ALL I WANT

At 26 years old, I had everything I’d ever wanted. For the first time, I felt accepted and understood by myself. I was fulfilled by my success and my achievements.  I had a beautiful family, cherished friends and the house of my dreams. It seemed like I had all the necessary elements to live the best year of my life.

Instead, everything fell apart. 

Because the world does not want us to be fulfilled.  The world wants us to keep wanting. 

Good is never good enough.  Slowing down means giving up. 

We’re supposed to want to climb the ladder higher and higher and higher. Graduating school is hardly admirable unless you do something with your degree.  Getting the job is a moment of joy until anxiety about keeping the job quickly replaces it.  Making art that touches people is euphoric, but can you do it again? Can you repeat your impact? Millions of people watching the video you posted isn’t impressive these days, we’re supposed to want more. More success, more streams of income, more important parties to attend. More friends in high places, more help around the house, more steps in our skincare routine.  More likes, more money, more land, more babies. 

There’s always another dream to chase.

Isn’t that the American Dream anyway? 

Wanting, wanting, wanting.

What’s left once the chase is over, once the dream is realized? 

I’ve had success. I’ve tasted it many times. But there was never a time to savor it.  The threat of losing everything, always there to ruin my appetite. 

And yet, I still craved. I still wanted.

What I wanted was a break. A moment to enjoy my achievements without the stress of having to sustain them. To take back the light that had been drained from me. I wanted to feel passionate again. I wanted to take a deep breath again.

But what I really wanted, above all else, was for the wanting to stop. 

It wasn’t like I got everything I wanted and realized it wasn’t enough.

I got everything I wanted and realized it was.

It was enough.

I was satisfied. I was content. I was happy. 

And I refused to waste another moment of the now, in the pursuit of the next.

So, I burned it all down.

Yes, everything fell apart.  But the secret is that I was the one who lit the match.  

The secret is that I wanted this too. 

Ever since I was a little girl, I dreamed of being apart of the fashion world.  I went to sewing camp, I sketched my own dresses, I snuck downstairs in the middle of the night to take notes on Project Runway.  I envisioned a life jet setting to Paris, New York, Milan, styled by iconic designers. I imagined getting stopped for pictures outside of the show.  Journalists asking me who I was wearing, wanting my opinions on the creative direction.

In my dreams, I was front row gossiping with Zendaya and Chloe Sevigny.  In my dreams, I was a fashion girl. 

But in my real life, I had never even been to a fashion show. 

In the spring of 2023, someday finally showed up.

I was in New York City with my best friend when the invite was emailed to me. It wasn’t a big show by any means, but it was everything I had wanted for so long. 

The chance. 

When it came time to discussing details, I realized I would have to go alone. I don’t know why I never considered this in my 25 years of planning.

At this point in my life, I was very comfortable in my aloneness. It wasn’t that I couldn’t go alone. I just didn’t want to. 

Spending the night wandering the streets with Maia sounded more fun than a night of attempting conversation with influencers that didn’t care who I was.

I told her I didn’t want to go anymore. 

She seemed shocked at my sudden shift, and honestly, I was too. I had waited my whole life for this opportunity.  This was my entry to the world I had always wanted to be a part of.  This was my moment.  A moment my younger self would lose her mind over.  I had the chance. And I didn’t take it. 

I couldn’t figure out why.

I turned 26 last year, on a beach in Kauai. Jack and I found a spot a few hours before sunset, and we didn’t move until it was dark. 

The view was so beautiful, so tranquil, so mesmerizing, we barely talked. My thoughts drifted with the rhythm of the clouds. 

I tried to pinpoint exactly what I was feeling.

On one hand, peace like I had never experienced before.

When I look back on my life, I’ll always remember this birthday as a milestone of true self acceptance. For two years, I worked to unlearn the belief that there was something wrong with me. It took practice and patience to rewire my brain. A lot of restarting. A lot of reminding that my purpose on earth isn’t to be likable.

But on that beach, I embodied the self worth I had tirelessly sought after. 

So why did I still feel restless? 

