Candidly Dating #2: Recognizing the Red Flags

Candidly Dating #2: Recognizing the Red Flags

According to Greek mythology, humans were originally created with four arms, four legs and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate parts, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves.

The Symposium, Plato

A running joke among my friends — and, admittedly, in my own head — is that the more red flags a guy has the more deeply attracted to him I inevitably end up being. I have bent over backwards for guys who have displayed anger issues, who have blatantly declared themselves non-monogamous , and who have even shown complete disinterest in me. This last one more than once.

Last week, Rebecca came over to christen my new apartment with a wine and Chinese take-out night, and as we sat on the hardwood floor of my unfurnished living room the conversation turned to the men we were currently talking to. I mentioned the one who had currently been pursuing me — and I mean this non-conceitedly — quite aggressively. My reaction to this interest was complete disinterest in him, to which Rebecca stared me down and said pointedly, “Rose. Let’s be real. You like the chase.” As always, Rebecca knows me better than I do. I do love to be the pursuer. She urged me to this once let myself enjoy being courted.

I let the conversation continue for over a week, and despite my best efforts — or perhaps on behalf of them — I started to see distinct red flags. First it was the question of “Would you date a Muslim?” He was not Muslim so there was no reason that this would be asked unless he had a distinct impression one way or another on whether this was a test of character.* Then there was the assertion of Trump being a better president than Obama when it came to foreign diplomacy. Third, he was adamant than “non-obedient” dogs retained more personality, and therefore were more likable, than their docile counterparts. Finally, the straw that broke the camel’s back, was the staunch opinion that female comedians did not become as successful as males because they relied too heavily on sexual content, something that is apparently “not funny.” **

I should note that during all of this I would have been fine with differing opinions, if he hadn’t talked down to me as if I was distinctly wrong and baseless in my own opinion. The condescension was stifling.

I have been in this place before. Previously, I had limited my voice and adopted new viewpoints to appease my partner in the hopes of that fairy-tale ending. This time, however, I found myself growing disgusted rather than repentant. I didn’t want to back down. I didn’t want to fight — it was too soon to be worth the effort — but I didn’t want to invest in something that was doomed to make me question my own intelligence.

That was the red flag, waving loud and proud from the tail-end of a blimp in Times Square. There was no avoiding it. It wasn’t just one red flag, but a million little red flags from years of dating unsuccessfully — and without a voice — that had been sewn together to make me distinctly capable of seeing this one when it was so visibly affronting.

For the first time in my adult life, I broke it off.

He was very receptive to it, something I can’t say I have always been. I think we both knew we were too opposite, especially since I held my ground in the conversations. But it felt good to say, “No, this isn’t what I want and I deserve to find my complement.” Holding out hope feels good.

I’m not signing off my chance at love for a while, but I am going to hold onto the hope that there is a shared half that belongs to me. A pairing, a complement. And while it’s nice to be pursued, and fun to be the pursuer (some habits never die), it’s even more rewarding to stick to your convictions and believe in your worth.

All my love x


*I said that I would, of course, date a Muslim just like I would date a Christian, a Jew, a Buddhist, a Hindu, an Atheist, an Agnostic. A human is a human. Their faith is just a facet in the whole composition of who they are. (This he said was “Interesting…”)

**I told him that while sexual humor is definitely touted by the comedienne population, it is not something exclusively heard from female mouths and to condemn women for exercising humor that men have been experimenting with and celebrated for for decades is completely sexist. Women, also, deserve the chance to tell stories in a setting that inverts the taboo — essentially what comedy does — and these stories liberate and resonate with female audiences in ways that have previously been unavailable. Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.

Living Candidly #6: On brighter days and better friends

Living Candidly #6: On brighter days and better friends

Wednesday 3:40 PM: My eyes felt hot as I read the text message from my psychiatrist: “use Xanax liberally today and text me tomorrow morning with how you’re doing.”

It had been twenty hours since my complete decomposition on the sidewalk outside my apartment. In the midst of a disagreement with one of my roommates about a bill payment, the thought of stepping inside my home was the final trigger to a build-up of anxiety. I had immediately called Rebecca — my lifeline in the overcrowded city that somehow makes me feel wildly lonesome — and she had showed up in what might as well had been a winged chariot: swooping me into a hug and then ushering me onto my bed while she cleaned the rubble of my room and bathroom that had fallen into detritus over the preceding weeks. While I had ignored the problem of cleanliness, it became wildly apparent that my lack of housekeeping was a major indicator that this breakdown was an inevitability rather than a freakish whim of my biological nature.

