Jess Thoughts

It has been a couple of weeks since I last wrote, and honestly, it feels like time just compressed itself into something smaller, tighter, faster. I’ve been busy—really busy—in a way that feels both exhausting and energizing at the same time. Most of it has been travel back and forth to Chicago to see my boyfriend. Even writing that still feels a little surreal. It’s exciting, but not in the loud, dramatic way people imagine. It’s quieter than that. It’s in the small moments—the airport lounges, the rhythm of boarding, the calm of sitting in business class while everything else rushes around me. There’s something about being in the air that makes everything feel suspended, like I exist in between two versions of my life. And then the anticipation builds again as I get closer to landing, knowing I’m about to see him.

My friends don’t understand me. I’ve accepted that, at least for now. There’s this strange narrative people seem to build about me, like I’m living some kind of fast, reckless, hyper-social life. I hear the way they talk sometimes, or the assumptions they make, and it’s like they’re describing a completely different person. Somehow, I’ve been labeled as this experienced, carefree dater—almost like a “swinger,” which is honestly ridiculous. I don’t even know where that came from. The truth is so much simpler it almost feels boring in comparison. I didn’t date much at all. In school, it was rare, occasional, and always tied to something that actually meant something. I wasn’t bouncing from person to person. I was… selective. Quiet about it.

I think people mistake appearance for personality. Or maybe they just fill in the blanks with whatever story is more interesting to them.

If I’m being honest, I’ve always been more of an undercover bookworm. A nerd, really. I like learning things, understanding things, going deep into topics most people don’t care about. That part of me doesn’t show on the surface, especially not at first. Yes, I love clothes. I love my shoes—probably more than I should. There’s something about putting together an outfit that feels like a form of control, like I get to decide how I present myself to the world. But that doesn’t mean I want to be the center of attention. I never chased that. It just… happened.

And that’s something I still don’t fully understand.

Which brings me to something I’ve been thinking about more than I expected: the cosmetic enhancement I chose to do. I still don’t know why I said yes so easily. At the time, it didn’t feel like a huge decision. It felt almost casual, like something I could just try and then move on from. But now? Now it’s different. The attention is constant. It’s not subtle, and it’s definitely not imagined. It’s like they act as magnets, pulling eyes in whether I want that or not.

Sometimes it’s funny. I catch men trying not to stare, or pretending they weren’t looking, and I just laugh. Not in a mean way—more like I’m in on some kind of joke they don’t realize exists. But other times, it’s… tiring. Because I know that before anything else, that’s what people notice. Not my thoughts, not my personality, not the things I actually care about. Just that.

And I still don’t know if I regret it.

Work, at least, has been something steady and positive. The job is going great. I leave the mail room next week, which feels like a small but meaningful step forward. It’s funny how something that seemed temporary at first ended up teaching me more than I expected—about people, about systems, about patience. But I’m ready to move on.

My other role is going even better. They’ve started “using” me more for marketing, which I actually love. It doesn’t feel like work in the traditional sense. It feels creative, strategic, almost like solving a puzzle. Figuring out how people think, what they respond to, what makes something resonate—that’s the kind of challenge I enjoy. It makes me feel like I’m building something, even if it’s just ideas.

And then there’s the podcasts.

I still laugh when I think about it. Me? Doing a podcast? It feels slightly ridiculous, like I somehow got cast in a role I didn’t audition for. But at the same time, I’m curious. I’ve been studying up on the subjects, taking it seriously in my own way. If I’m going to do it, I want to do it well. I don’t want to just show up and talk—I want to understand, to contribute something real.

There’s a part of me that wonders how people will see me when they hear me speak. Will it change anything? Or will they still just see the same surface-level version of me they’ve already decided on?

Chicago, work, the podcasts—it all feels like things are moving forward faster than I expected. And somewhere in the middle of all of it is this quiet, growing question about where I actually fit in everything I’m building.

Because as exciting as it all is, there’s something about the way he looked at me last time I was there—something I didn’t quite understand—that hasn’t left my mind since…