think of anything worth seeing or doing on Pearl Street. I don’t even eat hot dogs. I put the car in reverse and head home without exploring. Because what I really want won't be found on Pearl Street.

What Do We Lose When We Lose Touch? // When we tal

What Do We Lose When We Lose Touch? // When we talk about disaster, we often refer to Before and After, that dividing line between Life As We Knew It and Life As We Can Never Unknow It.

Pandemic-wise, my dividing line is March 8, 2020. I am standing in the back pew of a crowded Catholic church in Colorado, and we’ve reached the part of the Mass where we offer a sign of peace to our neighbors, shaking their hands and saying, “Peace be with you.”

At this point, the virus dominates the news but still feels like a distant threat I dodged when I fled Tbilisi one week earlier. We know it has arrived here in the U.S., but stay-at-home orders have not yet been implemented, public mask-wearing has been deemed unnecessary, and the virus is seen as something that simply isn’t an American problem.

I turn to the woman behind me. As she reaches out her hand, I pull mine back. Awareness flashes across her eyes; she knows why I hesitate. But I have hand sanitizer in my purse and there’s no evidence of community spread yet, so I take her hand, give it a quick squeeze, and let go.

Five days later, all public masses in the Archdiocese of Denver are canceled. Two weeks after that, Colorado issues a stay-at-home order, banning all but essential trips outside. Thanks to grocery delivery, my online business, and an absence of public masses, I have no reason to leave the house. Without a car, going anywhere is difficult anyway. And without knowing anyone in this entire state, I have no one to visit, no hand to hold, during a quarantine that will be extended three times.

One hundred sixty seven days later, and I am having recurring dreams where someone is holding me. Sometimes, it is a friend I haven’t seen in years. Other times, it is a faceless stranger I created in my mind. Every time, it breaks my heart. It is all I can do not to run into the street and hug the first person I see.

Truth be told, I have been fortunate. I haven’t lost my job or a loved one. I live comfortably. I don’t feel I have a right to grieve.

But 167 days later, I still think about that woman’s hand, the last one I touched. Had I known it then, I wonder, would I have held on just a little bit longer?

Oh, what I’d give for a little bit of normal See

Oh, what I’d give for a little bit of normal
Seems so nice now,
Now that it is gone
We chased a dream across the sea
Just to see it go up in flames
Burning with the stars
Yet here we are

They gave us long spoons*
So we’re feeding each other in the dark
There’s nothing quite like not getting what we want
To remind us who we are

But oh, what I’d give for a little bit of normal
Seems so nice now,
Now that it is gone
We chased a dream across the sea
Just to see it go up in flames
Burning with the stars
Yet here we are

*Refers to the Allegory of the Long Spoons, a parable about heaven and hell. In both places, the people have spoons too long to feed themselves with. In hell, each person starves because he can’t put his own spoon to his mouth. But in heaven, they use the long spoons to reach across and feed each other.

—

Just a little Friday night sneak peek of a song I wrote at the start of quarantine in March.

In this video, I cut out the first verse, which is:

Maybe we’ve lost a little bit more than we’re letting on
Maybe we placed too much value on appearing strong

I don’t usually celebrate my birthday. On this d

I don’t usually celebrate my birthday. On this day last year, I strolled solo through the streets of Le Marais, perfectly content to be an anonymous foreigner in a sea of Parisians. I spent the evening savoring a tarte aux framboises beside a stranger at a sidewalk cafe.

But last October, I had a sudden urge to gather everyone I’ve ever loved from all around the globe—from San Francisco to Cusco to Zagreb—and put them in one place. To finally have my worlds collide—no, embrace. I’ve never known what that’s like. I needed to lure people with some event, and my 30th birthday seemed like the perfect excuse.

And if things had gone according to plan, today I would have woken up in a seaside villa in Montenegro, surrounded by friends and family.

But, we all know that things aren’t going according to plan these days. I couldn’t have known that on my 30th birthday, instead of sunning by the Adriatic sea and sipping champagne with people I hold dear, I’d be alone in a landlocked town, a thousand kilometers from the nearest loved one.

I don’t usually celebrate my birthday. But by some miracle, I woke up and wanted to. I baked myself a gluten-free confetti cake, singing love songs all the while; I set up decorations with tender care and dizzying satisfaction; and then I FaceTimed some of my favorite people without giving them any notice. 😂 And it was SO FUN. (Big fan of birthdays now.)

We all have lost something to this pandemic—but why let it take away any more than it has to?

Despite everything, I can honestly say: It is a very, very good thing to be alive. 💛

—

If you're my friend, you were going to be invited to the seaside villa! I was supposed to send invitations and book the villa in February—but looking back now, I’m so glad I procrastinated (Americans aren’t even ALLOWED into Montenegro right now 😂😭).

I *love* you and miss you. May we meet again soon. Maybe in Montenegro?

What was your motivation for learning a new langua

What was your motivation for learning a new language?

When I traveled to Paris for the first time in 2015, I stayed with a polyglot named Vesna. Sitting in her tiny kitchen near the Champs-Élysées, we chatted over coffee and homemade apple crumb cake about her love of languages.

Vesna left Croatia for France 30 years ago, speaking only her mother tongue. She learned French for her new home country; she learned English for her new love: a Canadian man she later married.

So years later, when he asked Vesna for a divorce, she replied, “Fine—but I will never again speak to you in English.”

From then on, they conversed only in French.

“I was heartbroken, devastated,” she told me, and I watched in sorrow and awe as this woman who now speaks five languages selected her English words with expert care and precision.

Then, on my trip to Paris last year, I met a Polish woman who had dated a Frenchman even though she spoke no French at the time and he spoke no English (“There are other ways to communicate,” she told me with a sly smile).

But then he dumped her, and she left France, dejected.

When she returned to Paris one year later and saw him again, as an act of revenge, she spoke to him entirely in flawless French.

I am absolutely fascinated by language and its ability to bond, or to break. And I am examining which motivations—intrinsic or extrinsic, positive or negative—end up being the most compelling reasons for mastery.

“When you come back to Zagreb,” Mandy tells me

“When you come back to Zagreb,” Mandy tells me, “we'll take you to our holiday house in Hvar!” And I can’t help but focus on her bold choice of the word “when.”

I have never met Mandy before. Seeing her now on my laptop screen, she could be 18 or 35—her unbridled enthusiasm conveys youth, but the laugh lines around her eyes say otherwise. Regardless, she is radiant, or perhaps it's just our difference in lighting. It is 10 a.m. for her and 2 a.m. for me.

I have never met Mandy before, but I had plans to. I try not to dwell on the one-way ticket to Zagreb I traded for a last-minute flight back to the U.S., or the summer Croatian course I missed, or the cafe conversations Mandy and I didn’t end up having. The past haunts me with what I've lost and the future taunts me with what no one can predict, so I keep my mind firmly planted in the unrelenting present, refusing to let hope visit me here in limbo.

But Mandy reaches out and pulls me into the future with her plans for “when” I’m back in Zagreb: visit Bundek Park, go swing dancing, mix sparkling mineral water with wine so I can try gemišt.

“Bolje je da govorimo na hrvatskom!” she says, switching from her Australian accent to a near-perfect Croatian one. Holding up a children’s book, she points at a frog and says, “Žaba.”

“Žaba,” I repeat.

We are attempting a language acquisition method called The Natural Approach, which mimics how babies learn. Though I grasp so little, Mandy remains patient.

Her Croatian husband, Robin, pops onscreen to tell me, “Hello! I have heard so much about you.” My heart swells to think that someone on the other side of the world speaks of me to loved ones—as if the very act breathes me back into existence.

By the time we hang up, it is 4 a.m. I pull the sheets over my face, Croatian words echoing in my mind like a favorite song. And for the first time in a long time, I let myself dream of impossible things. I can smell the grass in Bundek Park, hear skirts rustle as swing dancers sway in the square, feel the bubbles from the gemišt tickling my tongue.

