I hope the coming year unfolds softly, not yet defined, With gentle light on all the roads I’ve been too scared to see, May quiet courage walk beside the doubts that crowd my mind, And every closed, forgotten door swing open just for me.
I hope I trust the timing when the timing feels all wrong, When plans fall through and days feel heavier than they should, I hope I learn my worth is not the sum of being strong, But how I rest, and how I stay, and how I choose my good.
I hope I find new faces who feel strangely like “I know you,” The kind of people where my unmasked self can safely land, Who hold my stories gently, seeing all the rough edges through, And don’t let go when life gets loud and hard to understand.
I hope I leave some versions of myself that kept me small, Old habits, fears, and patterns I’ve outgrown but still wear, I hope I hear a braver, softer voice above it all, Whispering, “You’re allowed to want more life than this—don’t spare.”
I hope my work feels closer to the truth of who I am, Less proving I belong here, more creating what feels right, I hope that when I fail, I’ll say, “It’s fine, I did the best I can,” Then try again with kinder eyes on myself in the night.
I hope I make more memories than photos on my phone, That sunsets, songs, and laughter don’t get filtered, don’t get staged, I hope I feel at home in places I have never known, And measure life by moments fully lived, not just by age.
I hope I learn to listen when my body says “Enough,” To step away from battles I was never meant to win, I hope I trade perfection for the beauty of “just rough,” And let my unfinished stories be allowed to just begin.
I hope I find a peace that doesn’t vanish when I’m shaken, The kind that hums beneath my ribs when nothing else feels clear, I hope I look back one day, gently stunned at how I’ve waken, And say, “I didn’t stay the same. I grew into me this year.”
Today, an email popped into my inbox from my first boyfriend, when I was 18. Gene.
We haven’t been together in decades, but he’s always been one of those people with a near-photographic memory. In his message, he recalled tiny details from over 20 years ago—what I wore on a specific afternoon, the way I laughed when we got caught in the rain, the exact band that was playing in the background when we had our first real fight.
Reading his words, I felt the strangest mix of gratitude, grief, nostalgia, and relief. It was like watching old footage of myself—someone I recognize and yet hardly know. Someone who was still learning what love meant, what safety felt like, what it meant to be truly seen.
That letter cracked something open for me, in the best way. It made me want to look back at this past year—not just as a blur of events, but as a series of choices, losses, returns, and small rebirths.
This is my reflection on this year: the year of coming back to raving, getting my official AudHD diagnosis, finding a new therapist in March, and learning—slowly, messily—how to love myself and others better.
A Letter From the Past, A Mirror for the Present
Gene’s letter reminded me how deeply I can affect another person’s life, even when I don’t realize it. He remembered things I had long forgotten, but they had lived in him all this time.
Reading his memories of me at 18, 19,”
I remembered how hard I tried to be “good” and “easy to love,” even when I was confused and overwhelmed.
I remembered how quickly I forgave others, but how slowly I forgave myself.
I remembered feeling broken without having the words or framework—like my brain and heart were always slightly out of sync.
Now, with the language of AudHD (Autism + ADHD), with years of lived experience and a very different kind of self-awareness, I see that younger version of me differently.
I don’t see someone “too much” or “never enough” anymore. I see someone who was neurodivergent, un-diagnosed, and doing the best she could inside systems—romantic, social, cultural—that didn’t really see her either.
Gene’s letter was a reminder: people remember the way we made them feel. They remember our trying. Our love. Our clumsy apologies. Our laughter. Our patterns. Our exits.
This year, I’ve been learning to remember myself with that same kind of care.
Gratitude: A List I Keep Adding To
This year hasn’t been easy, but it has been real. And more than anything, I keep coming back to gratitude.
Here are some of the things I’m deeply thankful for:
My friends The ones who listened to me spiral and didn’t try to fix me. The ones who showed up to dance, to cry, to eat late-night food, to send memes at exactly the right time. The ones who let me be both a work-in-progress and a whole person—at the same time.
Gene’s memory and his kindness That letter wasn’t just nostalgia; it was an offering. It gave me back versions of myself I’d long buried and let me see them with softer eyes.
이지호 – Confession – My friend Jiho admitted to me that he truly does love me. A fact I had always known and it was confirmed. And while that ship has sailed, we both are thankful to have developed quite a friendship over the last three years especially, over the 4 years total that we’ve known each other.
My new therapist (since March) For asking better questions than “How are you?” For helping me separate my true self from my coping mechanisms. For giving me tools that match a brain wired like mine, not a hypothetical “average” person.
My confirmed AudHD diagnosis. 5 years ago, I knew I was adhd. But upon deeper healing, my true self emerged and I was able to drop masking as much. For naming something that always felt like a ghost in the room. A guess but never really able to confirm my suspicions after being denied my adhd for even so long. “It’s just Trauma….blah blah”. Truth be told, it was all three. ADHD. Trauma… and once I began healing, it became TRULY obvious. Especially the combination of the two. I’m a pretty classical case. For explaining why I’ve always been “too intense” and “too sensitive” and “too distracted” and “too focused” all at once. For allowing me to stop seeing myself as broken and start seeing myself as different and valid.
Raving and the dance floor For reminding me that my body is not just a vehicle for stress. For showing me that I can connect with people without overthinking every word. For those moments of pure presence when the bass drops and suddenly I remember I’m alive.
My cats For curling up next to me on days when I barely liked myself. For purring when I talk to them about things they have no way of understanding—and somehow understanding anyway. For making me want to be softer, more patient, more consistent. They’ve quietly made me a better “cat mom” and, by extension, a better human.
How My View of Love Has Changed
Love used to feel like something that happened to me. Now I’m learning that love is something I participate in, shape, and choose—again and again.
This year, I’ve started to understand that:
Love is not performance. It’s not “If I’m perfect, you’ll stay.” It’s “If we’re honest, kind, and accountable, we’ll see what grows between us.”
Love requires self-respect. Without boundaries, what I used to call “love” was often just self-abandonment with pretty packaging.
Love is not always safe, but it should never be cruel. Discomfort can mean growth. But cruelty, contempt, or emotional manipulation are not “just part of relationships.”
Love includes me, too. I don’t have to disappear to make room for someone else’s needs. My needs are part of the equation.
I’m still unlearning old scripts, but this year I felt the shift: from “How do I make them happy?” to “How do we take care of each other and ourselves at the same time?” And I wasn’t always so good at delivering that, but that was my work. Finding a balance.
Forgiveness, Healing, and How to Be Accountable
This year taught me a lot about apologies and accountability—on both sides.
When I’ve hurt someone
I’ve been learning that being accountable doesn’t mean:
drowning in shame
over-explaining why I did what I did
begging for instant forgiveness
Instead, it looks more like:
Naming what I did without minimizing it.
Listening to how it landed for the other person, even when it hurts to hear.
Asking, “What can I do now?” instead of just saying, “I’m sorry,” and hoping it disappears.
Accepting that sometimes, people need space or may never fully come back—and that their boundaries are valid.
It’s true. I don’t have to agree with them or their decision but I do owe it to them to respect their wishes and said decision, even if it doesn’t include me.
And I choose what chooses me back.
When someone hurts me
I’ve also been learning:
I’m allowed to say, “That wasn’t okay for me.”
Forgiveness doesn’t always mean reconciliation. Even if I really wanted that.
