What I Drank the Night I Realized I’m Allowed to Change

It was raining like the sky knew something I didn’t.

My phone was face down. My thoughts were too loud. And there it was — a bottle I bought months ago, meant for a version of me that no longer fit. I opened it anyway. No occasion. Just a quiet rebellion against the script I’d been performing.

The Sip That Didn’t Ask Me to Be the Same

It was a Chenin Blanc — golden and wild. From South Africa. Bright but with backbone. Like someone soft-spoken who still takes up space.

I didn’t expect much. But it tasted like permission.
Like letting go of a friendship that felt like a performance.
Like quitting the job that looked good on paper but bled me dry.
Like dressing how I wanted, even if it confused people who thought they knew me.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t sharp. It just… was. Present. Unapologetic.

We Think We Need a Breakdown. Sometimes We Just Need a Bottle.
Not to numb. Not to forget. But to mark the moment.
To toast the version of you that stayed too long.
And to meet — gently — the one who’s ready to leave.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t post. I just sat there.
Rain on the windows. Wine in my glass.
And this quiet knowing:

I don’t have to be who I was.
Not for them. Not for anyone.

Not even for me.
Some bottles don’t pair with meals. They pair with a mirror.