Maybe it doesn’t matter if what I hope for never comes to fruition. Maybe it’s enough just to believe that it could.

On the night of February 26, I was walking alone i

On the night of February 26, I was walking alone in Tbilisi when a man yelled, "Corona!” as he and his friend mocked me in the street.
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But that's nothing.
.
🛑In Texas, a Burmese dad and his 2 kids were stabbed by a man who confessed he was trying to kill them because “he thought the family was Chinese, and infecting people with coronavirus.”
.
🛑In Sweden, a Chinese man and his girlfriend were beaten for wearing face masks, while in New York, a Korean woman was punched for *not* wearing a face mask.
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🛑In the UK, hate crimes against Asians are up 21%.
.
Being treated differently due to my race is nothing new:
.
👎🏽In my Florida high school, when we were discussing the KKK, my teacher told me, “You would’ve been TOAST! Maybe even literally.” Then a classmate announced that his uncle was still in the KKK, before turning to me and saying: “Don’t worry."
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👎🏽In the Philippines, when I met my Filipino uncle for the first time, he spat, “Ugh! Korean?!” (He didn’t know I have Filipino, Spanish, and Korean heritage.)
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👎🏽In Georgia (the country, not the state), I couldn’t figure out why men wouldn't leave me alone and women would yell at me—until two expats explained that the locals assumed that because I’m Asian, I must be a sex worker. (Some Thai massage parlors in Tbilisi are fronts for prostitution.)
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Traveling alone as a woman was already challenging.
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Traveling as a minority in homogenous countries was already uncomfortable.
.
Now, traveling alone as a woman of Asian descent in a post-corona world will be downright dangerous. I am gutted. My wings are gone.
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As countries reopen and many of you celebrate being able to "get back to normal," please remember those of us who have no normal to return to. Some of us remain home, not because of Covid, but because we can't appear in public without the very real risk of being harassed, beaten, or stabbed for nothing more than looking Asian.
.
World, let's do better. #IAmNotaVirus
—
If you see racism:
👍🏽Call it out. (e.g., “That's a racist remark, and you're better than that.")
👍🏽Ask the recipient of the abuse, “Are you okay?” Help them get to safety.
👍🏽Report it. In the U.S., go to Stop AAPI Hate [LINK IN BIO]

January 4, 2020 [1 of 3] // When the plane lands a

January 4, 2020 [1 of 3] // When the plane lands at 4:40 a.m. in cold, dark Tbilisi, I am unprepared but unconcerned. I have been told Americans are instantly granted entry at the Georgian border, no questions asked and no proof of onward travel required. This is ideal, as I have no definitive answers and no return ticket.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
I join the steady stream of jet-lagged passengers flowing toward Immigrations, gliding across tiled floors that read, “Tbilisi: The City That Loves You.”
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
When I hand the immigration agent my passport, he looks at me through narrowed eyes and scowls. I am taken aback and grow nervous, like maybe I am smuggling drugs I don’t know about. My uneasiness must show because he pounces on the opportunity to rattle me.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
“How long are you staying in Georgia?” he asks.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
This is tough to answer, as I hadn’t expected to be questioned, and I have arrived on a one-way ticket. “Probably three months,” I stammer.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
“THREE months?!” he repeats. “What is the purpose of your visit?”
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
Again, I am taken aback. With one of the most lenient visa regimes in the world, Georgia allows Americans to travel to its country for up to 365 days without a visa, regardless of if we are here for tourism, work, study, or even the intent to immigrate. I answer him as best as I can, but still, he seems incredulous.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
“You’re going to visit Georgia…for THREE months?”
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
Though they say never to crack jokes at an airport, I blurt, “Well, I might leave earlier—depends on how much I like it here!”
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
This wins me a suppressed smile from the stern agent, who then, perplexingly, hands me a bottle of red wine.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
“We would like to give you a welcome gift,” he says. “Georgian wine. Welcome to Georgia.”
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
I am so stunned by this gesture that I assume he is joking. Then, I start giggling and say, “Wow, I’ve never been given a gift at the border before!” The agent stifles a chuckle and hands me my passport.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
[Continued in the comments below]