Rebecca sat with me while we chowed down on half-decent microwave meals from a local deli and tried to pin down exactly what had started the downward spiral that had begun this morning. As it turned out, I was still battling demons from years prior that I had thought were long vanquished: friends lost, guilt repented, shame accepted. Instead of letting me sit in that pit of despair, she assured me that I was not solely responsible for those pains that sat with me nearly four years later. In fact, she sat before me as living proof — the epitome of a friend who had seen me in my darkest and most destructive — that true friends stand by you through the thickest black and love you for the person that evolves from those trials. They encourage you to pick yourself back up and to grow, and when you can’t do it alone, they bring down that very winged chariot and scoop you onboard until you can command the reins yourself.


It’s now been about forty-eight hours. My Xanax supply is still within reach but it is not in white-knuckle grip. Instead, it’s the people around me who make me feel like me. It’s the way Rebecca — a social worker by profession — exceeded the bounds of normal friendship to make sure that I was secure before exiting my apartment on Tuesday night. It’s the way Jasmine stayed on the phone last night laughing with me about how tragic our lives are, in sync nearly four thousand miles apart, and how we will support each other as we seek out local clinical and therapeutic help (my trusted psychiatrist — as helpful as he is and regardless of the fact he has legitimately saved my life on two accounts — can only do so much from two states away). It’s the way Justine understands when I request an extra half hour for lunch in order to commute to attend that very therapeutic appointment.

When I was hospitalized, I had the incredibly fortunate encounter of meeting a seventy-eight year old patient committed for suicidal tendencies. And, in our discussion, she told me that what she had learned in her several hospitalizations consistently was that life is always worth fighting for. Feeling more like myself today, I can say that I know she’s right. There is always a light.

Thursday 9:39 AM: “I feel great today.”

All my love x

Living Candidly #4: Leaving Everything I Knew Gave Me My Life Back

Living Candidly #4: Leaving Everything I Knew Gave Me My Life Back

What you’ve done becomes the judge of what you’re going to do – especially in other people’s minds. When you’re traveling, you are what you are right there and then.People don’t have your past to hold against you. No yesterdays on the road.

William Least Heat-Moon

One tap. One link follow. Three swipes to scroll. 

That’s all it took to find out about the Working Holiday Visa in Ireland. 

I remember it vividly. I was splayed on the couch in a rental beach house, on vacation with my family just one month after graduation from college. I was coming off the worst five months of my life. After a brutal depression that had cost me friends, love, and a complete sense of self, I found I was back in the pub job in my hometown I had sworn was for one summer back in 2014 to fund my study abroad — it was now 2016. And while I was putting on a brave face for my family amidst the shambling aftermath that I found my life in around me, each day brought a tightening claustrophobia. I felt my air running thin, and my ghosts were hot on my trail. 

Now that it’s 2019, we all know that the internet is algorithmic black magic when it comes to supplying advertisements that prey on our history searches. I’m not sure, however, what I was searching for that dropped Stint Gap Year into my Instagram advertisements — and no, this is not an advertisement. Yet when the image of green pastures and smiling faces popped up, I stalled for .5 seconds long enough to read the caption. 

One tap. One link follow. Three swipes to scroll. 

I sat up a bit straighter, alert that my mother was ten feet away. She had been less than encouraging about my desires to attend graduate school in England — not just for the financial reasons, but also for due reasons after my mental break. I quickly saved the URL in my favorites and vowed to revisit it that night. 

I applied that night in my bed, glow illuminating my apprehensive face as I pressed submit. Three weeks later, I took a phone interview with Aoife. Within another twenty-four hours, I was told I was into the program. The program would — for a fee — guide me through the visa application process, provide initial housing in Dublin, and set me up with a temporary employment agency should I wish to go that route. 

Approaching my parents with caution, I presented the reasoning. It offered maturation opportunities. It would give me unparalleled experiences. It was Ireland, home of my ancestors. I was ready for a battle, but none came. 

On September 28, 2016, I boarded a plane at Dulles International Airport, Washington D.C., with two suitcases and no real idea what I was getting into. 


