Stephanie's Shitty Little Stories -Chapter 25

Muffins,

Sleep and I are not currently aligned. But yesterday, somewhere between 2 a.m. and whatever hour regret usually lives in, I remembered that I own a mop. So if insomnia insists on visiting, at least it’s doing so on clean floors.

Last week wasn’t my best. I sulked. I cried. I nearly picked a fight just to feel something sharp and immediate. You know that particular brand of restlessness — when stillness feels intolerable and you’re tempted to light a match just to watch something burn.

And then, for about ten unexpected hours, something shifted.

I cleaned the hell out of my 600 square feet. Not the casual “move things around and call it a reset” clean. I got on my hands and knees. I scrubbed corners I’ve politely ignored. I took care of this apartment the way I keep saying I want to take care of my life.

There was something almost ceremonial about it. I’ve been fighting so hard to keep this place — financially, emotionally — and yet I hadn’t really shown up for it. Yesterday I did. And it felt productive. It felt grounding. It felt… less dusty. Inside and out.

I kept thinking: if I want to think clearly, I have to live clearly. Not perfectly. Not aesthetically. Just honestly. I need my home to resemble the person I believe I am becoming — someone who takes responsibility for her space, who doesn’t wait for rock bottom to wipe down the baseboards.

Maybe the breakthrough wasn’t profound. Maybe it was just soap and water and a woman who needed something tangible to fix. But for those ten hours, I wasn’t spiraling. I was scrubbing. And that felt like a start.

Love, Steph and her dust Bunny

The sun isnt up, but I am.

Productive. Avoidant. Resting. Which one am I?

I can’t tell the difference anymore.

When you’re trying to create something out of nothing — stability, money, a new identity, a future that doesn’t feel like a gamble — every hour feels like it needs to justify itself. If I’m not moving, I’m losing. If I’m not improving, I’m falling behind. If I’m not exhausted, I must not care enough.

So I clean.

I reorganize.

I rewrite.

I apply.

I spiral.

Sometimes I almost start a fight just to feel something sharp and immediate, because at least conflict has velocity.

And here’s the tricky part: all of it feels like motion. All of it feels like effort. Which means all of it can masquerade as productivity.

But is it?

Last night I cleaned my apartment like a woman possessed. Hands and knees. It felt powerful. It felt clarifying. It felt like I was scrubbing confusion out of my own head.

To think clearly, I told myself, I have to live clearly.

But underneath that thought was another one I didn’t say out loud:
If I stop moving, everything will collapse.

That’s the fear no one talks about when you’re building from zero. When money is tight. When your career is in flux. When you are house-poor but heart-attached. When you are trying to will a new version of yourself into existence without a safety net.

Rest doesn’t feel restorative in that state.

It feels negligent.

Because if you’re not actively constructing the next brick, who is?

And so I confuse things.

Cleaning feels productive.
Picking at a relationship feels productive.
Overthinking feels productive.

They all have energy. They all burn calories. They all create the illusion of forward motion.

But rest — actual rest — is quiet. It requires trust. It requires believing that pausing won’t erase you.

And I’m not sure I believe that yet.

There is a specific guilt that comes with lying still when you’re trying to create something out of nothing. It whispers: You should be doing more. You don’t get to relax. Not yet.

But what if this isn’t avoidance?

What if it’s exhaustion?

What if my nervous system is working overtime even when my body isn’t? What if I’m not lazy — I’m bracing? What if the almost-fights and the scrubbing sprees are just ways to regulate intensity when I don’t know how to sit with uncertainty?

Because uncertainty is the real antagonist here. Not dust. Not dishes. Not even money, exactly.

Uncertainty.

If I had six guaranteed months of safety — financial, emotional, structural — would I behave differently? Would I rest without guilt? Would I clean slower? Would I stop looking for proof that I’m trying hard enough?

I think I would.

Which means maybe this isn’t about productivity versus avoidance.

Maybe it’s about control versus surrender.

Control looks like motion. It looks like scrubbing grout at midnight and refreshing your inbox like it owes you something. It looks like tightening your grip on everything that can be managed because the bigger things can’t.

