Chapter 3: Acceptance Smells Like Almond Flour

Every week I write about what’s happening in my life: love, work, identity, as I figure out how to be a real person, not just someone chasing the algorithm.

I am going to be real with you.. These past 10 days have been hard. Triggers showed up and I felt an extreme sense that I need to accept where I am in life instead of being frustrated with how quickly I am moving forward. Acceptance, for me, feels like taking responsibility for every choice, good and bad, that led me to this exact moment, typing to you. When sometimes I still fantasize about Emma Grede level of life success.

When triggers come, they don’t just hijack my mood. They dictate my creativity. Subconsciously, my ego says: No one will love you unless you’re hot and successful! (gross). My soul insists: share this because we want to help people. The work comes out either way. But the meaning behind it is what I deeply care about moving forward.

Last week HTF reader Alexandra asked, “Please report back on how to tell your story in a way that feels more human and less performative.” This is my answer. The first step to not performing is writing my deepest, darkest feelings online in a way that embarrasses my ego but makes my soul whisper, keep going. I don’t have ten thousand subscribers. I’m not writing this to sell a course or offer answers I don’t have. I’m writing it because if I don’t tell you everything, I might explode.

This week I went to an allergen-free bakery thinking I was about to heal myself with a $9 cinnamon roll. They were sold out. I left with nothing but a coffee and the faint smell of almond flour on my shirt. Here is where I practice acceptance.

Socially, I have no big plans right now beyond moving to Paris or attending George and Amal’s charity weekend at Lake Como (the pictures looked insane). In reality, I’ve been staying in more. I’m focused on my lane, my voice, my becoming and really trying to nail down my podcast, hoping these steps will allow the podcast to reveal itself to me.

The trigger started with a man. He’s the type who needs to make sure you don’t hate him even when he’s done 10,000 things to hate him about. I told my therapist, “He’s insecure, he needs constant compliments, and the saddest thing is he’s brilliant but can’t see outside himself.” She said, “Look in the mirror.” I told her if she thought I was like him, I’d perform an exorcism. She said, “If you want to get spiritual, we are all like the person in front of us. But really, why does this person keep showing up and what is this trying to tell you?”

I keep saying “my therapist”, but for fact-checking reasons, if the New York Times comes to slander my existence, I’m going to call her by her real name: Cynthia. Since it’s a form of therapy people might not even call “therapy.” Cynthia has changed my life.

She says the way to work on my triggers is empathy.

Empathy.

I thought I was an empathetic person, but it turns out I’m still too stuck in my own story to really see outside myself. Not from lack of care, but because my own pain has blocked me from really seeing other people’s insides. Empathy doesn’t photograph well. It’s staying in the bad lighting, resisting the urge to dissociate, and asking: what pain is making them act this way? If I am also showing up as this person, maybe he is my mirror?

As a kid, I collected Russian dolls. I liked the way each one opened to reveal another version inside. Maybe that was foreshadowing. I feel like a Russian doll now. I want to be able to hold every version of me, impossible to collapse into just one identity. Most days I show up as the outer doll: polished, painted, pretending she’s solid. But the one I want to hand people is the tiniest one, the smallest, softest version of me. Maybe that doll is my empathy.

I started the BODY phase two fundraise, another doll I’m trying to hold. Typing the words felt like sending a drunk text to the universe, equal parts thrilling and humiliating. Proof that I’m not just spiraling alone in my apartment; I’m also begging the cosmos for capital. This is the shot to turn it all around and the pressure in those words is radiating from my keyboard.

A few days later I ripped down my curtains because I decided they were covered in dust and needed to come down immediately, with nothing to replace them. They were moldy, left by the prior tenant, but maybe I was ripping down more than fabric.

Now my apartment feels like a stage. Which is also what this column feels like. I am the naked neighbor, writing into the void, convinced everyone can see me.

So my first step in not performing is showing up as the tiniest doll, the smallest, softest version of myself, sharing my unfiltered truth, holding empathy even for a man who doesn’t understand his own feelings.

When the truth is… I am him.

Somehow, functioning,
Jilly

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