Over the course of eight months, I experienced more of life than I had in the cumulative of the preceding twenty-two years. From the get-go, it was an immersive experience. I dove into a community of ex-pats my first night, the program providing me a community to in which to envelope myself. The following weekend, I traveled to Connemara and the Aran Islands. I would continue to explore both The Republic of Ireland and Northern Ireland throughout my time: Kilkenny, Blarney, the Ring of Kerry, Cobh, Cork, Galway, Belfast, Giant’s Causeway, the Carrick-a-Rede bridge (pictured). The ease of access to Europe and the camaraderie found in my new friends and fellow travelers propelled me to new destinations: Morocco, Spain, Belgium, Scotland, and England, where I would ultimately decide to pursue my Master’s degree. 

I was pushed to challenge the very ideas that I had taken as dogma my entire life, to think for myself in ways that I previously had never given due chance. I was allowed, for the very first time in memory, to be an individual. There was no one to answer to and everywhere to experiment. 

I am not being hyperbolic when I say that being in Ireland, taking the chance on myself to be the traveler that I had always wanted to be, was the antidote to all the woes that had built up around me for so long. It quite literally gave me my will to live back. And while, yes, it was an incredible risk to choose something so potentially — and admittedly, at times, realistically — isolating, it also gave me the chance to determine the exact boundaries, forms, and bricks that build the person that I wanted to pursue being from that day forward. 

I moved back from Dublin, my home, with a certainty of self. I felt confident in my navigation skills, whereas before I would use GPS for everything. I could manage eating a meal alone or attending a concert by myself (something I do all too frequently now because I love it). I learned how to handle myself professionally in many settings, having juggled jobs from medical records to receptionist to copyeditor on varying bases. I gained political opinions based in my own thought, based in my own experiences. I learned to open my heart to more people than I thought I could, and I’m so grateful for it. 

I’m writing this today because I often find that I take this experience for granted. It gets overshadowed by the glitzier things I’ve done since — graduate school, a real career. But the humbler times of living paycheck to paycheck, scraping by to travel: those are the ones that shaped me. And of that I need to be reminded. 

Travel saved me.

On learning a new dream

On learning a new dream

I have wanted to be a CEO, a real estate agent, an architect, a Disney princess impersonator, and most recently an editor, a publisher, and a literary agent. Not once did capital-“R” Recruiter for a healthcare company enter the realm of potential career opportunities in my future imaginings. And yet, I have just completed my first month of work within that very role.

But I am entirely out of my element.

You have to learn the rules of the game. And then you have to play better than anyone else.

Albert Einstein

My background is based concretely in literature and communication studies, from skipping out of my science course Senior Year of high school to my dual B.A. in English and Communication from Villanova to my M.A. in Publishing. There’s a heavy learning curve with every day at my new job, educating myself in the jargon of medical technicians and professionals from their credentials to their daily tasks. I’m proud to say that after a month I can easily differentiate between limited permit credentialing and LMSWs, LMHCs, LCSWs, RNs, and the rest. I can discuss the differences between Doctors Board and 1199 unions and which covers which staff.

However, at every point of my career daydreams, I always wanted to engage in a profession that connected people with their own passions and their own dreams. I wanted something social, something that was people-oriented. And that is certainly what I am doing.

My days are spent reviewing resumes and arranging interviews with hiring managers, helping to host employee engagement events and manning career fairs. I’ve become adept at applicant tracking systems and reading people quickly but still fairly. I’m confident that my skills will only improve with time.

This is all a very long way to say that while I never thought of myself as a Recruiter for a talent acquisition career, I feel pleasantly surprised that I found a comfortable footpath to follow.

I’m determined to be the very best at this job that I can be, even if it fell into my lap haphazardly.

On going the (5k) distance

On going the (5k) distance

In 2007, New Line Cinema released Mr. Woodcock, a film featuring Jon Heder of Napoleon Dynamite fame returning home only to find his mother (Susan Sarandon) now dating his nightmarish high school gym teacher appropriately named, you guessed it, Mr. Woodcock (played by Billy Bob Thornton).

I don’t remember much about this movie, admittedly, except the deep resonance it set in me at age 14 when I was taking my own high school gym class with a dead ringer or Thornton’s portrayal. My teacher favored the athletes in the class, openly mocked my inability to run a 5k (of which we were graded on our time completion), and consequently instilled a deep hatred in me of all physical exertion. Particularly running.

My classmates and I stood lined up against the painted cinder-block wall mere minutes after I turned in my bib and completed 5k time. My gym teacher evaluated us as we stretched before yelling, “Friel! Did you walk this?” waving the bib up and around his head. I flushed pink.

