it's just a number, after all (isn't it?)

a little bit on ageing, a little bit on the age of social media

10 hours and 30 minutes away from the town I grew up in, I am living a life that is so vastly different from the one I left behind, and it often feels like I cannot fully let go of one so as to fully immerse myself into the other. The places will remain where and how they are but the versions of myself that exist in those places are ever-evolving, and I am sure that all of this is a reminder of the growth that was necessary to become the person I am now, but the thought of only ever being 10 hours and 30 minutes away from the people I treasure most — a few movies or an extra long day at the office — always seems to consume every ounce of my being when I am hopping from one home to the other, switching SIM cards and attempting to fall asleep in an upright position.

Returning to California for the holidays is a reminder of several things:

1. that ageing is inevitable (in pets and in parents)

2. that the world will continue to spin regardless of where you are (my favorite Açai Bowl place closed, how dare they)

3. that I am not the only person in my life who has grown in the last three years (am I outing myself as an absent-minded person for not noticing this earlier?)

For the most part, everyone and everything seems as still and stationary as you left it. The furniture is arranged the same, bar one or two decorative pillows and the modular boucle brown sofa upstairs, the pantry is still stocked with your dad’s Ideal Protein bars and your older brother’s hot sauce collection, the box of clothes that you cannot seem to part ways with — not just yet — remains stashed away in the right corner of the bedroom closet, and the note you wrote your mom, the one on the mirror with dry erase marker, lingers in its flaky impermanence. But then you clean your glasses and squint and zoom in the slightest bit closer and see that your dog is no longer strong enough to hop on your bed by himself, three of the five bedrooms in the house have been turned into guest rooms, stripped of their knick knacks and replaced with muted bed sheets and side tables collecting dust, your dad's hair is completely grey, your orthodontist has moved into a tiny office that is open once per week, and you hardly recognize the people you went to school with for nearly a decade and a half of your existence.

I have already written extensively about the conundrum that comes with living abroad — which essentially feels like the Hannah Montana movie, but the version where Miley lives between California and London and cannot decide which is best for her in the long run (the answer is there is no right answer) — and I will try my best not to regurgitate the thoughts and sentences that tend to spill out when I am reflecting on the life I have willingly chosen and built for myself, but what I will say is that this time around I departed from the San Francisco airport feeling a little more comforted than I normally do, despite shedding a tear while typing the first sentence of this piece into my Notes app, and despite the last paragraph I wrote, which I now realize comes across as deeply sad. And maybe it is not the fact I live in a foreign city that is deeply sad, but rather the experience of growing into myself and becoming an adult in the absence of my close friends and family, and watching them come into themselves from a tiny screen and phone calls and voice notes. “Look guys, I wear skirts and ballet flats now and I pay my rent and bills on time and I like sushi and I have a cat and I can also very nearly work up the courage to ask for the check when I’m at a restaurant.”

The rooms are empty, but Tanner moved in with his girlfriend into my dream Victorian apartment in San Francisco (it has a pink-tiled bathroom and sconces and storage I am immensely jealous) and Sidney moved in with his best friends and their two cats in the town across the freeway. My dad's hair is grey, but it is hardly noticeable through his jokes and ability to make anyone he encounters laugh out loud. While my orthodontist is out of office, he is also preparing for retirement, and I only get to see Paisley once a year, but she is now working as a full time LAWYER, and Danielle is selling her ceramics at art markets, and my cousin Shane is thriving as a tattoo artist in Seattle, and my sweet neighbor Jen is sewing with the garage door open and fostering kittens and growing vegetables and smiling brighter than ever, and my 97 year old great grandma — the exception to that point I made earlier about ageing — is spending her days with her legs propped up on the bed, reading books larger than my vocabulary, and eating cookies from her treat table (as she should, this is how I aspire to be at 97). I suppose, in the face of empty bedrooms and grey-ing hairs, I have found comfort in the fact that I am doing well, and my far away loved ones seem to be doing well, too.