Day 130 // For Zagreb (For You) ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

Day 130 // For Zagreb (For You)
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
Your color is red.
Like vermilion umbrellas shielding vendors in Dolac Market.
Or candy-apple licitars hanging heavy in souvenir shops.
No wonder you always make my heart race.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
You buy me flowers every Sunday,
and press them into my fists while I pretend to resist.
But did you know that when you aren’t looking, I cup their blossoms in my palm?
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
I love you on your rainiest days.
You make me want to run headlong into cobbled passages and alleyways,
run my fingertips along your crumbling facades,
peel back the stucco, exposing your brick.
Others are so quick to praise your coastline,
I laud your street noise,
the way the bright blue trams rumble along Draskoviceva, thrumming like a heartbeat.
Every night, I feel your pulse. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
I am sorry I cannot sing to you in your native tongue,
but let us converse now in our shared language of loss.
Whispers of war from your past
speak loudly.
Come closer—
your wounds do not scare me. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
If I could stay forever, I promise I would.
But they say absence makes the heart grow fonder, as if this heart ever could
grow any fonder.
I’ll stuff my pockets full of lavender and unused tram tickets
so I can always make my way back to you. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
Remember the day we watched the sun set behind the star-studded roof of Saint Mirko church?
We were waiting for the bus to arrive,
but I felt like I already had.
Because coming here was like coming home,
and meeting you was like getting close,
close to the hearth where the hungry fire blazed and I knew it would consume me but I did not care.
I’m not usually this reckless, but
do you remember what I told you as we stood there?
“I am afraid I will never love you as much as I love you today.” ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
Half a world away,
when they ask me what I liked best, I’ll say:
The man with dark eyes that flash mischief in one moment, misery the next.

You will not find revelers waving flags today. The

You will not find revelers waving flags today. There will be no marching bands parading through crowded streets. The thundering of fireworks will not set off your car alarms or send your pets into hiding.
.
When I first realized I'd be spending Croatia's Independence Day in Zagreb, I was ECSTATIC. I’ve celebrated Peru’s Independence Day in Cusco, France’s Bastille Day in Paris, and the 4th of July in various American cities, and one could expect any of the festive scenes mentioned above.
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But not so here in Croatia.
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“Happy Independence Day!” I texted my friend Luka the second I got up. “How do you say ‘Happy Independence Day’ in Croatian?’”
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“We don’t say that to each other actually,” he replied. “But thank you.”
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My hopes were dashed even more when he informed me that Croatians don’t celebrate this holiday; well, not in the way I am accustomed to countries celebrating their freedom.
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“What??” I said. “But you guys fought so hard for independence!”
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Background: For almost 7 decades, Croatia was part of Yugoslavia, an attempt to unite the South Slavs into one sovereign state. But in May 1991, Croatia held a referendum in which 93% of Croatians voted for independence. October 8th marks the day the government cut ties with Yugoslavia. What followed were 4 years and 7 months of battles and bloodshed that resulted in 20,000 deaths, and from which the sovereign state of the Republic of Croatia emerged.
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Croatia celebrated its first official Independence Day only 17 years ago. For the U.S., celebrations began over 240 years ago.
.
After hearing from Luka, I checked with another friend who confirmed: Nope, no parties or fireworks in Zagreb today.
.
At this point, I was ready to deck myself out in the Croatian flag, buy my own damn fireworks, and set them off on the mountain above Zagreb. (This is not the first time I have imposed my American ways upon other countries, nor will it be the last.)
.
Blaring the Croatian National Anthem, “Lijepa naša domovino,” from my iPhone, I got ready in haste. I had decided that I must go into the city and investigate on foot.
.
[Continued in the comments because I am very longwinded)

Nothing lasts forever, but the sound of Love astou

Nothing lasts forever, but the sound of Love astounds me every time that it calls 💛
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
—
“Wonderful Unknown” is the perfect song and my only regret is that I did not write it. But I stayed up till 6 this morning listening to it over and over and wishing that I had.