The teacher’s distrust in my athletic ability filtered down into the student population. I frequently overheard my peers say dishearteningly that they finished behind me that day in the exercises, as if that was a measure of a poor workout. People stared at me when I made excuses the first few times to get out of the class, but soon it just seemed to be a relief for everyone involved.

I had not run one step from spring of 2009 until January 2019 — almost a full decade later.


Flash forward to last Saturday morning when I stood under a canopy to shelter from the light rain with an iced coffee in hand, mentally preparing myself for something I hadn’t even achieved when I was graded on it: running a 5k race. I had no dreams of winning; the goal was to finish without vomiting.

I stopped to walk four times, each for approximately thirty seconds or less, just enough to catch my breath and gear up for the next leg of the journey. I had my headphones on the highest volume — literally I could hear nothing else than the playlist above.

I ended up finishing with a final time of 35:12, which was shorter than I had anticipated by nearly 5 minutes. My split paces were 11:04, 1:54, 11:26, and 9:18, proving that I really wanted that finish line.

I’m incredibly proud of my perseverance. I pushed myself to something I begrudgingly did in 2009, this time with full self-motivation. And the reward, for that reason alone, was so much greater.

I will absolutely be doing another race. I’ll train to beat my 35:12 time. I don’t need to win first or even twentieth, but I want to prove to myself that against all disbelief that has been given to me for years and years, I am entirely capable of anything I put my mind to. Even if that “anything” is running.

  1. “If I Can’t Have You,” Sara Bareilles
  2. “Bones,” Galantis feat. OneRepublic
  3. “Waiting,” Only Yours
  4. “Please,” Samantha Harvey feat. Matt Terry
  5. “Joan of Arc,” Little Mix
  6. “Solo,” Clean Bandit feat. Demi Lovato
  7. “Someone To You,” BANNERS
  8. “My Love Goes On,” James Morrison feat. Joss Stone
  9. “Pink Lemonade,” James Bay
  10. “New,” Ben Platt
  11. “If I Go,” Ella Eyre
  12. “Make It Happen,” John Splithoff

On the — for lack of a better word — shittiness of young adulthood

We don’t have a word for the opposite of loneliness, but if we did, I could say that’s what I want in life.

The Opposite of Loneliness, Marina Keegan

It’s been two weeks and three days since I moved to New York City, and while there are definite perks — bagels, Central Park, culture on your doorstep — there are definite, irrefutable drawbacks. These drawbacks, however, are not inherent to the city itself. No, they are entirely symptomatic of the condition I would diagnose as “young adulthood.”

Over the past seventeen days, I’ve somehow managed to get personally rejected from three jobs, ghosted by two guys (that means to be completely ignored by someone you’ve met up with/kissed/hooked up with/etc. for those not hip with the lingo), been the regrettable cause of one dear friend’s tears, and somehow felt completely alone 24/7. There has been relative respite in the sanctuary of my bedroom and the Godsend of modern messaging applications keeping in touch with best friends far away in both the relative sense (Annapolis) and very real sense (London). But at the end of the day, I’m still sitting in my bathrobe sipping Jameson wondering how I made it to a state of unemployment and solitude in a city of 8 million.

I’m no stranger to transitions; but each previous transition has come with a safety net of sorts. Saint Mary’s had Brooke, my childhood best friend, to welcome me to the foray of the Catholic middle school. Villanova had dorms and a cappella to give me an extra curricular identity. Dublin had Stint Gap Year program to situate me in an expat household of likeminded individuals. And finally, London had my coursemates and extra-curricula to engulf me into a new world (and also some kickass friendships).

But now I’m in a safety-net free zone. So what is the solution?

My life at the moment is a — for lack of a better phrase — fustercluck. I’m considering career changes in order to broaden my horizons on the employment front. I’m actively and embarrassingly enough using Bumble BFF to meet young women who are in need of companionship in the city just like me. I’m doing everything in my power to stay afloat, emotionally and mentally.

I know it sounds cliché and it is totally par for the course, but why is it that being in your twenties is this lonely? And lost? And confusing? Why is that we are having millennial life crises? And choosing to pack up and move across the world on a whim? (guilty!) And then feeling displaced when we move back to where we are from? Why is that we are all floundering in a world that should be ours for the taking?

As usual with #MondayMusings, I don’t have the answer to any of these questions. But I’m hoping that you do, Dear Reader. Or maybe this will help you feel less alone in your own quest to find some place in this shitshow of a world. God only knows I’m trying to find mine.