Visiting home for two weeks means having back to back appointments for the first five days of your stay, because when you have two weeks out of the whole year to exercise your American health insurance as a not-so-freshly 26 year old (and when you are within an arm’s reach of your go-to hair salon) you might as well take advantage of the fine establishments your suburban hometown has to offer. The doctor, the dentist, the orthodontist, the dermatologist, the hair salon-ist, the hair colorist (and the nail tech, because my mom saw the state of my nails and responded first by gasping, and second by booking an appointment). While I was on my way to Appointment Number 1 (the dentist), I bumped into someone in the hallway. I said “Sorry, my bad” and then he said “No worries,” and then looked up and asked, "Wait, are you Tatum Van Dam?" and after staring at him for about 10 seconds too long, probably long enough for him to clock that my brain was both jet lagged and calibrating “How does this random man know me?” the puzzle pieces came together. He was is my friend from Kindergarten, who I have known for practically my entire life, who was neighbors with my best friend Paisley. We caught up on the last nine years and then followed each other on Instagram and the whole encounter felt like an out of body experience. The following day, the same thing happened, but at a coffee shop, and the person I ran into has always been a kind one. He told me that he reads my zines, and he always knew I was going to do something creative, and that he is proud of me. It was nice to know that perhaps the impact I have left on people from high school was not the high school version of me, the one who was insecure, acne prone, and yearning for validation, but the many ever-so-slightly more secure iterations that have followed since, and it reminded me that maybe I have created a fulfilling life for myself, after all. And that maybe I do not — and should not — have to look back on my high school years (and the people who existed in them) with tinges of disdain. We’re all in flux. None of us are who we were 9 years ago. And we owe it to each other to believe that we are capable of changing for the better.

spotted at my local donut shop

The very thing that makes the internet so wonderful is precisely the same thing that can make it so hurtful. It is a place where I have met and connected with so many creative and cool and kind individuals — some of whom are my best friends IRL, others whom I hope to meet in person one day — and it is also a place where I can post a video about something as mundane as a scanner (yes, the office tool that you probably used that one time you had to print out and sign a legal form), and proceed to receive more views than the population of London (and counting) and thousands of comments calling you stupid for having a scanner (you're a graphic designer), calling you the "over consumption final boss" (you definitely throw away your scanner and buy a new one between scans), and telling you to get a job (you already have two and would probably combust with a third). I have the internet to thank for much of the life I am living right now; without it, my jobs would not exist, I would not have felt inspired to pick up my creative hobbies, I would not know about lots of my favorite bands and brands and artists, and I probably would not be sitting here, typing a newsletter to eventually make its way to your inbox.

My relationship with the internet — or rather, social media — is kind of confusing, because I recognize the benefits and privileges and connections and experiences it has bestowed upon me — I met my boyfriend on Hinge, I work as a full time social media manager, I work part time for a music blog, I showcase my art through my profiles, and I have fostered a community of people who share similar creative outlets to mine, all of which I would not trade for the world — and in the same ways that I like how an algorithm has the ability to bring me fulfilment in the form of inspiration, people, and connections, I hate that an algorithm has the ability to create — and dictate — my innermost anxieties. Some that did not exist until very recently.

Algorithms are akin to the unfortunate men I found myself dating back in the day (I write this as if there were multiple, I really can only think of one or two): they love bomb you with attention and comments and validation, and then they leave you high and dry and craving more, and when you try to win them back, they have already moved on to the next victim while you are driving past their house blasting “Somebody Else” by The 1975 through tears of hysteria. I try to remind myself that there was a time not too long ago where I shared my creations online because I wanted to share my creations online, and the only people who really showed interest in them were my best friends, their moms, and my own mother, and that was completely, entirely okay with me. I still love to share the things I make with the world, but I would be lying if I said a microscopic part of my brain did not fully care about — or rather, base my worth — on the number attached to the outcome. I am going to type something out that is most certainly going to make me aware of how pathetic I sound — at this point in the editing stage I am considering removing it — but I posted a Tik Tok a few hours ago and it has 21 likes, and it is taking every fibre of my being to withhold from archiving it (which is kind of insane if you really think about it, because I 1. posted the Tik Tok because I was happy with it 2. cannot imagine being in a room with hundreds of people with all of their eyes on me, let alone 21 people and 3. there are far more pressing things to spend my energy on than the amount of likes I get on a Tik Tok). You cannot convince me otherwise that our caveman brains were meant to deal with the potential of thousands — and in the case of Scanner Gate, 14.1+ million — of eyes watching every pixel of your every digital move and casting their opinions on a curated 10 second splice of your day, and yet The Almighty Algorithm has made us feel that the higher the number, the more confident we should feel about something, and the lower the number, the more we should reconsider the standard of our output. It is a mind game; the highs are highs and the lows are lows and we so often forget that a number is not a number, it is a multidimensional person with hobbies and likes and dislikes, just like you and me. And sometimes the person behind that number can be a nice person, and sometimes they can choose to be a not-so-nice person. I Googled “pros and cons of turning off comments on a post due to hate reddit” and the general consensus was that all engagement is good engagement. Love that.