Surrender looks like stillness. And stillness feels like danger when you’ve been surviving.

I don’t have a neat ending here. I don’t know yet how to rest while building. I don’t know how to trust that momentum exists even when I’m horizontal.

But I do know this: not every pause is failure. Not every burst of activity is progress. And not every restless night means I’m broken.

Sometimes I’m just a woman trying to build a life from scratch, learning — slowly — that sustainability might matter more than speed.

I have incredible friends. It’s undeniable.

Last night, Lindsay and Josh Venmoed me $40 with no warning and no conditions. The note said something simple — something along the lines of “go get the thing.” The thing being whatever I couldn’t stop talking about. The thing I was pretending I didn’t need.

Here’s what you have to understand about me: I don’t crave food very often. Which is ironic, given my profession. I cook constantly. I taste constantly. I think about food in structure and balance and texture. But craving? That’s rare.

It takes a lot.

And when a specific flavor wedges itself into my brain — a dish, a sauce, a very particular version of something — it doesn’t leave. It lingers. It taps me on the shoulder while I’m working. It whispers while I’m trying to fall asleep. It becomes less about hunger and more about fixation.

This time it was something simple. Not extravagant. Not Michelin. Just something specific. Something comforting. Something I didn’t need but deeply wanted.

And money has been tight. Tight enough that “want” feels indulgent. Tight enough that I’ve been categorizing everything into survival and excess. Tight enough that I’ve gotten very good at telling myself no.

Lindsay knows this.

She also knows that when I start talking about a dish more than twice, it means it’s not really about the dish.

So she sent $40 and told me to go eat.

No lecture. No pity. No dramatic speech about how I deserve it. Just quiet generosity. The kind that doesn’t make you feel small.

I sat there staring at the notification longer than I’d like to admit. Because it wasn’t about the money. It was about being seen in a moment where I’ve been trying very hard to look capable.

There is something profoundly humbling about letting someone treat you when you’re used to being the provider. When your identity is built around feeding other people. When pride and independence have been your primary currencies.

But last night, I let myself be fed.

I ordered the thing. I tasted it slowly. It was exactly what I wanted. Not life-changing. Not cinematic. Just deeply satisfying in that quiet, cellular way.

And I realized something: sometimes craving isn’t about appetite. It’s about permission.

Permission to want.
Permission to receive.
Permission to not be the strong one for five minutes.

I have incredible friends. The kind who don’t just cheer from a distance but step in with small, practical kindness. The kind who understand that $40 can be less about food and more about dignity.

It’s a strange season for me — house-poor, future-uncertain, building something out of thin air. But I am not alone in it. And that might be the richest part.

Anyway.

If you have a Lindsay in your life, text her back immediately. And if you are the Lindsay, keep going.

You have no idea how much it matters.

It’s Bunny.

Something important happened this week. The floors got mopped.

Now, you might think that’s normal. But I live here. I know the difference between “we wiped a counter” and “we are reclaiming the narrative.” This was the second one.

She got down on her hands and knees. She moved furniture. She scrubbed corners I’ve been quietly monitoring for months. The air shifted. It felt lighter. Even I stretched differently.

Here’s what I’ve learned about my person: when her space is chaotic, her thoughts get loud. When the floors are clear, her head gets quieter. Not perfect. Just clearer.

I don’t need the apartment to sparkle. I just need her to breathe easier in it.

And this week, she did.

Love,
Bunny

My dear friend Bailey sent me a song.

There’s no deep meaning behind it. No metaphor. No emotional excavation required. It’s just different than what I usually listen to, and for that alone it deserves airtime.

It’s the kind of song you don’t analyze. You don’t journal to it. You don’t attach it to a memory. You just turn it up, give a small, committed fist pump, and let it be loud in your kitchen for three and a half minutes.

I’ve been in my head a lot lately. This song is not interested in my head. It’s interested in volume.

So consider this your official instruction:
Press play.
Fist pump once.
No overthinking.

You’re welcome.

Angels,

Writing this felt productive. Thank you for always providing the space. We’re gonna make it. I can feel it.

All my love to you, specifically.

You give me more strength than you realize.

Love,

Steph and Bunny