I can wish someone well and still not want them in my day-to-day life. This was hard to accept when I really wanted that kind of partnership with someone But when I searched my past beyond one person, I had the experience of not wanting people back into my life but truly wishing them the best. They just weren’t for me.
Letting go is an act of self-respect, not coldness.
Healing, for me, has looked less like suddenly feeling fine and more like:
reacting 10% slower
being 10% kinder to myself
choosing not to repeat an old pattern one single time on a random Tuesday
It’s not cinematic. It’s quiet. And it counts.
My AudHD Diagnosis: Finally Having a Word for “Like This”
Getting diagnosed with AudHD changed how I see nearly everything: my past relationships, my meltdowns, my “quirks,” my overwhelm, my focus, my shut-downs, and even my strengths.
This year, that diagnosis has meant:
Context, not excuses I’m not “lazy” or “inconsistent.” THAT was really a good feeling to realize that I actually can be quite consistent and didn’t quite have an understanding of what that looks like in relationships of any kind. I have a differently wired brain that needs specific kinds of support, structure, and pacing.
Rewriting my story So many moments from childhood, adolescence, and early adulthood make more sense now. The sensory overwhelm. The social misunderstandings. The hyperfixations. The burnout.
More intentional self-care I’m learning to notice my limits before I crash. To plan recovery time. To honor how much energy socializing or transitions really take.
Instead of, “What’s wrong with me?” I’m experimenting with, “What does my brain need in order to function and feel okay?”
That shift alone has been huge.
The Therapist Who Helped Me Rebuild (Since March)
Finding a new therapist in early March felt like a turning point.
With them, I started:
Untangling old beliefs like “I’m too much” or “I don’t deserve ease.”
Understanding my nervous system—why I shut down, why I over-explain, why I get stuck.
Naming patterns in love, friendships, and work that I previously just called “bad luck.”
Our work together hasn’t magically “fixed” me, but it has:
Given me better tools
Helped me pause between feeling and reacting
Given me permission to want more for myself
It’s allowed me to imagine a future that doesn’t revolve around surviving, but actually living.
What’s even better is I’ve been able to lessen my therapy. I now reach out once every 3-6 months. A check in with homework.
Coming Back to Raving: Learning to Connect Again
This year, I came back to raving.
It wasn’t just about the music or the lights—it was about remembering how to be in my body, with other bodies, without so much fear.
Raving has taught me:
To be less judgmental Everyone on that dance floor is just a person trying to feel alive for a few hours. The outfits, the dancing, the vulnerability—it all softened something in me.
To connect without words Eye contact has always been hard for me, a shared smile, a hand extended when the drop hits—these are tiny, electric reminders that we are not alone.
That I’m a co-creator of my experience I used to feel like life just “happened” to me. This year, I started to understand that:
I choose which events I show up to.
I choose how open I am.
I choose whether I stay on the sidelines or step into the middle of the floor.
Raving helped me reclaim joy as something active, something I participate in, not just something I wait around hoping will show up.
Becoming a Better Cat Mom
It might sound small compared to diagnoses and deep inner work, but honestly, my cats have been part of my emotional curriculum this year.
I’ve gotten better at:
Noticing their needs without projecting my own anxiety onto them.
Keeping up with their routines—food, play, vet visits—even when my executive function is struggling.
Letting their presence pull me out of my own head.
They’ve taught me:
Consistency is a form of love.
Care doesn’t have to be grand to be meaningful.
Sometimes, sitting quietly next to someone (or somecat) is enough.
My Goals for Next Year
As I look ahead, I don’t want to build next year on pressure or fear. I want it to be built on choice, intention, and self-trust.
Here’s what I’m carrying forward:
1. Staying with my fitness, gently
I want movement to be:
Something that helps me feel strong, grounded, and more present in my body.
Not a punishment. Not a way to “fix” myself.
Flexible enough to adapt to my energy, my cycles, and my neurodivergent rhythms.
2. Not being forced into choices I’m not ready for
I’m done with:
Rushing decisions because I’m afraid of losing someone.
Saying “yes” just to avoid conflict.
Forcing myself into timelines that don’t feel right in my bones.
Next year, I want to:
Listen to my intuition and my nervous system.
Take my time with big choices: relationships, moves, commitments.
Trust that if something is truly right for me, it won’t require me to betray myself to keep it.
3. Deepening my relationships
With friends, I want:
More honest conversations.
More intentional time together—online or offline.
More letting people see me as I am, not just as I think I should be.
With myself, I want:
More softness in how I talk to myself.
More rest without guilt.
More creativity and play, even if it “doesn’t produce anything.”
A Final Thank You to My Friends
To my friends—old, new, near, far, rave-floor, couch-call, meme-senders, deep-talkers:
Thank you.
Thank you for:
Letting me be weird, intense, quiet, loud, scattered, passionate—all of it.
Celebrating my wins, even the tiny ones like “I made the phone call” or “I left the house today.”
Staying, even when I disappeared for a bit.
Telling me the truth gently, and holding me when I couldn’t hold myself.
If this year has taught me anything, it’s that healing doesn’t happen in isolation. It happens in connection—with therapists, with dance floors, with old loves who write long emails, with cats who curl up on our chests, and with friends who keep choosing us, again and again.
This year, I started to believe that I’m allowed to choose myself, too.
Here’s to another year of remembering, raving, healing, and rewriting the story of my life—on my terms.
This year began with a ghost in my chest, a name I wouldn’t stop whispering to a door that never opened.
I tried to make a home out of someone else’s aftermath, not knowing I’d walked into a story that started long before me.
I was the rebound in a heart still crowded. They called me by their ex-wife’s name— the first red flag I folded into an excuse. They compared me to her, again and again, measured my softness against an old, unhealed wound and called it “honesty.”
I should have walked then. But I thought if I just loved harder, I could turn off the echo of someone else’s ghost.
They spoke about all the dates they never got to go on after their separation, as if I had cornered them into loving me, as if they’d been forced into choosing me, as if staying was something that just happened to them.
I carried that blame like a stone, asking myself if I’d been too much, too soon, too hopeful.
But I didn’t fall in love when I first said the words. I fell in love after our first fight, when I believed we could walk through fire together, that conflict meant we were real, meant we could conquer anything.
Instead, that’s when they started drifting. Every time I brought up a concern— a need, a hurt, a boundary— the next day, like clockwork, the script would flip. DARVO in real time: they were suddenly the wounded one, and I was the villain, the problem-maker, the storm they had to endure.
I thought I was fighting for both of us to win. But there are no winners when two people won’t face their mirrors, when two neurodivergent hearts turn differences into weapons, when we blame each other for our own unfinished healing. We weren’t a power couple but rather two hypocrites most days, angry at reflections we saw in each other, and in the end, we both lost.
Yet still, the deepest loss was myself.
So I did the hardest thing I’ve ever done: I stopped chasing closure from someone who spoke it in silence. I stopped waiting for a text that would never untangle the hurt. I accepted that no answer is an answer.
And I stood my ground when the orbit began With tears burning down my face, voice shaking, I told them:
If you cannot communicate, you cannot orbit my life for validation. You don’t get front-row seats to my healing while refusing to speak my language of honesty.
I sought a talk on accountability, the kiss of death an avoidant can’t offer. Something I had been working through the better half of an entire year.
I had always meant what I said. And I was learning. And growing. Just simply a human who makes mistakes.
I used to thank them for the harsh lessons— for showing me what I “needed to learn.” But now I thank myself for pushing forward, for not shrinking my needs to fit their capacity, for recognizing that their limits were never evidence of my lack.
And through this, I learned what consistency actually means and why I am, when I always believed I could never be.
I was not unlovable. I was just a person trying to love someone still broken open.
And my stability was still on rocky ground when I dove in head first.
This year, I learned that boundaries are not walls to keep love out, they are doors I choose who to open for. They are for me— for my peace, for my future, for the self I am still becoming.
I will know when I’m ready to open that door again.
I learned how to soften without dissolving, how to bend without breaking myself in half to fit someone’s “almost.”
I learned that real self-love isn’t a quote on a screen, it’s a daily practice: choosing my own voice over their old echo, choosing solitude over half-present company, choosing standards over scraps.
Despite how much it hurt, despite every night I sobbed over a love I didn’t want to lose, I’m grateful it ended.
Because now I know what I will never accept again: I will not be a rebound. I will not wear another woman’s name. I will not compete with ghosts. I will not carry blame for someone else’s unfinished grieving. I will not let my concerns be turned into accusations. I will not fold myself into a smaller version of who I am, just so someone can feel bigger.
I saw my mistakes. I traced my patterns back to their origins. I named them. I forgave myself. And I chose differently.
We will not be repeating those. Starting with the orbit and validating loop, no matter how much it hurt my heart to close that door.
My inner child deserves peace and kept promises. My own.
This year broke me open, but it didn’t break me down. I didn’t get the future I wanted with them, but I got something quieter, truer, and finally mine:
I got myself. My standards. My boundaries. My heart, held gently in my own hands.
And standing here, at the edge of a new year, I am not waiting for them to see my worth.
I see it.
For the first time, I am not living in the ruins of what could have been. I am here— fully, truly, finally present.
There’s something magical about taking a tiny corner of your world and turning it into a place that feels safe, cozy, and completely yours.
You don’t need a huge room or perfect Pinterest aesthetics. With a bit of intention (and some clay, pony beads, books, pens, and makeup organizers), you can build mini “safe havens” all around you.
I live in a 430 sq studio apartment with 2 cats. So space is needed for my sanity and theirs.
One beautiful strength of my AuDHD is that I’m highly creative. I also fight depression every December so to fight the last month of the year, I decided what would help is to create an area that sets me up for success by making spots for specific things so I can put them back into the same spot. I’m about to go label crazy Ya’ll. You don’t even KNOW!
By being busy, and creating, I’m helping combat the winter blues, and by getting organized, I’m going to save myself time and energy later down the road from when I’m getting ready for raves/festivals and previously would destroy my house get stressed out and freak out leaving me upset or at half life going in like that before I’m even out the door because I couldn’t find something and would panic that I was going to be judged. For what, I couldn’t tell you honestly and seems so ridiculous now, while some of my work has been learning how to tolerate and maneuver my reactions towards making mistakes, and giving myself grace, taking away shame, and repairing with maturity, if I can set myself up to be more organized, I can balance work, my health, my hobbies, my community and service. I’ve taken a month off of working out to get myself organized here at home mentally, emotionally, spiritually. All of it. here. Do I know where I want to go on my new fitness journey yet? No, but I’m excited and looking at it with a “I’m ready for the work again”.
I start another job after the 1st and I’m excited! I killed that interview and knew I got it and it’s taken a show of my skills to get that job. Working In the Big City. Coming home to quiet, to my Safe Haven.
LETS FUCKIN GOOOOOOO!!!
In this post, let’s talk about how to turn small spaces into:
A crafting corner with clay, pony beads, charms, Perlers, and more
A reading nook filled with books, workbooks, Korean language books, and art books
A makeup vanity space that feels like self-care, not clutter
A writing desk that invites you to create with pens, markers, tape, and paint
Think of it as building little forts of peace in the middle of a busy world. I’m a grown woman, yes, but I do still enjoy things I did as a child. I’m happy to have kept my own whimsey. And I’m hoping to share that motivation with you.
Step 1: Decide What “Safe Haven” Means to You
Before you rearrange a single thing, pause and ask:
When do I feel safest and calmest?
What am I doing in those moments? (Reading? Crafting? Doing makeup? Journaling?)
What colors, textures, and objects make me feel peaceful? -*For me, it’s colors from a rainbow lamp. Satin sheets. Playing with my makeup to try new styles, colors. Fuzzy and squishy textures. Food Items as Plushies or coloring books. Dinosaurs.
Your answers become your guiding theme.
Maybe “safe” for you means:
Having your favorite books within arm’s reach
Knowing your markers and pens are organized and ready
Having a little tray of clay, pony beads, and charms waiting for a creative burst
A soft lamp instead of a bright overhead light
Once you know what feels like safety to you, you can build around it.
Step 2: Start With One Tiny Corner
You don’t have to redo your entire room. Pick one small area to begin with:
Half of a desk
A shelf
The top of a drawer unit
A small side table
Even a space on the floor with a cushion which is my absolute favorite,
From there, decide what kind of mini-haven this corner will be:
Crafting is such a healing way to use your hands and quiet your mind. I admit, I wasn’t self aware when it came to realizing it was one of the only times, besides listening to music and dancing, that I have a silenced brain. Even if your space is tiny, you can create a portable craft station that feels like its own little world.
What You’ll Need
Clay (air-dry, polymer, or whatever you love)
Pony beads and charms
Perler beads and pegboards
Small containers or drawer organizers
A tray or basket to keep it all together
How to Set It Up
Pick a base spot Use a tray, a small cart, or one cube of a shelving unit. This becomes your “craft zone.”
Sort by activity
One container for clay
One for pony beads and charms
One for Perler beads (sorted by color if you’re feeling extra… I didn’t realize how much I truly DO love organizing, and it also further allows for stress free crafting).
Keep tools visible but tidy Store things like:
Scissors
Tweezers (for Perlers)
Clay tools
Glue in a small cup or pencil holder.
Make it inviting Add:
A small lamp or fairy lights
A mat or piece of cardboard to protect your surface
A tiny dish for “in-progress” pieces
Why It Feels Safe
A crafting corner tells your brain: this is a place where I’m allowed to experiment, make mistakes, and play. Every bead, charm, and clay figure becomes a little reminder that you can create beauty or humor in small, quiet ways.
Reading Nook: Books, Workbooks, Art Books & Korean Language Study
Shelf 1 – Workbook Shelf 2 – Psychology Shelf 3-4 Fiction, Poems, Humor Shelf 5-6 Korean study books
Your reading space doesn’t have to be a full-blown library. It can be as simple as:
A pillow against a wall
A chair by a window
A corner of your bed with a basket of books nearby
What You Might Include
Comfort reads (novels, poetry, comics)
Workbooks (mental health, creativity, journaling)
Art books (sketchbooks, reference books, how-to books)
BONUS: Korean language books: textbooks, grammar guides, storybooks, or webtoon-style readers
Okay, Maybe that last one is just for me. ❤️
How to Set It Up
Create a “grab zone” Choose one shelf, crate, or basket for:
Your current reads
A notebook
A pen or highlighter
Sort by mood, not rules You can group:
“Heavy focus” books: language books, workbooks
“Soft comfort” books: favorites you reread, cozy stories
“Inspiration” books: art books, design, photography
Add softness
A blanket or throw
A pillow
Warm lighting (string lights, soft lamp)
Create a tiny Korean corner Keep your Korean language books together:
One main textbook
A small vocabulary notebook
Sticky notes or tabs for marking pages
Why It Feels Safe
A reading nook is a space that says: You don’t have to perform here. You’re allowed to slow down, learn, and escape. Workbooks and language books remind you that growth can be gentle and steady.
Makeup Space: A Vanity That Feels Like Self-Care, Not Chaos
Makeup can be art, ritual, and self-expression. But when everything is scattered, it can feel stressful instead of soothing.
Let’s turn your vanity into a mini self-love station.
Tools That Help
Drawer organizers or divided trays
Small cups for brushes
A mirror (tabletop or wall-mounted)
A small trash bin or container for wipes/cotton pads
How to Organize It
Group by category
Face: foundation, concealer, powders
Eyes: shadows, liners, mascaras, lashes
Lips: balms, glosses, lipsticks
Tools: brushes, sponges, tweezers
Use drawer organizers to create “homes” Each product type gets its own little section:
One section for everyday products you reach for
One section for special looks / fun colors
Keep the top surface simple
A small tray for your daily must-haves
A jewelry dish or stand for pieces you wear often
One candle or plant if you like that vibe
Add comfort touches
A small speaker for music
A comfy seat or cushion
Soft lighting that makes you feel good in the mirror
I’m a little extra though. Going above and beyond, I also have a rolling cart for makeup for traveling to raves so I can carry it easier. It stores my braiding hair, hair supplies, makeup, etc. Highly suggested. Especially if you travel to raves and stay in hotels or have a festival to go to. Theyre not heavy, and it can create a station for you to get ready.
Why It Feels Safe
Your vanity becomes more than “where I put on makeup.” It becomes:
A place where you check in with yourself in the mirror
A ritual that says: I matter. I’m worth this time.
Writing Desk: Pens, Markers, Tape, Paint & Ideas
Paired next to my vanity to create more of an L shape.
A writing (and creating) space doesn’t have to be big. The key is having what you need within reach and not buried under chaos.
This space can be for:
Journaling
Planning
Creative writing
Doodling
Tracking your goals or moods
Supplies to Gather
Pens (black, colored, gel pens)
Markers and highlighters
Sticky notes, page flags, tacks
Washi tape, regular tape
Paint (if you’re mixing writing with art journaling)
Notebooks, planners, or loose paper
How to Set It Up
Claim a surface A desk, part of a table, or a fold-out tray. This is your writing zone.
Use containers wisely
Pens and markers in cups or jars
Tape, tacks, and small items in a little box or drawer
Paints and brushes in a separate caddy so you can move them when needed
Create a “clear space rule” Leave at least:
One notebook-sized area completely clear So at any moment you can sit down and start writing without cleaning first.
Make it inspirational
A small corkboard or wall space for quotes, photos, or goals
A sticky note list of ideas you want to write about
A favorite pen that always lives there
Why It Feels Safe
A writing space tells you: Your thoughts matter enough to have a place to land. It becomes a tiny island where you can process your day, dream big, or just doodle for a few minutes.
Tiny Space Hacks: Making It All Fit
If your space is really small, you can still have all these “havens” by thinking in layers and portability.
Use Vertical Space
Shelves above a desk
Hooks or pegboards on walls
Hanging organizers on doors or the side of furniture
Make Things Portable
A craft basket you can move from shelf to desk
A makeup caddy you can slide into a drawer
A pencil case with your favorite writing tools you bring to the bed or couch
Rotate What’s Out
You don’t have to display everything at once:
Keep some books stored and rotate your “current favorites”
Swap out craft supplies seasonally (Perlers one month, clay the next)
Change your vanity tray based on what you’re loving lately
The Emotional Side: Why These Spaces Matter
My inner child is so happy she got to make her own gingerbread house.
Turning small spaces into safe havens isn’t just about being organized or aesthetic.
It’s about:
Control: In a chaotic world, you own this little corner.
Comfort: You know exactly where to go when you need to reset.
Expression: Your beads, books, pens, makeup, and paints are all ways of saying, “This is who I am, in color and texture.”
Ritual: Sitting at your crafting table, opening your Korean workbook (I had missed it so much!), or turning on the vanity mirror becomes a signal: “I’m taking time for myself now.”
You’re not just decorating. You’re building spaces where you are allowed to be soft, messy, curious, creative, and real.
Closing Thoughts
You don’t need a whole house or a large room to feel at home. You just need small, intentional places that hold the things you love:
Clay and beads that let your hands play
Books and workbooks that grow your mind
A vanity that turns getting ready into a ritual
A writing desk that catches your thoughts before they float away
Start with one corner. One tray. One shelf. Make it safe. Make it soft. Make it yours.
The rest will grow from there. ✨
My silly whims: 3 nights of Uncle Jesse @ Shrine
Bonus Chapter: Creating a Walk-In Rave Closet
Not every safe haven has to be soft, quiet, and neutral. Sometimes safety feels like neon lights, glitter, and bass drops you can’t actually play out loud. That’s where a rave space comes in. 🎧✨
If you have a walk-in closet with shelves, you’re basically sitting on a secret costume studio.
Here’s how to turn it into a mini rave sanctuary.
1. Start With Structure: Furniture & Layout
You already made a genius move: you bought an extra dresser just for rave clothing. That alone shifts the energy of the closet into a dedicated space.
Think about:
The rave dresser
Use one drawer for tops, one for bottoms, one for bodysuits, one for cozy post-rave clothes (big tees, sweats, fuzzy socks).
Dedicate a drawer just for sparkly things: fishnets, mesh, arm warmers, leg warmers, etc.
Shelves as displays, not just storage
Put your boldest platforms, boots, or sneakers on open shelves like they’re on a stage.
Use one shelf for bags, another for hats/ears/goggles, and another for folded statement pieces (sequin jackets, fuzzy coats, reflective hoodies).
Don’t forget the mirror!
2. Wig Heaven: Hangers & Hair Magic
You invested in wig hangers, which is perfect. Wigs are half the transformation for a rave look. Work during the winter months, they keep me warm when I’ve previously worn very little. lol
Try:
Hanging them at eye level
Keep your wigs where you can see them. It’s inspiring to look in and think, “Who do I want to be tonight?”
Organizing by vibe
Bright neons in one section
Natural or “soft glam” wigs in another
Extra wild styles (split dye, multi-color, super long, super curled) in their own area
Quick-care essentials nearby
A small basket on a shelf with a wide-tooth comb, wig caps, clips, and a mini spray conditioner, so maintenance is easy and doesn’t feel like a chore.
3. The Rave Accessory Wall: Door Hanger Magic
That door hanger with slots for your rave accessories is doing the most. Turn it into your “festival command station.”
Fill the pockets with:
Jewelry & sparkle
Chunky bracelets, kandi, chains, chokers, body chains
Face gems, chunky glitter, rhinestones in small baggies
Functional rave gear
Earplugs
Mini fans
Sunglasses, goggles, diffraction glasses
Hand sanitizer & wipes
Hair & body extras
Hair clips, scrunchies, butterfly clips, mini claws
Body stickers, temporary tattoos, flash tattoos
Labeling the pockets (even roughly) can help a ton:
“Gems & Glitter”
“Kandi & Bracelets”
“Ears & Hair Clips”
“Glasses & Goggles”
Now your door is literally a rave panel you can scan quickly while getting ready.
4. Lights, Color, Vibes
To really make it a rave safe haven, play with light and color.
Ideas:
LED strips along shelves or around the door frame
Pick color modes like neon pink, electric blue, or rainbow fades.
A tiny disco ball or projector light
Even a cheap mini projector light on a shelf can throw shapes and colors around the closet.
Glow accents
UV/reactive pieces displayed on shelves
Glow sticks in a clear jar
This isn’t just storage anymore — it becomes a mood.
5. Tiny Details That Make It Feel Sacred
Because this is still part of your “safe haven,” layer in small things that make you feel calm and loved, even in high-energy colors.
A mini mirror or full-length mirror if space allows
So you can see the full outfit and hair come together.
A small bowl or tray
For keys, tickets, wristbands from past events, or tiny souvenirs.
Memories on the wall
Tape or pin up wristbands, polaroids, photo strips, or prints from your favorite nights out.
Even one little collage makes the space feel personal and magical.
6. A Pre-Game Ritual Space
Think of your rave closet as more than clothing storage. It’s a ritual space for transforming into your rave self.
You might:
Turn on the LED lights.
Play a playlist from your favorite DJ on low volume outside the closet.
Pick a wig, then build the outfit around that.
Grab accessories from the door hanger like you’re shopping in your own mini festival boutique.
Take a deep breath, look in the mirror, and set an intention for the night:
“I am free.”
“I am safe.”
“I am allowed to take up space and have fun.”
Even if you’re not going anywhere, you can still dress up just for you. Your rave closet becomes a place where you can try new identities, express parts of yourself that feel too loud for everyday life, and remember that joy is a valid form of self-care.
7. Keeping It Easy to Maintain
To keep your rave closet feeling like a haven instead of chaos:
Have a “post-rave basket”
A simple bin where you toss everything when you get home tired: top, bottoms, wig, jewelry, glasses.
Later, on a calm day, put things back in their places.
Do a quick 10-minute reset every few weeks
Refold clothes, clear trash, untangle jewelry, refill any empty glitter or gem packs.
Rotate pieces to the front
Move things you haven’t worn in a while into visible spots so you stay inspired.
A walk-in closet turned rave space is like keeping a tiny, glowing festival backstage inside your home. It’s organized, intentional, and still wild in the best way. It belongs to you.
You’re not just storing rave clothes — you’re building a little world where your boldest, brightest self is always welcome.
The year unravels, thread by thread, pins but thankfully no deadlines in my head. Chalk dust on my jeans, Uv light in my eyes, trying to juggle overtime, earthquakes, and unpleasant skies.
I’ve baked resin under kitchen lamps, tiny galaxies in silicone, or wood held by clamps, perlers pixel by pixel, each square a vow to make my own patterns from here on out.
I’ve stitched old shirts into newer lives, tie-dyed storms and marbled tides, pressed beads from scraps with stubborn hands, sometimes the ideas don’t work out, but sometimes the execution lands.
But balance is harder than cutting on grain, than threading a needle on a moving train. The weight of caretaking others and minimum pay sat in my chest like unfired clay.
I bent myself into useful shapes, forgot my breath, my room, my space. Work in the morning, more work at night, play just a rumor at the edge of my sight.
Still, somewhere between C4 and collapse, between resin cures and folded laps, a quiet voice, my internal voice, kept tapping the glass: “You can’t serve well from an empty cast.”
Now the year thins out like worn-out seams, and I’m finally stepping into my own theme. Project S. + UCSF on the name badge at my chest and a promise to myself underneath it: health comes first, then the rest. From Here on Out.
Not as slogan, not as line, but a boundary drawn in permanent shine: My body is not a side project or chore, it’s the frame of the life I’ve been crafting for.
I look for nothing else. To manage my schedule, between work, fitness, and crafting. Meal planning, 3 day weekend and a lot of planned drafting.
So I’ll load the barbell like I load the clay in the oven , patient with progress, steady and still. Muscle and mindset, rep by rep, building a shelter inside my breath.
Clients and friends, I’ll meet you there, where the air is deeper and the load is fair, where we chase strength, not shrinking or grow cold, where aging is power and not just “getting old.”
And when the day’s sweat has finally dried, I’ll turn back to color, to needles, to dye. To clay that remembers every press of my thumb, to fabric that sings when the seams come undone.
I’ll pour resin over the stories we keep, trap tiny galaxies, secrets, and grief. I’ll fuse beads into patterns that no one has named, a small act of courage disguised as a chain.
Upcycled sleeves, a new hemline’s start, I’ll stitch in the margin: this is my art. Not perfect, not polished, not factory clean, but honest and earned and stubbornly seen.
Work in its place, rest in its hour, movement as ritual, craft as flower. I think I’ve finally traced the design: health as the warp, creation the weft of my time.
When this year closes like a well-worn door, I’ll leave what drained me on the old, cracked floor. Step forward in sneakers, ink on my skin, a trainer, a maker, at home in my limbs.
Clay on my hands, sweat on my brow, no longer asking for balance somehow. I’m choosing the pattern, I’m cutting it true— this life is a garment I’m tailoring new.
Better but not quite yet done. I’ve come so far though.
Being a raver and being neurodivergent can both feel like living with your brain’s volume turned all the way up. Bright lights, loud music, social energy, emotions, sensory overload… and then on top of that, ADHD, autism, anxiety, or other neurodivergent wiring that already runs hot.
A dedicated crafting space isn’t just a cute aesthetic add‑on to this lifestyle. For many neurodivergent ravers, it’s actually a regulation tool, a creative sanctuary, and a way to keep the festival magic alive in a way that feels grounding and sustainable.
Let’s dive into why this matters so much—and how you can build a space that truly supports your brain, your body, and your rave soul.
Why It Helps the ND Raver
1. Slowing Down a Fast Brain
Neurodivergent brains often run like 20 tabs open at once:
Thoughts jumping in timelines, conversations, worries, ideas
Sensory memories from shows still buzzing in your body
Background noise that never really shuts off
Crafting can act like a gentle “brake pedal” for that mental chaos.
When you:
Thread beads onto string
Layer UV paint on a canvas
Sew or glue fabric pieces together
Design kandi or iron or organize perler patterns and beads
…your brain is invited to focus on one thing at a time. The repetitive motions and tactile feedback can be almost meditative. It’s not “doing nothing” (which can be very hard for neurodivergent minds), but it’s slow doing—a calmer pace that still feels productive and fun.
2. Resting by Creating (Not Just “Doing Nothing”)
For a lot of neurodivergent folks, “rest” doesn’t always look like lying on the couch in silence. In fact, that can feel:
Boring
Uncomfortable
Overwhelming (because your brain gets louder when the environment gets quieter)
Crafting gives you:
Active rest – Your body and nervous system slow down, but your brain still gets stimulation in a gentle, focused way.
Emotional processing – You can work through post-rave blues, social exhaustion, or big feelings through colors, patterns, and making something with your hands.
Soft joy – Not the explosive euphoria of a festival, but that cozy satisfaction of “I made this.”
It’s the kind of rest that doesn’t require you to shut your brain off—just to redirect it into something soothing.
3. Organization as a Form of Regulation
Neurodivergent brains often crave structure even if executive dysfunction makes it hard to keep. A crafting space can offer gentle, visual organization that feels:
Calming
Predictable
Actually exciting (because everything is related to something you love: raves, art, self-expression)
Having:
Beads in clear containers
Fabric folded by color
Tools always in the same tray
Half-finished projects visible but contained
…can create a sense of external order that helps regulate your internal chaos.
It’s not about perfection or Pinterest‑level aesthetics. It’s about:
Knowing where things are
Reducing decision fatigue
Preventing overstimulation from random clutter
Creating a ritual: “I sit here, I pick up this box, I know what happens next”
I also notice how much less I panic when I can find things easily. I’m late a lot less often, I feel less pre-show overwhelm, and I enjoy my time a lot more when getting ready.
4. A Safe, Soft, Controlled Version of the Rave World
Raves are:
Loud
Bright
Crowded
Unpredictable
Your crafting corner can be:
Quiet or softly musical
Dim with fairy lights or cozy lamps
Solo or just with one trusted friend
Predictable and under your control
It’s like having a mini rave universe you can access anytime—without the overwhelm. You still get:
Neon colors
Glitter
PLUR energy through making kandi or outfits
Creative self-expression
…but in a way that’s gentler on your nervous system and schedule.
5. Identity, Autonomy, and Pride
When you’re neurodivergent, the world often makes you feel:
“Too much”
“Not enough”
Out of sync
Crafting space flips that script. It becomes:
A place where your hyperfocus is an asset
A place where your sensory seeking (textures, colors, sparkles) is celebrated
A place where your weird, niche, specific interests are the main event
Designing outfits, decor, or kandi that scream you can help root your identity:
“This is my brain, my art, my rave gear, my way.”
What Makes a Crafting Space Neurodivergent-Friendly?
You don’t need a full studio or a fancy room. A neurodivergent-friendly crafting space is more about function and feeling than size.
1. A Clear “Zone” Just for Creating
Your brain benefits from clear boundaries:
“This is where I craft.”
“This is where I scroll.”
“This is where I sleep.”
Your crafting space could be:
A dedicated desk
A fold-out table
A corner of your room with a cart
Even a single shelf + a lap desk
What matters is that your brain learns:
“When I sit here, I create.”
2. Visual but Not Overwhelming Organization
Neurodivergent brains tend to love:
Visual cues (seeing what exists, not hidden in opaque boxes)
Color-coding
Clear categories
But at the same time, visual clutter can be overstimulating. Aim for something in the middle:
Use clear bins or jars for:
Beads
Charms
Glow sticks
Stickers
Label them simply:
“Beads – Warm Colors”
“Charms – Hearts & Stars”
“Fabric Scraps – UV”
Use trays or small baskets to group:
All kandi-making tools
All sewing supplies
All paints/brushes
Think: organized chaos that still feels calm.
3. Sensory Comfort: Make It Gentle on Your System
Crafting is easier when your nervous system feels safe.
Consider:
Lighting
Soft warm lamps instead of harsh overhead lights
LED strips, fairy lights, or a small color-changing bulb
Sound
Low-volume mixes, chillstep, lofi, or ambient psytrance. Personally, I really like Drum and Bass for just about any project. But I’ve been feelin a lot of Rezz for my organization recently.
White noise if music is too distracting
Noise-cancelling headphones for really focused moments
Seating
A chair with back support
A pillow for your lower back
Or a floor setup with cushions if that’s more your vibe. I personally prefer this, depending on the craft I’m creating.
Texture
A soft blanket on the chair
A fidget toy on the desk, or in my case, a container dedicated to stim toys.
A smooth desk mat for your hands to rest on
Your crafting space should be sensory-safe first, aesthetic second (but you can absolutely have both).
4. Clear Surfaces With “Zones”
Neurodivergent brains can get overwhelmed when every single thing is visible at once. Try creating mini-zones on your workspace:
Active Project Zone
Only what you’re working on right now
Tools Zone
Scissors, pliers, needles, tape, glue, etc.
Supplies Zone
Beads, fabric, paints, charms, etc.
If your space is small:
Use a tray or mat to define the active project area.
When you’re done for the day, you can move the tray aside and your surface is “cleared” without having to put away every single bead.
5. A Simple Reset Ritual
Executive dysfunction makes “cleaning up” feel like a boss battle. Instead of aiming for perfection, design a minimal reset ritual, for example:
Put all tools back into one container.
Put all loose supplies into one “catch-all” bin if you’re tired.
Clear the main workspace so tomorrow’s you won’t get overwhelmed.
Take one photo of your in-progress project so you remember what you were doing.
Even that small reset keeps the space welcoming instead of guilt-inducing.
What You Might Want in Your Raver Crafting Space
You definitely don’t need all of this—this is more of a menu than a checklist. Start with whatever matches your energy, budget, and interests.
Clasps, jump rings (if you like more structured jewelry)
Small organizers with divided sections. I’ve been obsessed with the store Five Below. Finding craft containers for 5-7 dollars has been a blessing for me.
Old clothes to upcycle (tank tops, fishnets, leggings, etc.)
For Visual Art & Decor
Acrylic paints (especially neon/UV-reactive)
Paintbrushes
Canvas panels or art paper
Markers, paint pens, metallic pens
Stickers, washi tape, stencils
Spray paint (if you have a safe/ventilated place)
Cardstock for signs, tags, or mini posters
For Fans, Totems, and Props
Folding fans (blank) to paint/decorate
Cardboard or foam board for totems
Duct tape, gaffer tape, or strong tape
PVC pipe or wooden sticks for handles
Zip ties
Printed images, laminated if possible
Glitter (preferably biodegradable if you can)
Sensory & Regulation Items
Fidget toys (rings, cubes, squishies, tangles)
Essential oil roller or scented candle (if that helps you relax)
Small weighted item (like a weighted lap pad) if pressure calms you
Soft blanket or hoodie near your chair
How to Actually Use the Space (Without Overwhelming Yourself)
1. Start with Micro-Sessions
If starting feels hard, tell yourself:
“I’m just going to sit here for 5 minutes.”
“I’ll only sort beads by color for one song.”
“I’ll only add 5 beads to this bracelet.”
Once you’re there, your brain may slip into hyperfocus naturally—but the pressure is low.
2. One Project in the Spotlight
Try to have one main project visible in your active zone, even if you have a hundred ideas. Store other projects:
In labeled bags
In separate boxes
On a shelf with a post-it note describing what you were planning
This reduces the “I want to do everything and so I do nothing” feeling.
3. Use Raves as Your Creative Fuel, Not Just a Goal
Instead of only crafting for a specific event (which can cause time-pressure and stress), let the rave world be:
Your inspiration
Your theme
Your emotional language
You can create:
Kandi you’ll give away “someday”
Art inspired by past shows
Outfit pieces with no deadline
Decor just for your room that makes it feel like a safe mini-festival
This way your crafting space isn’t just a prep station—it’s a living, breathing part of your rave identity.
4. Build Rituals Around It
Neurodivergent brains often love ritual and pattern once it’s established. You could:
Light the same candle or switch on a specific LED color when you start.
Put on a specific playlist: “crafting mode.”
Start by doing the same small thing every time, like:
Sorting a few beads
Checking your project list
Taking out your fidget toy for a minute
Your brain learns:
“These signals mean: we’re safe, we’re crafting, we can slow down.”
Clearing the Space Without Burning Out
“Cleaning” can be a loaded word, especially with executive dysfunction. Instead, think of it as resetting your altar.
Try this simple end-of-session routine:
Stop the mess from spreading
Put all beads back into some container (even if not perfectly sorted).
Close glue, paints, and marker caps.
Save your brain state
Take a quick photo of your project and maybe jot a one-sentence note:
“Next: add letters to second row.”
Clear the core surface
Push everything to a side tray or bin if you’re exhausted.