I came across a deeply thought-provoking TikTok from an ex-influencer who posed a question that I will never stop asking myself: "Are you posting this video because you want attention? Or because you genuinely want to share what you made with others?" and he does not know that he has become the little voice in my head whenever I am preparing to share something online. What is my true, raw intention of sharing this with others? Do I want to inspire someone, or am I seeking attention? The answer might be one, or the other, or both, and that is okay because none of us are perfect — all we want is to be seen and to be heard* — but I am trying my very best to be intentional with detaching from outcomes. Hardly is anything ever about the outcome, so much is it about the process of getting there. In my friend Stacey’s latest Substack piece, she quotes an old journal entry: “I know I’ll miss writing this book once it’s finally done.”

On the TikTok, someone commented “Sharing from a place of joy is it!” and it has become my mantra for 2025.

*this line is paraphrased from this video by a well spoken YouTuber named Shimon Davis, I highly recommend the watch

I think part of my situationship that I am in with social media — and probably with my own self-perception — is the fact that it is a very strange feeling, stumbling upon the realization that the things that made you "weird" as a kid are precisely the same things that make you "cool" as an adult. “Weird” and “cool” are both constructs, respectively, but continue to hear me out for just one more second. I used to be a fangirl and now I work at a record label. The former made me extremely undesirable during my teenage years — a high school fling quite literally ended things because he did not want to get in the way of myself and the time I dedicated to Shawn Mendes — and the latter has made the same people who did not desire me, ask me via LinkedIn DMs for a job in the music industry nearly a decade later. I will not begin to describe my visceral reaction to hearing “Sexy To Someone” by Clairo for the first time, either, because she so perfectly expresses the confusion that comes with being labelled as a “strange” girl who grows up, goes to college in a new city, surrounds herself with likeminded individuals, understands how to use a hair curler and how to dress, thus becoming “cool” and is then genuinely confused when any person expresses romantic interest in her because she was conditioned to believe she was un-cool and un-hot and un-wanted by all of the men in her hometown.

I DIGRESS.

My point is: I am always confused about how I feel about the internet. And how my hobbies were once strange to people, but now they are seemingly not so strange. And that is okay, I think, because maybe when I was younger I did not yet find my people, and now, I have.

I got brunch with two friends, one who I met through the chance of an algorithm, the other who I met through the chance of being the last two people left alone, together, in the crowd of mutual friends at a festival. Both are Americans in London and, much like myself, share their thoughts and musings on TikTok and Substack and Instagram. We found ourselves discussing "likes," particularly with regards to Substack, and how we had to train our brains to withhold from equating the amount of likes on a post to the quality of the writing in the piece — and how, once we learned to do that, it was freeing. (Ironic how I am able to do this with a written piece, but when it comes to a 10 second TikTok, I struggle to). Talking with my friends was validating and refreshing, and it is bewildering that they have had moments of doubting their writing, because they are genuinely two of the most talented writers I know. I could go on an additional tangent of how lucky I feel to be able to call my friends my inspirations, but we will save that for another time. You two know who you are, and I will be reading your novels the day they are published.

Back in California, I spent a weekend in the snow, and inside of a cozy cabin, myself, my brothers, and my cousins were chatting about hate comments and TikTok (subtle foreshadowing for what was to come, I suppose) and then my older brother Sidney told me that some of his most impressionable YouTube videos — the ones that caused him to form a new habit, or feel inspired to learn a new skill, or just stick with him generally — are ones that he never interacted with. Sidney does not talk often, so when he does, they are words to be held tightly. I think about how, actually, I do not always interact with the content that ends up inspiring me. I am a chronic Instagram story liker and I will not hesitate to leave a comment, although I am not quite sure if I am subscribed to some of my favorite YouTube channels and podcasts, despite tuning in every week. And lots of the content I consume will typically serve as a catalyst for these Substack posts, or an outfit combination, or a design choice, or a recipe cooked for dinner. Yesterday I wore biker boots with a knee length skirt because a few months ago I saw a girl on the bus pair the two together and I thought she looked insanely cool. The section above this one, about my hobbies and the internet, was inspired by an episode of The Broski Report. We are merely reflections of one another.