Despite my peaceful surroundings, I couldn’t ignore my anxiety humming in the background.  I tried to ignore it, refusing to ruin such a perfect scene.  But after awhile, I gave voice to the feeling. 

And it simply said, 

What’s next? 

The hum of anxiety escalated into a ringing in my ear. 

I had no idea.

My 23rd birthday wish was to buy my dream home. 

My 24th birthday wish was to make it on Forbes 30 under 30. 

My 25th birthday wish was to break in to the fashion scene. 

And for 26th birthday wish, a desperate plea to the cosmos.    What’s next? 

For months, I lived in that space of desperation.  I’ve never not known what I wanted out of life.  My dreams have always been vivid.  But last summer, everything I had been reaching for, suddenly felt hollow.  The things I once wanted, no longer sparkling. 

I couldn’t decide if this was a sign of contentment, or apathy. 

In an attempt to reignite my creative fire, I returned the the things I knew I loved.  Writing. Filming. Reading. Scrapbooking. Throwing incredible parties. 

The effects were fleeting.  By October, I had come undone. 

Despite my attempts to rekindle my passions, I was blocked. I searched every corner of my soul for an answer, a reason, a sign.  All of that rewiring of my brain, all of that work I did to accept myself, just to feel completely lost.

It didn’t make sense. There had to be something I was missing. 

One night, a few days before Halloween, Sam and I were driving around. I knew she would have good perspective on what I was going through. 

I finally just let it out.

¨I am so unhappy.” 

I wanted to swallow the words as soon as I said them.   Admitting I was unhappy felt like admitting all of my hard work was for nothing. 

How could I truly say I loved and accepted myself? That I was content with my life and what I had? How could I believe those things when my depression was so undeniable?

I told her about the last few months. How unaligned my life felt. How it haunted me to not know what I wanted anymore. 

¨I just don’t know what’s wrong with me.¨ I said through tears. 

She sat there and listened and after I finished, she said something I wasn’t expecting.

¨Honestly ind, I have no idea how good you can even feel living in that house. I think you’ve hit the ceiling. I don’t know how anyone could really heal in that environment.¨

Time stopped while I processed these words. Before I could respond, she asked,

¨Would you ever consider moving?¨

And to be honest, I hadn’t until that very second. The second that things finally clicked.

How could I heal in the environment that made me sick?  How could I heal heal from a trauma that I couldn’t escape?  The visual reminders, the emotional triggers, constantly reliving the worst pain I had ever felt.  How could anyone? 

Sam wasn’t the first friend of mine to ask me that question.  Many friends, family members, and especially Jack have all asked me if I would ever consider selling our house.  My immediate answer was always no. It wasn’t a conversation I was very willing to have.

They just didn’t get it.

It wasn’t that simple. 

This house was my dream, manifested. It meant absolutely everything to me.  I woke up everyday in disbelief that it was mine.  That I did it. I made it. Success.

This house was a representation of everything I had ever wanted. 

But what Sam said to me that night pierced through every illusion I had still maintained and I instantly got the message.

The house was a representation, the biggest most and important one, of everything I thought I wanted. 

Because what people don’t know, what I could have never known then, 

Is that my dream would turn into a living nightmare. 

What people don’t know,  Is that I couldn’t walk out my front door without hyperventilating.  Every time I pulled into our neighborhood, my entire body shook with fear.  Not until I was in the house, curtains shut, did my nervous system begin to regulate. 

From the perceived safety inside, I could compartmentalize.  I could pretend. Practice forgetting.

I was determined to make the most out of the circumstances. I stood strong in my belief that I wouldn’t let anyone take this away from me. 

But…what did it mean?

I never really understood until that October night with Sam. 

The house meant that I had proof.  Proof of my work. Proof of my ambition.  Proof that I fucking did it. 