Wipe crumbs/glitter only if you have the energy; if not, it can wait.
Do one kind thing for future you
Leave your favorite tool or supply nicely placed where you’ll see it.
That little “invitation” makes it easier to come back.
Shae’s Last Thoughts:
For a neurodivergent raver, a crafting space isn’t a luxury hobby zone. It’s:
A regulation station for a buzzing brain 🧠
A sensory-safe pocket of the rave universe ✨
A way to rest without going idle
A ritual space where you’re allowed to be fully, loudly, colorfully yourself
You deserve a corner of the world that exists just to support your creativity and your nervous system—something that’s not about being productive for others, but about feeling good in your own body and mind.
I learned to meet myself in the mirror without flinching at the way I glow— all angles, all sudden weather. I am awkward, and I am kind. I am the sum of my sparks, and I carry them now firmly.
Hyperfocus is my lighthouse: its beam cuts a path through fog and doubt. I aim it with care, swivel it toward what matters, and when the light grows too bright, I shade it— timers, breaks, a friend nearby to body-double til dawn.
Sensory truth is my compass: I read the texture of rooms, hear footsteps in the walls. Soft fabrics, quiet corners, headphones like harbors. I step outside when storms rise in fluorescent seas, and I tell you—it’s not you, it’s the volume of the tide.
My need for routine is a trellis I built myself, where restless vines can learn a gentle climb. Lists as constellations, alarms as small moons; I give minutes seatbelts, let tasks arrive in single syllables, start with two minutes, then another, then a breath.
Stimming is my wind-song: fingers tapping, a pebble turning, shoulders loosening. I balance the inner weather with rhythm and motion, and I will name it aloud, so you know it’s comfort, not distance— a bridge I walk back across to meet your eyes.
Monotropism is a river that runs deep and clear. When I love, I love with underwater clarity. I choose when to enter, when to surface, teach curiosity to blink in daylight, coax transitions like shy birds from hedges.
Directness is my honest stream. Words come true-blue, like sky after rain. I practice pause and softness: “Is this a good time?” “May I speak plainly?” Consent is the warm frame around my glass.
Time can dissolve like sugar in tea— so I color it, box it, name it: morning gold, afternoon amber, evening slate. I put tomorrow in a backpack tonight, leave it by the door where memory can touch it.
When rejection feels like thunder in a teacup, I steady the saucer with breath and small proof: ask for clarity, collect kind notes, remember that silence often means busy, not broken. I let tenderness teach me gentleness with myself.
Executive mountains are real, but I make them walkable: break the climb into stones and steps, invite a companion, lay out water and shade. I write one verb per line, begin where my feet already are, replace “finish” with “start,” replace “perfect” with “done.”
Masking was a heavy coat I wore through summer; I learned to set it down where trust feels safe. I keep pockets of privacy, name boundaries with a smile: “I may need a pause,” “bright lights make me quiet,” “if I look away, I am listening with my whole head.”
Around others, I let my edges be honest: awkward like wildflowers that follow their own geometry. I ask for the pace that fits my stride, offer my steadiness, my curiosity, my humor that arrives late
Self-acceptance is not an ending; it’s a daily craft. I sand the splinters, oil the hinges, label the drawers. I change what needs changing, hold what needs holding, and I explain, because kindness loves clarity: this is how my mind moves—here’s how I make room for yours.
So let me be myself, here, now— not polished, not muted, wholly present. I am awkward, and I am kind. My traits are sails, not anchors; my responsibility the wind. Watch me steer—gentle, honest—toward us both.
My friend TayTay and I showed up to our hotel around 4:30pm. We had a little bit of time to relax before getting ready for the first nights events. And even with getting settled in, we still missed the first two opening artists.
Nothing is more comfortable than friends and a Cat Onesie.
Vibe: The room felt happy and open—opening‑night excitement without the shove‑fest. People were dancing, giving space, and the flow around the floor was easy.
Set flow: A cinematic intro into crunchy, elastic bass. He moved through tearout, riddim, and those glitchy, stop‑start fake‑outs he loves, with little tempo flips that kept it fresh. Mid‑set felt like a confident run of fan‑favorite sounds, and there was a quick DnB palate cleanser before ramping back up.
Production: Lasers were tight and synchronized; the cyclops‑themed visuals had that “hyper‑digital graffiti” look; strobes were punchy but controlled. You could tell the show design was dialed for a long residency—nothing felt thrown together.
Crowd behavior: Mostly kind. Enough space to breathe, minimal shoving, lots of smiles. That opening‑night sparkle was real.
Personal moment: I lost my cockapoo Fuggler plush during Night 1, which definitely yanked me out of the vibe for a while. Even with that chaos, the overall energy stayed positive. I was able to refine it again, and lesson learned, not to bring anything to a show that I’d be upset enough to lose.
The first and ONLY time I’ve seen this man make a mistake during his set. He handled it like a pro. End of the night picture 🙂 Sweater on and keeping cozy! The cartoon of me at the end of Night 1 because Traditions. I was feeling a little sentimental when I was searching for food. I found Passionfruit Mousse. Thank you Bossa Nova’s for supplying me with a new memory.
Night 2 — Tough crowd energy, late arrival
Vibe: Not very PLUR in all honesty. Lots of heavy drinking, scattered fights, and too many folks there mostly filming. It gave the floor a tense, distracted feeling—like parts of the crowd were performing for their phones instead of engaging with the music.they didn’t want people moving around them, girls were there honestly more to gawk at the DJ than vibe with the crowd. I suppose there is always going to be those few but people were very territorial over their “spots” in the crowd this day, which made it very awkward. Shame on the people within the crowd trying to block movement from other grown ass adults.
Timing: I missed all the opening acts except the end of Grabbitz, who I really actually wanted to see. The tail end I caught was polished and melodic, but I didn’t see the build from the earlier sets, which I admit also set the mood for the night. As simple as it, that just means that I need to simply stick to my own practiced timing if I want to make sets on time. Follow my own timeline.
Man, obsessed with that guys vocals. Loved this!
Set flow: Subtronics leaned harder and darker—fewer playful detours, more sustained heaviness. Plenty of whiplash drops, some clever fake‑outs, and a run of VIP‑ish edits that felt intentionally more aggressive to cut through the chaos.
Production: Lasers and visuals were consistent, but the room’s mood overshadowed the show design. When pockets of the crowd were arguing or shoving, those moments broke immersion.
Crowd behavior: Security seemed busier; walkway traffic was choppy. Even sober, it was hard to stay zoned‑in with that much tension rippling through the floor.
Night 2 end of the night Photo. lol
Night 3 — VIP pre‑show, barricade perspective, mild acid
VIP: The album listening session was a treat—you could hear the arrangement choices clearly without crowd noise. It truly is something special to listen to this man talk and in his words “ramble” about his special interest. As someone is who Neurodivergent, it was very humbling to hear this man talk as I do when my anxiety hits. And I realized so much more about my other traits and symptoms by seeing them in my favorite DJ, off record. The Q&A felt candid: production stories, inspirations behind some themes, and how he builds the live show around tension and release. Nice community vibe; people asked smart questions. And our Subby didn’t disappoint in giving the most neurodivergent answers….. bouncing from subject to subject, to hyperfocus on his music, friends, and handling burn out.
Barricade: Being up front changed the experience—subweight felt ultra‑physical, and the timing of lasers/visuals was immaculate from that angle. Transitions read more clearly when you can watch the stage cues.
