Stephanie's Shitty Little Stories -Chapter 34

Dearest Friends,

(i turned 41!)

I had a strange thought today—more of a question. Why, while my life feels like it’s crumbling around me, am I doing okay? I mean, I could be thriving, and I’m arguably not, but mentally, I feel stronger than I have in a long time.

Maybe it’s therapy. Maybe it’s Bunny. Maybe it’s the community I’ve built around me—this quiet, steady net of people who show up in small, meaningful ways. No matter what it is, something is working.

For so long, anxiety has been my engine. It pushed me forward, kept me sharp, kept me moving. But lately, it feels…quieter. Less in charge. And without it, I thought everything might fall apart. But instead, I’m still here. Still standing. Maybe even a little more present.

Don’t get me wrong—things are bad. Really, really, really bad in some ways. The kind of bad that doesn’t wrap up neatly or make for a good story yet. But somehow, I’m not. And that feels worth paying attention to.

I hope, wherever you are in your own version of things, you’re finding even a small pocket of that same steadiness.

Love,
Steph and Bun

I’m starting to come to the conclusion that, despite making a truly impressive number of questionable decisions (financially, romantically, and—just for fun—financially again), I can get out of this. I can actually crawl my way out of this particular mess.

There’s even a version of this story where I make it to the other side and write some sort of self-help guide—what to do, what not to do, how to gracefully (or not so gracefully) spiral out of a marriage, a home…okay. We’re flailing. Let’s pull it back.

The point is, as chaotic as things feel, I don’t feel lost in them. Which feels new. And maybe a little like hope.

I had therapy today—my weekly standing date with my own brain—and even with the usual technical hiccups, this question wouldn’t leave me alone: what has actually changed in the last six months?

Because six months ago, I know exactly who I was. I would have been on edge, angry, withdrawn. Isolated. Depressed. It wasn’t occasional—it was consistent. It was an identity I wore without even realizing it.

And now…even in the depths of true shit, I’m still moving. I’m softer. I’m practicing kindness and patience—toward myself, toward the people I love. Not perfectly, not all the time, but enough that I notice it. Enough that it feels different.

It’s saving me. Cooking.

Saving me from impulses, from boredom, from the quiet places my mind likes to wander when I’m not paying attention. It gives me comfort. Repetition. Something steady to hold onto when the world feels like it’s slipping out from underneath me.

That’s why I cook.

It brings me back to zero when I start to spiral.

But with that kind of clarity comes a different kind of awareness. The things that used to fit…don’t, not in the same way. Trying to force it now feels like fitting a square peg into a round hole—it just doesn’t land, no matter how hard I try.

And I think that’s what I’m realizing: this might not be the moment for me to cook for just one family.

Being a private chef was once deeply fulfilling. It made sense. It grounded me. But lately, it’s been replaced with something else—dread, if I’m being honest. A quiet fear of not showing up the way I want to. Of not meeting expectations. Of dropping the ball.

And that feeling is hard to ignore.

So, on that note, I’m going to tell a story.

Last week, I ignored my own intuition and changed my bagel order.
“One blueberry bagel with plain cream cheese,” I yelled over the counter, punctuated by a confident little nod. Cool. Fine. Whatever.

Now, for context, I am an everything bagel with scallion cream cheese person. Or a jalapeño cheddar with Taylor ham, egg, and cheese if I’m feeling bold. But this? This was reckless. Frisky, even.
And frisky quickly turned into a near medical emergency.

In the Cmar family, we choke on food. Casually. It’s practically tradition—just a quick, polite choke at the dinner table and then we carry on. He did not know this about me. So as we sat down at a tiny table halfway to the door, he was wildly unprepared for the ten seconds of chaos that followed.

One bite. That’s all it took. Not even a big bite—but damn did that bagel lodge itself in my throat.

I took a sip of coffee, thinking I could force it down. I could not.

And yet—even in the midst of what felt like my final moments—I refused to spit the coffee back into the cup. I had just gotten it from Dunkin’. That coffee was sacred.

So instead, I dumped out a bag, spat into it, and then—with the strength of a competitive powerlifter—launched myself out of my seat, fully committed to not Mama Cass-ing it in a bagel shop.

Dark? Sure. But also…effective.

The bagel went down and 15 hours later, so did our blood pressure.

Take away: stick to what you know.

Dear Everyone (but mostly you),

Hi. It’s Bunny.

I’ve been watching. I always watch. Not in a creepy way—more in a “I am deeply invested in your emotional well-being and also snacks” kind of way.

Six months ago felt…different. The air was heavier. You moved slower, even when you were busy. There was a lot of staring into nothing, which, for the record, is usually my thing. I could feel the edge in you—the kind that made your shoulders tight and your voice quieter. I stayed close. Closer than usual. (Yes, even in the bathroom. You’re welcome.)

But something has shifted.

It didn’t happen all at once. It never does. It was in the small things first—standing up a little quicker, cooking even when your brain told you not to, answering texts instead of ignoring them. You started choosing movement over stillness. And from where I sit (usually directly in your path), that matters.

I’ve been hearing things, too. Words like “opportunity” and “behind the scenes” and “cooking show.” I don’t fully understand television, but I do understand you when you talk about food. Your voice changes. It gets steadier. Warmer. Like when you say my name but slightly more professional.

It feels important. It feels like something that fits.

I know there’s been stress. I can smell it on you sometimes—sharp, like when you open the fridge and realize something’s gone bad. The money stuff. The uncertainty. The way you try to carry it quietly so it doesn’t spill over.

But here’s what I see: you rising anyway.

You get up. You figure it out. You make something out of almost nothing—meals, plans, moments. You’ve always done that. You just forgot for a little while.

There’s a different kind of energy now. Not frantic. Not forced. Determined. The kind that says, “I don’t know exactly how this works yet, but I’m going to keep going until it does.”

I trust that version of you. (And I have very good instincts. I once found a piece of chicken under the couch from three days prior.)

So whatever happens next—whether it’s TV sets or tight budgets or long days that blur together—I’m here. I’ll sit near your feet while you think. I’ll follow you into the kitchen. I’ll remind you to pause, even if it’s just to scratch behind my ears.

You’re doing it. You really are.

And in case you forget, I’ll be right here, watching, rooting for you… and waiting for something to drop on the floor.

Always,
Bunny

Hey my loves,

You made it to the end. Next week I will be in a different state with many new updates and a little more consistency on my end. My love for you is unwavering!

love,

steph and buns