albums i listened to all the way through

posted this week and every week (11)

Apr 13, 2025

*For the week of April 6-12, 2025*

Yesterday, I joined two friends in attending a Intro Tea Flight Ceremony at this cool little Tea/Coffee Shop on Essex Street. For relatively little money, they let you taste their various teas in shot glasses and choose your favorite from the menu to have at the end as a full drink.

The thing is I’ve never been a tea drinker. Even as a child, I hated the taste of the South’s signature cocktail—Bojangles Sweet Tea. The taste just never appealed to me.

Yesterday, I was surprised to learn I actually love the taste of tea now—white tea, green tea, Gyokuro tea, black tea, honey lemon tea—all of it. I surprised myself by ordering a Ginger Turmeric tea as my final drink and found it warm, inviting, and delicious.

Also, I eat broccoli now. I like to pack my soups full of hearty vegetables and legumes. I eat kale and sweet potatoes by the bucket full. Hell, I even eat brussels sprouts.

What happened to the picky eater who wouldn’t accept tomato sauce on her pasta?What happened to the girl who only ate french fries, mac-and-cheese, and chicken nuggets?

Well—she grew up.

I’ve noticed a pretty distinct shift in my thought patterns over the last two years. Here’s a quick example. The other day, I stopped into the grocery store to pick up some things. I realized the cocoa powder I wanted wasn’t there. So, a trip to another store was necessary.

I was already holding too much in my arms by the time I got close enough to my apartment. The angsty teen inside me cried, “Let’s just go upstairs, set everything down, and doom scroll in bed for an hour. Then, we’ll make the second trip when we’re ready.”

Normally, I would listen to this messaging. However, I also knew I would never take another trip outside once my shoes were off and on the shoe rack.

That day, I listened to another voice. It said, “You’re already out. Just walk half a block to the other store and buy the damn cocoa powder. Then, you can go home and make the cookies you’re craving.”

How very logical and practical, I thought. (Also, the cookies were damn good.)

Then—it hit me.

My mom and I had practically the same conversation dozens of times. She always won out as the driver of the car and the adult with the cash. I would mope for a few minutes before realizing she was probably right and dragging myself behind her into the next store.

Now? Suddenly, I wanted to make the adult decision over the adolescent one. In other words, I chose not to take the path of least resistance.

What the fuck?

Something about that frightened me for a second. Then, it comforted me. I felt an enormous amount of empathy for every single adult I’d ever challenged—my parents, my coworkers, or complete strangers. I remembered all the times I’d acted rather rashly towards all the teachers I secretly looked up to—how impulsive, overdramatic, and silly I was.

Despite the fact that, for much of my young life, I’ve been told some variation of the “you’re an old soul” expression, my precociousness was always innately tied to my petulance. I always felt like someone was lecturing me, having zero idea how I was really feeling. I thought, “If only I could make them hear me, they would make me feel heard.”

I can still see myself walking into my high school theatre teacher’s classroom during lunch, pulling up a chair, and huffing out some version of “I need guidance but don’t know how to ask for it without sounding like a little cry baby bitch.”

I have to imagine he secretly laughed at my theatrics. Then, he remembered I was a kid with a dead dad in desperate need of a kind, strong male authority figure and empathized. Inevitably, he gave me some “Confucius Says” proverb that applied to my stupid teenage situation. I would roll my eyes on the outside and secretly wish I understood what he meant on the inside. All I ever wanted was his approval.

Once, I almost vomited when I had to explain to him why I couldn’t kiss my best friend in a play. He’d cast me as a male lead opposite my best friend, a girl I had a major crush on but couldn't admit to it. Coming out to him in that way felt so—unsettling. I wanted to die from the embarrassment.

That’s been my life since I was 13. A similar kind of conversation has occurred between myself and every single male role model in my life who gave me the time of day. Abby is overdramatic, sad, or in desperate need of some help. Male Role Model provides some vague advice she doesn’t understand after he internally laughs at her follies of youth and readjusts to better understand her. Abby wishes she was older and better and smarter and more evolved. Male Role Model tries his best to guide her in the right direction, ultimately knowing she has to find it all out for herself.

It’s only now, after several years of real adulthood and talk therapy, I don’t find myself doing this as much anymore. I feel more confident in my own skin. I’ve taken time to process what happened and given myself—and the men—more grace. I’ve lived through the five stages of grief and find myself stuck between sadness and acceptance.

How do I move through the world in this new phase of my life? Where do I go from here now that the search for approval isn’t omnipresent?

Well—start a Substack, I guess!

Here are the albums I listened to all the way through this past week: