HOW TO FAKE NORMAL

HOW TO BE REAL

Chapter 10: How to Be Real

I still lie sometimes. Mostly to myself. Like when I say “I’m fine” or “I’ll start tomorrow” or “This candle smells like hope.” But I’m learning. Slowly. Clumsily. Like a toddler trying to walk in high heels.

I write now. Real things. Honest things. Things that don’t need glitter or metaphors to matter. I used to think truth had to be dramatic—tears, revelations, life-altering monologues. Turns out, sometimes truth is just admitting you’re tired and asking for help before you implode.

My first column went live last week. It was about job interviews, emotional breakdowns, and the art of pretending. Maya, my editor, emailed me: “It’s raw, weird, and perfect.” I printed that and taped it to my fridge, right next to a coupon for expired yogurt and a magnet shaped like a crying avocado.

Jules framed my first paycheck. “Proof you’re not a disaster,” she said, hanging it above my desk like a diploma in emotional survival. I told her it felt like a participation trophy for adulthood. She told me to shut up and take the win.

I still light candles. Not because I need them to lie for me, but because they make the room feel less empty. My favorite is Citrus Closure. It smells like endings that don’t hurt. I keep it on my desk, next to a notebook labeled “Ideas That Might Matter.”

I wear pants voluntarily now. I answer emails without crying. I even bought a planner that doesn’t judge me. It just says “You tried” on every page. I like it. It’s honest.

My calendar—the emotionally intelligent one—tells me today is “Hopeful with a chance of joy.” I believe it. Not because everything is perfect, but because I’ve stopped expecting perfection to be the goal.

I still mess up. I still procrastinate. I still eat cereal for dinner and cry during commercials. But I also show up. I write. I laugh. I tell the truth, even when it’s awkward.

I used to think being real meant being fearless. Now I know it just means being brave enough to be seen—flaws, weirdness, and all.

Last night, Jules and I sat on the balcony, eating donuts and watching the city blink. She asked me what I wanted next.

“More,” I said. “More truth. More stories. More days where I don’t feel like I’m faking it.”

She nodded. “You’re getting there.”

“I’m not fixed.”

“You’re not broken.”

I smiled. “I’m real.”

She raised her donut like a toast. “To being real.”

I raised mine too. It crumbled slightly, but the sentiment held.

And that’s how it ends—not with fireworks or dramatic exits, but with sugar, friendship, and the quiet triumph of showing up as yourself.

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