That I started a blog when I was 11 years old. I wrote to no one. But I wrote anyway.  I was committed to my passions. Dedicated to creating a life beyond my wildest dreams.  I kept writing, I kept spilling my soul. And people started to listen.  My vulnerability attracted a similar crowd and suddenly, there was a crowd, there was an audience.  An audience who loved my videos as much as my words. An audience who watched me grow up and experience the world for the first time.  People who would tell me that my blog post could have been a page from their diary. That my videos make them feel things.  10 years of writing and creating and making people feel things, turned into a community ready to support me when I launched my own brand in 2019. 

The success of my brand lies in those 10 years that led up to it. The people who grew up with me. 

At 24 years old, I was able to buy my first home.  Not just a first home, but a dream home. An expensive home. A home on a lake. 

That house was the culmination of all my hard work. Not just Lonely Ghost, but the blogs, the videos, the years I spent building it completely on my own. That house was proof of my success.

Proof that I did something with my life.

What happens to all of that if I sell it after just two years? Is my success null and void? Is it recalled? Is there a statute of limitations on a success story? How long do you have to hold onto success until it’s finally yours? How much of success is just holding onto it anyway? 

It’s not enough to be the best, you remain the best. It’s not enough to build a following, you have to stay relevant. It’s not enough to buy the home, you have to keep the home.

It’s not enough to climb the mountain, you have to spend the rest of your life avoiding the fall back down.

I began to see my mortgage payment as a deeper transaction.  I wasn’t just paying for an expensive home on a lake.  I was paying to be viewed in the world as a girl who could afford an expensive home on the lake.  I was paying for a hollow sense of pride, accomplishment, security.

An identity. 

Once the illusion was fully dissolved, It was easy to see that this identity was no longer useful to me. 

I was holding onto something I thought I was supposed to want. 

The tension I had been feeling all year, was a result of my self acceptance. Not a sign of lack.  Because once I accepted myself, once I had decided I was a good person, once I actually believed it, 

My old dreams simply weren’t needed anymore. 

The truth is, most of my dreams, for most of my life, have all revolved around how other people see me. 

Maybe somewhere deep down there was an authentic desire to see a fashion show in person. Maybe that desire still exists. But I realized that the dominant desire wasn’t to go to a fashion show. It was to be seen as a girl who went to fashion shows. I wanted to be perceived as a girl who is important enough to be invited. A girl with status, connections, taste.   I wanted the photographic evidence that I was there, among special people. 

The evidence of my own specialness. 

Even my journal entries were written contemplating how people would react to it when I was dead. 

I drove down the boulevard of broken dreams in my mind, and each one was similar.

They no longer resonated. 

I didn’t need more followers. I didn’t yearn for relevance. I didn’t crave powerful connections and clout like I used to. There was no accolade or professional milestone that enticed me anymore. 

My abandoned goal of making it on the Forbes 30 under 30 list is another example of a dream entirely motivated by public opinion. It wasn’t about making myself proud, it was about proving myself to everyone else. 

I thought that if Forbes said I was successful, other people would see it too. 

Clarity wrapped me up like a blanket and showed me that I didn’t need that validation anymore.

This was a gift I had given to myself.

My year of feeling directionless and lost wasn’t a punishment. It wasn’t a sign of apathy towards the things I once loved.

This whole time, it was a sign that I was stepping into my authentic self. The real me. 

The things I love, the things I am passionate about, they’re still here.  They’d just been muted by my old belief system.

The belief that I still had something to prove. 

Clarity taught me that I no longer needed to be seen as a girl in the mix at fashion week to feel special. The real me no longer needed a publication to declare me a success.  The real me no longer needed a nice home to give me a sense of identity in the world. 

It was okay to say,  I don’t want these things anymore. It was okay to let go. 

I went straight home after dropping off Sam, and I told Jack that I was ready. 

I knew our next move.

We were getting the fuck out of there. 

Making the decision to sell our house was empowering. It led me to making several more important decisions.  By December, life as I knew it was unraveling. 

And as the seams came undone, I felt the color coming back into my face. 

There’s a story I always think of whenever people ask me about success.

Kate was teaching her first yoga class at a dance studio in our hometown. It was the studio I idolized growing up. For most of my girlhood, dancing was the love of my life. 