Set flow: Night 3 felt like a narrative: memorable intro, a mid‑section that showcased new material from the album, and then a victory‑lap final third mixing staples, flips, and quick genre detours. The pacing breathed more than Night 2—confident, not frantic.
Mild acid: It hit gently—colors/lasers bloomed a bit and the music felt wider, but not overwhelming. That said, it blurred some details I would’ve loved to remember more cleanly, especially transitions and IDs. But overall, the food I ate before hand (yes, my safe meal of chicken tenders) really helped keep my personality while enjoying a small trip.
Setlist shape across the three nights (noting what stood out sonically)
Intros: Cinematic builds into elastic, stop‑start bass—signature tension then release.
Core sections: Tearout and riddim anchors, peppered with fake‑outs, double‑drop moments, and occasional halftime grooves.
Tempo play: Short DnB sprints (I WAS IN LOVE! I felt personally spoiled) or quick BPM flips to reset energy mid‑set.
Variations night‑to‑night:
Night 1: Balanced and playful, strong opening‑night pacing.
Night 2: Heavier, more relentless—like he was cutting through the noise.
Night 3: Most “story‑like,” with new album cuts woven in and a satisfying final run. Since the new album dropped on the 5th, while he was playing his show, we got invited ultimately to an album release party.
The cartoon of the night.
Special guests and openers I actually experienced
Grabbitz: I only caught the end of his set on Night 2—clean vocals and big, emotive drops; a nice contrast before the heavier headliner energy. It was nice to see Subby call him back out to do another song together.
Cameos/guests: Across runs like this, quick on‑stage shoutouts and brief appearances happen, and Night 3’s VIP made Subtronics himself feel accessible and present before the show. I didn’t clock every guest by name during the sets, but the energy pops from those moments were there. It was nice to see his wife there supporting him for his album release! It was cool seeing Illenium there to support Jesse with their song on the new album as well.
Crowd, sound, and production notes
Sound: Low‑end felt tight most of the time; occasional hot spots depending on where you stood. Up front on Night 3, the subs translated beautifully—impactful but not muddy.
Visuals: Laser choreography was consistent across all three nights, and was insane to see some lights even created a spiral effect. This absolutely threaded the 6 day residency together.
Crowd dynamic:
Night 1: Open and friendly.
Night 2: Disconnected and tense—too much filming, not enough listening. “Concert” vibes vs rave vibes.
Night 3: More focused; VIP set a respectful tone, and barricade had better etiquette.
Why I’m choosing sober shows from here on out
Presence and memory: Sober nights (1 & 2) made the music clearer and the set structure easier to track. Night 3’s mild acid was novel, but it softened details I wanted to remember precisely.
Safety and comfort: Navigating crowds—especially on nights like Night 2—is simpler and safer sober. I could recognize people were being unpleasant this day and could move away from that energy. And in fact did, multiple times.
Connection: I feel more tuned into the artist and the community when I’m clear‑headed. PLUR lands better when I’m fully present. While driving wasn’t a concern due to hotel being right down the street from the venue, I like being able to get in my car and leave without having to feel like I need to stay behind.
Practicality: Easier logistics, better decision‑making, and less post‑show fog. I also remember times in my past where I was so messed up that I couldn’t realize how unsexy that was for my partner at the time, sloppily trying to fool around in the back of a Waymo. So all in all, after that situation and our breakup that followed later down the line, I knew that I no longer wanted to be that person. Learn my lesson and do better. So really, I’ve found I like me better without smoking, and without taking any drugs. Confirmed.
Final thoughts
Three nights in, Subtronics showed range: playful and welcoming, then crushingly heavy under pressure, then polished and story‑driven with album material.
The residency scale mattered—production felt custom‑fit to The Shrine, and the shows read like chapters, not repeats.
Crowd energy can change everything. Night 1 and Night 3 reminded me why these nights are special; Night 2 reminded me why etiquette and PLUR aren’t just slogans.
I’m locking in the sober path for future shows—more clarity, more connection, and more respect for the experience.
Time to remove the makeup of the night. Half on/ Half off. lol One of the funniest moments was honestly the faces he would make at us when he hit us with heavy wubz. He laughed at us quite a few times. It literally vibrated the whole front.
I lost my voice in the afterglow of bass, Subtronics stitching madness into midnight music, drops carving vowels out of me until my mouth held only thunder.
By morning—Voiceless, blankets, soft light on the wall— I lay still, taken care of like a vinyl in velvet, coffee cooled on the nightstand, laughter at the door, and somehow it was the best day ever: quiet, held, a chorus of kindness hummed at low volume.
Gratitude arrived like a calm beat between songs— a hand on the forehead, the right text, the gentle taste of Denica’s, the sweet permission to heal slower than the crowd moves. Healing, I learned, has its own BPM: not rushed, not late—just true.
When the old aches pressed play on memory, I replayed the words my favorite artist spoke— let them go—an echo that rewired the room. I can never unhear it. Jesse was right.
Choose friends who will critique you, who see the pulse of potential you can’t hear in your own chest, who slice the silence so your voice can return stronger. And if they don’t appreciate your truth, cut them off— the ones who only clap for the polished parts, who love the echo but not the note. Keep the people who push you past comfortable.
Now the spoon finds passion fruit mousse— golden, bright as sunrise on a festival wristband. I don’t wish we could share it anymore. I eat it happily, everyday if I want, and send your memory a blessing in your new timeline, like a balloon released into sky after the set ends, drifting toward another city of sound.
Then I turn back to mine: a room, a bed, a throat learning song again, gratitude cupped in both hands, healing stitched through every beat. Proud of the road behind me—its potholes, its glitter, its rain— and proud of where my feet land now, soft, sure, ready for the next drop. My voice returns—rasp to river, whisper to wave— and I am here, fully here, bright as passion fruit, steady as bass, alive in my own timeline, unafraid to let go, unafraid to go on.
I count heartbeats in purrs, dose myself on whiskered chemistry— soft paws kneading my chest until oxytocin opens like a window. I need nothing here, but the universe feels owed to me anyway— not in gold, not in thunder, only in the right to breathe without apology.
When I see animals, I become water. A doe tilts its head, and I spill. My cats blink slow trust, and the world puts down its weapons. My ribs loosen. I remember I am not a fortress, I am an open field.
I made myself smaller online— a whisper where I used to be a flare— and somehow my days got wider, my footsteps longer, my yes more honest. I became the room I enter, the tteokbokki I stir, the friend who listens to the sound of wind on the window and calls it music.
I have no regrets, only old misunderstandings set down like stones beside a river that kept moving. Once, I prayed for one person to understand me, to carry my map and find the hidden clearing. Now I laugh at my pockets—empty— then pull out a brush, a pen, a handful of breath, and draw the clearing myself.
Creation was always the answer— the door that didn’t creak because it never closed. I write in the margins of quiet, paint with silence and cat fur and late light. I learn depth by living simply: a bowl, a book, a window where the moon cleanses my healing crystals, the small movements of a cat’s shoulder blade rising and falling against my palm.
I need nothing, and I deserve everything: the everything of a life that fits, of mornings that open like fruit, of nights that forgive.
And now I’ve found art— or maybe it found me, scratching at the screen door like a stray, then curling, sure as gravity, in my lap. Purr by purr, I become the person I once wanted to meet, the page that writes back, the quiet that blooms into color.
Swipe Left On Perfection 