Held, Not Haunted

a love letter to now, even with the ghosts at the door

This weekend, I played a monster in a ballet performance. Wet hair, dark makeup, erratic movement—a creature living at the edge of beauty and discomfort. On stage, the monster was both my role and my reflection—trapped between beauty and pain, history and liberation.

Over the past two weeks, I've encountered more monsters—soldiers of the past. Without diving into unnecessary detail, I've been followed on the metro. Had classmates linger a little too long. Friends reveal sides I hadn't seen. Eerie male energies appeared like old ghosts in new costumes, echoing exactly why this blog is called All Carrie, No Big.

What struck me most was not their presence—but their timing. Just as these ghosts arrived, I was writing about how safe I feel in love right now. How whole. How held.

Why is my present liberation dragging up past hurt?

Why does joy feel like it needs to be justified by pain to be valid?

Why do I feel stronger as a survivor of pain than someone who simply exists in peace?

Over dinner with my grandmother and Mr. International, I asked her what her favorite era of life has been. She smiled and said, “This one. My 70s. I feel confident. Letting go is freedom.”

I paused. “I wouldn’t be me if I let go; my triumphs feel tied to my struggles.”

After weeks of being completely aligned, Mr. International finally disagreed.

He doesn’t live in the past.

And that scared me.

Because I didn’t understand it.

I wanted to know why.

Naturally, this week, I started to feel a blockage in my body. I worried that by not acknowledging the past, I was inviting it to send in soldiers—disguised as fear, discomfort, strange men on the metro—to remind me it still needed attention. That its silence wasn’t surrender, it was a setup.

I brought this up to my Charlotte. Her advice?

“Bring up the past. Speak your pain. Explain where the discomfort comes from.”

I set the intention to do just that.

But before I could, the present swooped in and held me.

On Monday, I strained my back. Caught in the middle of all this emotional and physical tension—and running into a split dancing the part of a monster.

By Wednesday—after intense rehearsals—I should’ve been in more pain. But I wasn’t.

That Wednesday, dance didn’t demand anything of me. It welcomed me.

Each movement, I anticipated pain—expected betrayal from my own body.

Instead, it simply held space for what was. Quietly. Gently.

No need for real ghosts, soldiers, or monsters.

The performance finally arrived, and by then, the pain had dissolved completely, soothed gently by Mr. International’s healing massage. I fully immersed myself into my role, rolling fluidly through my lumbar spine in monster-like crawls.

Energetically, I could sense I was dancing a profound story, but couldn’t fully piece its message together.

From my perspective on stage, I couldn't clearly see everything: the audience’s reactions, the backdrops, or the deeper meaning behind my movements.

My childhood best friend—my Samantha, my harbor of the past—had traveled from Italy to watch the show. Afterward, it was Samantha who painted in the gaps. She revealed the ballet's painful core: it was about conquering male abuse of power and honoring the resilience of women.

How ironic.

Sadly, I'm not alone in having stories like this—most women have several.

The second night, with my willing and healed body, I channeled those experiences that inspired the “No Mr. Big” portion of my blog’s title, now fully aware of the ballet’s theme.

Unable to visualize every part of a performance I’d never seen from the audience’s perspective, I chose the only option left: I embodied the message. Without fully knowing, I was dancing for the spirit of all women, Samantha and myself included.

Nostalgia is not a home. It's a waiting room filled with ghosts—memories that linger uncomfortably, demanding acknowledgment. If I'm not careful, my past selves keep arriving unannounced until I learn to greet them at the door and let them pass through, rather than inviting them to stay.

Maybe that’s exactly why I need a partner who demands I let go. Someone who doesn't live in the past to guide the present.

Maybe that’s why I needed to experience the dichotomy—one show moved by instinct, the next by intention, fully conscious of how past experiences could invite themselves onto the stage.

I think I tend to equate deep love with deep pain.

But I realize now:

I don’t have to re-perform my pain to prove I’ve survived.

I don’t need someone to be the home for my history.

He can be the home for my healing.

Love isn’t about how deeply we share scars, but how bravely we choose now—again and again.

And it’s all… fascinating.

Especially when I experience this with a fighter who doesn't scar.

Especially because of what my girlfriend revealed at dinner the other night.

She has Aphantasia—a condition affecting 4% of people.

She can’t picture things in her mind.

She can’t re-see moments once they’re gone.

I nearly screamed, “You’ve never been able to revisit a memory?”

She shook her head.

In that moment, I wondered: what freedom lies in her inability to replay the past? Maybe she’s the lucky one.

All she has is now.

No ghosts. No distortion.

Maybe presence is the greatest act of courage—to face this moment fully, without the armor of past pain. Maybe that’s where real love—and real freedom—begins.

I hope we can all learn to dance not just with, but as our monsters—stepping into fear, knowing that we are the light. We are safe to move through our past, held by it briefly, and then let it go, returning always to the light we each possess.