This particular studio, Studio One, was where the competitive dancers went. I danced twice a week at a smaller studio and begged my mom to switch. 

But we couldn’t afford it, and I never thought I was good enough to dance there anyway. 

In the larger story of my life, this studio symbolizes a core belief of not feeling good enough.

It marked a shift when my little girl hopes and dreams transitioned into the desire be seen as someone special.

Memories came flooding back as I walked in the door.  A class was going on, and I saw a few girls notice me. The teacher came out shaking her head and said, 

“I’m so sorry. My girls love your brand. Would you be willing to take a picture with them?¨

I couldn’t hide my smile. But I wasn’t prepared for what I was walking into.  In a class of about 15 girls, at least half of them were wearing Lonely Ghost hoodies.  All different styles from different drops and collections.  I couldn’t believe it.  They didn’t know I was coming. This is just what they wore to practice. 

After taking some pictures, I shyly asked if I could watch the dance they were working on.  They pulled up a chair for me at the center of mirror and chills covered my whole body.  I remember watching my dance teacher sitting in her chair, running choreography. I remember wanting to be her someday. 

The girls hit their formations and the second the music started, I was transfixed. They were good. I mean of course they were, but I was instantly blown away. 

I held back tears as I watched them dance in my hoodies. 

I thought of my younger self, 11 year old me. The girl who never felt good enough to dance at Studio One. 

I wished she was sitting on my lap, watching this scene unfold. 

I’ve thought about what it would be like to actually have a conversation with her. 

If I only had one chance to tell her about my current life, if I wanted to impress her, what would I say?

I knew one thing.

I wouldn’t tell her about making it in Forbes. I wouldn’t tell her about how many followers I have.  The money in my bank account. Or the brand that just invited me on a trip. I wouldn’t even tell her about the beautiful home she would get to live in someday.

I would tell her about the dancers. 

That someday, the girls at the studio she grew up idolizing, would idolize her. That in 15 years, her clothing brand would be their preferred dance wear.  I would tell her that she was good enough, all along. 

In that dance studio choking back tears, I felt real fulfillment.  This was the moment I decided I was a success. 

Because what was I chasing if not to make my 10 year old self proud? 

What publication or institution could validate my success when it was dancing right in front of my eyes?

The idea of success as we’re taught is a trap.  It’s the belief that that this is what life is supposed to be.  Wanting more, accumulating more, always striving for the next big thing.  Believing that the next big thing will even fulfill us at all.  It’s the voice in your head that says, whats next? It’s giving up the authority to validate our own worth. Instead, placing it in the hands of a made up social construct.  Success as we’re taught is a trap, because the chase never ends. 

The only way out, is to see right through it. 

I hold all the power now. I get to decide what success means to me. I don’t need to keep chasing it. I already caught it. It’s mine to keep.  It’s not something to keep losing and finding. It’s not my end destination. 

Success to me, is freedom. It’s stopping to savor the moment.  The ability to appreciate what I have, while I have it.  Success is not burning out, not becoming jaded. 

It’s making it out of this nightmare with the courage to dream again. 

It’s been three months in our new home. In our new life.  I’m still finding my spark. I feel fragile a lot of the time, but in other moments, incredibly grounded. 

What grounds me, is knowing I chose this.  I knew it would hurt.  I knew it would be excruciating to walk away from everything I worked so hard for.  I knew what people would say. I knew how my heart would ache when I was reminded. 

But I also know without a doubt in my mind that this is right.

This was what was next for me all along.   A fresh start. A blank slate. The chance to decide what I actually want out of life. 

The freedom to dream without the constraints of needing to prove myself. 

When I think back to that New York trip, I barely even remember there was a fashion show at all. Instead, I remember walking around the Met with Maia for hours. Sharing AirPods, wandering aimlessly, laughing at everything and nothing at all.

It was one of my favorite days with her and I’ll remember it forever.

Felix Poswolsky once said, 

“I think we found the answer to the universe which was, quite simply, 

Spend more time with your friends.¨

And really, that’s all I want.