A little over a week ago, I bought a last minute ticket to London. It wasn’t in the cards for me this year. I am booked up through 2016. I did it anyway. If I’m honest, it was mostly because I was sad about a boy. But also, though it seemed frivolous and haphazard, I knew I could. And then, last Thursday, after 9.5 hours in air, I found myself in London, wandering the streets alone, as I had done for three months in Paris – and the freedom, adventure of it all – felt like I was home again. On Friday around 4:00 a.m., I was in a black cab on the way back to my hotel in Kensington, bumping Fetty on my iPhone whilst speculating how he lost his eye with a dear friend. Somewhere in the night, I was at a table in a club in Soho with a gentleman I had met just five days before at a restaurant in LA. The following evening, I was sitting on a ledge shivering in the cold on the rooftop of Shoreditch House while flirting with a dashing young Brit. If even a year ago, someone would have told me that this would be my life, I would have laughed. If even a year ago, someone would have told me that this would be me, I would have disagreed vehemently. Surely it wasn’t, until one day it was. The boy I was sad about – I still am. In him, I had hope for something more than what became. But I had a boyfriend for eight years of my 20’s. I lived that life and it was grand. This one though!! So instead of fretting over what I don’t have, what I wanted but didn’t get (again), I’m celebrating what I do have. Which is a penchant for mischief, a clever ability to flirt, an insatiable desire for male attention, and a new sense of adventure that snuck up on me like a good dream. There were many moments that led to the making of this new human, most of them sad. But here I am now, happier than ever, more myself than ever, and sincerely excited for whats to come next.