As two of the people I love most in this world wat

As two of the people I love most in this world watch loved ones stare death in the face, I am pondering precarity. How one thing can exist, and then be gone in the time it takes to exhale. How it is impossible to predict when it will happen. How it can sneak up on you in the night just when you have pulled the covers close, heaved a contented sigh, and thought all was right in the world. How, despite it all, we keep on loving.
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Yesterday, when I got the news, all I could do was assemble the vacuum cleaner—swearing at its parts when I couldn’t get them to fit together—and sob as I cleaned my apartment, a task that seemed to be of utmost importance at that moment.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
“Why do we love when we know we’ll eventually lose them?” I demanded of anyone who would listen. Of course, it was a pointless question because no answer could satisfy my rage.
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Before bed, I uttered this messy, stupid, impossible prayer: “God, please don’t let the people I love suffer.”
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
. . .
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
When I visited the Rodin Museum in Paris last month, I was captivated by this sculpture. It’s called “The Cathedral,” and to me, it represents that word so perfectly: precarity.
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. . .
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
Hanging in the balance
Holding our breath
These tempered expectations
And yet
And yet...

As much as this feels like a fantasy world, I must

As much as this feels like a fantasy world, I must remember this is real life with real people and real consequences.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
(You make me wanna be reckless.)

I am no longer The Wherever Writer. I sold my trav

I am no longer The Wherever Writer. I sold my travel blog in April 2019.
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If in July 2012, you had approached 21-year-old me and told her that the little travel blog she had just launched to document her family road trip would evolve into a full-fledged business and travel resource viewed by 1.7 million visitors and that people would want to BUY it, I think she would’ve cried, “But I don’t wanna sell it!” Funny how things change.
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The sale of The Wherever Writer was months in the making. Starting in November, I spent hours researching mergers & acquisitions advisors and business brokers and then more hours—seriously, it was a full-time job itself!—interviewing and vetting interested buyers.
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In the end, I chose the person who cared the most. I accepted that I’d never find anyone who cared about my creation as much as I do, but he has pleasantly surprised me!
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So when you start seeing posts under a new name on WhereverWriter.com, don’t be alarmed. I think you’re going to love where the new owner takes it.
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**What’s next?**
- The Wherever Writer will continue to publish high-quality travel content
- If you were on my email list, I did not sell your contact info to the new owner, so you will not receive emails from him nor me unless you join his new list.
- As for me, I’m on sabbatical (hi from Bulgaria! 🇧🇬 Isn’t this Airbnb living room lovely??), and I’m RELISHING in the sweet, sweet glow of relaxation. And yes, I’m still writing. 🙂
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**MOST OF ALL: THANK YOU**
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Thank you. You are the reason The Wherever Writer grew to where it is today. Every time you read my articles, liked my Instagram post, or told someone else about my blog—you were helping me! I will NEVER forget that.

Yes, it’s been an emotional rollercoaster—but I shed my tears and made my peace with the decision months ago. Now, I view it as a business decision: This was my first exit as an entrepreneur, and I look forward to future acquisitions! 🙌🏼
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I am no longer The Wherever Writer. But I am SO excited for who I get to become next.

And so far, the view from here looks pretty good. 🙂
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With gratitude,
Amy

Hello from Toronto! ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ If

Hello from Toronto!
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If you watch my Instagram Stories, you’ll know I booked a last-minute trip here—less than 24 hours in advance! Because that’s how hard it is for me to make decisions. 🙂
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If you don’t watch my Instagram Stories, well, then I guess you’ll never know the full story. 😉
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It’s funny the things I didn’t know I missed until I had them again:
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Touching my Presto card to the turnstile and watching the doors fling open.
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Feeling the wind rush around me as the subway whooshes by.
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That three-note tune that plays right before the TTC makes an announcement.
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Fighting for a seat in the Eaton Centre (Ha! It’s my favorite place. I’m weird.)
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But most of all—most, most of all—the friends who make this place feel like home.
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Toronto, you always had my heart. It is good to be back. ❤️
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. . .
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🇨🇦Canadian friends, Happy Civic Holiday! ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
Bonus points if you can comment below with what this little-known holiday ACTUALLY means. 😂 (I have a friend here who didn’t even realize he didn’t have to work today.)
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. . .
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🇺🇸American friends, there is ONE thing I want you to know about Canada:
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IT DOES GET HOT HERE. Especially in Toronto. It’s like an 8-hour drive to New York City so any weather you can expect there you can expect here.
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It’s been pushing 80 ALL WEEK and there is NO AC IN THIS APARTMENT. Plus, it’s HUMID (there is a very large lake by the city, after all). I’ve got two fans on me and I’m constantly covered in a layer of sweat.
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So no, it’s not a never-ending snowstorm in Canada 😂

🇦🇹Have only 2 days in Vienna? Here’s what

🇦🇹Have only 2 days in Vienna? Here’s what to do, see, and eat. Link in bio👉🏽@whereverwriter
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Thank you so much to everyone who sent me messages of encouragement and advice regarding my hair loss. My primary care practitioner is ordering extensive hormone testing for me to complete in July. She suspects a hormonal imbalance is causing it.
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I’ve also ordered iron and Vitamin D3 supplements, as I have a history of anemia and D deficiency, both of which also cause hair loss.
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In the meantime, it’s been enlightening to discover from where I derive my concepts of beauty and identity. If this were not happening to me, I would say, “Of course hair has NOTHING to do with how beautiful a woman is!” But we never know what we TRULY believe until that belief is tested. Ouch.
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And don’t worry, I am well-aware that there are far, far worse things happening in my life and in the world. It’s why I let the hair loss get so bad in the first place—I had bigger things to worry about! 🙍🏻‍♀️
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A special thank-you to @laurarosebarrera who recommended that I listen to episode 139 of the Lively Show, in which Dana Shultz of @minimalistbaker discussed the private shame and struggle of her hair loss (she has lost 50% of her hair). The self-consciousness, depression, and lack of confidence she expressed were like listening to my deepest self speaking back to me. As twisted as it is, I felt comforted that I am not alone.
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She shared a line she journals or prays about to remain grateful, and I choked up when she said it: “I’m thankful for every hair on my head, and every hair that I did have.”

😊Yesterday I got to watch my friend Lou make a

😊Yesterday I got to watch my friend Lou make a decision many might find perplexing.
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He chose to give up his belongings, a chance at having a wife and kids; he chose to give up his own freedom, even.
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Why? For Love.
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Yesterday my friend Lou became Father Lou, a priest in the Catholic Church.
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As you may know, I don't fit in anywhere.
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To my secular friends, I am religious.
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To my religious friends, I feel, I am not pious enough.
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To liberals, I am conservative.
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To conservatives, I am liberal.
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To whites, I am too Asian.
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To Asians, I am too white.
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The list goes on.
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Even my friendship with Lou baffles people. When I went to his diaconate ordination last year, someone we knew from college asked me, "What are you doing here…? Are you friends with Lou?"
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She meant no harm—but she exposed my deepest fear in flying to Miami to attend: Maybe I didn't belong there.
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Perhaps the reason Lou means so much to me is that he reminds me that I do belong. Throughout the years, he's shown a sensitivity and understanding most lack. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
He helped me come up with a name for WhereverWriter.com back when it was—don't laugh!—Wanderlustrious (which was his 1st pick, by the way! 😂).
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He was the one who, when I almost canceled my move to California, told me to never listen to Fear.
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And he's been there for many of my darkest moments, coaxing me back to the light.
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I could go on about Lou, but this story sums him up perfectly:
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Last year after his diaconate ordination, there was a breakfast reception at the seminary. Feeling out of place among his friends and family, I walked a mile to Dunkin' Donuts and sat alone in a corner eating a turkey sandwich that tasted like rubber, thinking no one would notice I had left.
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Later, Lou texted me that he had been looking for me, and that he had saved a seat for me at the table.
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Thank you, Father Lou, for reminding me that I am invited to the feast. I know in serving out your call to be a priest, you will remind many, many others that they are invited too.

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