On my first day back from California, I was walking down one of my favorite roads in London, wearing my brand new-old boots and a flowy white skirt, slowly trailing behind a little girl and her father, who, I could tell was trying to make space to allow me to pass through. I smiled at the girl, and she called me stylish. “Yes, let’s make some room for the nice stylish lady to pass by,” her dad said, holding her hand. I felt my heart go a little fuzzy for a moment as I thought about all of the stylish girls I looked up to when I was younger. And, as I walked past a warmly lit ceramics workshop and a bakery smelling of cinnamon and coffee, I had one of those frontal lobe epiphanies: I think have become the girl that little me always aspired to be. The little me that grew up in the town 10 hours and 30 minutes away, that wore the ill-fitting clothes and wrote in the journals and read the books that are now stowed away in the corner of my closet. I still remember making my mom a handwritten 10 page long proposal called "16 reasons why we should go to London for my 16th birthday" and crying when the response was a “No.” I can also remember posting YouTube videos in 2009, far too young to have access to the world-wide web, wearing a turquoise blue American Apparel zip up hoodie and asking the 16 year old stylist at Supercuts for side bangs, wanting to be exactly like JennxPenn and Supermac18 and livelavalive, in all of their iMovie and jump cuts and Coolvetica glory (if you understood any part of this sentence you are a real one). I can remember wearing sweatpants and sweatshirts in the California heat, hiding every part of my body that revealed any sort of shape, admiring the outfits the other girls wore as I overheated in the lunchtime sun. I can remember growing older and wanting to be crafty, (I was crafty, but I especially wanted to start making zines and figure out how in the world people drew on top of their photos), and I wanted to be kind, and I wanted to be fashionable, and I wanted to be confident, and I ultimately wanted to inspire.

Especially within the last year, I think I have finally become Me.

This morning someone messaged me that they purchased a zine of mine, and it is their first zine ever, and what an honor it is to have someone in the world who wants a piece of my art on their shelf, and to be the creator of the first zine in a growing collection. Someone else mailed me a college music zine they started because of my own, and it was incredibly made and filled with wonderful recommendations, and a very lovely girl named Elise reached out because she started a Substack and wanted me to be a part of her community. I commented on a girl’s TikTok admiring her long, plaid dress, and she replied saying that it was I who had convinced her to buy a long, plaid dress. For all of the anxieties I have because of the internet, I am constantly reminded that there are people out there who resonate with the things I choose to put into the ether, regardless of the numbers I internalize and the recent hate comments I have had to learn to ignore. Whether I am made aware of it or not, I am a teeny tiny morsel of a mosaic in someone else’s life.

I appreciate each and every person who takes the time to read one of my zines, and who takes the time to send me a kind message, and who takes the time to listen or watch or consume anything I have to say in general. (Especially you, because these Substack posts are often longer than the papers I had to write in college.) I grew up shy and quiet and I am still shy and quiet, but I think there are a little bit more people who are willing to hear me out and I do not take it for granted in the slightest.*

*I just want to note that I am not trying to brag, and I hope it does not come off as such. I am genuinely touched that there are people who have felt any degree of impact from my creations, because some of the time I forget that people are actually, fully reading and watching and flipping through them to begin with.

After flying for 10 hours and 30 minutes to return home for the holidays, I found my old tooth fairy box sitting atop my dresser. It is actually a jewellery box, but when I was six years old I used it whenever I lost a tooth so that the tooth fairy knew where to look. It is small and painted in pastel yellows and blues, with dainty illustrations of red ladybugs and a fairy and a dragonfly, trademarked from the year 2004. Inside sits a tiny silk pillow, and when I lifted it there were two pairs of earrings, shaped as bows, hidden under the soft parcel. One pair completely silver, the other covered in gems. I forgot — and suddenly remembered — that I used to wear bow shaped earrings when I was little, and I immediately went to twiddle the earrings I am wearing now — and have been wearing every day for the last few years — silver earrings shaped as bows. Then I pulled down my sock, revealing my faded tattoo of a small red bow. I guess I am the girl I have always been; only now I wholeheartedly believe that I am cool and kind and fashionable and worthy of being heard.

And I am very, extremely grateful to those willing to hear me out.

the box has been transported to my ldn bedroom

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hi! happy new year y’all, as always thank you for 1. taking the time to read this and 2. for being you :) i do not typically partake in new years resolutions, but i am trying my BEST to be intentional when i create and share things, and to enjoy the creation process, and to DETACH FROM THE OUTCOME! so this is me trying to do exactly that. ily and see u the next time i randomly decide to spiral about something <3

side note: because i had to write with uk english for my MA program here, and for my job i have to write with it too, i fear my substacks have become a confusing mix of using UK spellings like “ageing” and US spellings like “realize” and for that i am sorry

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also, my heart is with anyone who has been affected by the los angeles wildfires. the one thing i love more than being a californian is california itself — here are a few ways to show your support both online and irl, and my dear friend alix created a zine full of images of her hometown. all of the proceeds go towards the altadena teen girls fire recovery <3x