nov.24.25
2026 in a month.
If you were to tell 2022 Lily where she is today, she would probably go into psychosis from confusion. 2023 Lily wouldn't believe you, and 2024 Lily would cry with relief.
2023, my whole life changed. In April, I flew to California with 3 of my friends from the photography program right before we graduated. We set off on our exploration through the streets of LA, my eyes widened. I saw things I had only experienced through a 16:9 video. That trip changed my life, California changed my life and made me who I am today.
During my trip to California, I had discovered a part of me that I had unknowingly been suppressing for many years. That spun my whole world around. The life I was leading was in some ways untrue to who I am. There were a lot of things I had to reconsider. Friendships, relationships with family members, my social presence, life plans, safety, etc. It was an adjustment, and although I felt this sense of relief, there were things I had grown so accustom to that were slowly but surely slipping from my grasp. Although my grasp tightened, I was bound to feel this shift in ways I was unprepared for.
While in the throes of this whirlwind of a post-grad summer, I was wrapped up in a what felt like a never ending toxic situationship with a the first girl I had ever been with. I learned so much about myself throughout that, I learned about what I want and what I don't want in a relationship. I was also taking on the role of learning this new version of myself. It was hard to feel like I had a full grasp on my identity through this learning process. My mental health was the worst it had ever been, I was diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. This was a long time coming, it was just time I had the validation that this war in my mind wasn't, well... all in my mind.
Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD) is often misunderstood. It’s portrayed as “liking things clean” or “being super organized,” but in reality, OCD is an anxiety disorder rooted in intrusive thoughts and compulsions someone feels driven to perform in order to reduce distress. These thoughts can be disturbing, unwanted, repetitive, and completely misaligned with a person’s values, which is exactly why they cause so much fear and shame.
For LGBTQ+ youth, OCD can show up in unique and deeply personal ways.
2023, my whole life changed. In April, I flew to California with 3 of my friends from the photography program right before we graduated. We set off on our exploration through the streets of LA, my eyes widened. I saw things I had only experienced through a 16:9 video. That trip changed my life, California changed my life and made me who I am today.
During my trip to California, I had discovered a part of me that I had unknowingly been suppressing for many years. That spun my whole world around. The life I was leading was in some ways untrue to who I am. There were a lot of things I had to reconsider. Friendships, relationships with family members, my social presence, life plans, safety, etc. It was an adjustment, and although I felt this sense of relief, there were things I had grown so accustom to that were slowly but surely slipping from my grasp. Although my grasp tightened, I was bound to feel this shift in ways I was unprepared for.
While in the throes of this whirlwind of a post-grad summer, I was wrapped up in a what felt like a never ending toxic situationship with a the first girl I had ever been with. I learned so much about myself throughout that, I learned about what I want and what I don't want in a relationship. I was also taking on the role of learning this new version of myself. It was hard to feel like I had a full grasp on my identity through this learning process. My mental health was the worst it had ever been, I was diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. This was a long time coming, it was just time I had the validation that this war in my mind wasn't, well... all in my mind.
Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD) is often misunderstood. It’s portrayed as “liking things clean” or “being super organized,” but in reality, OCD is an anxiety disorder rooted in intrusive thoughts and compulsions someone feels driven to perform in order to reduce distress. These thoughts can be disturbing, unwanted, repetitive, and completely misaligned with a person’s values, which is exactly why they cause so much fear and shame.
For LGBTQ+ youth, OCD can show up in unique and deeply personal ways.
OCD starts with intrusive thoughts which in short are mental “pop-ups” that show up uninvited and stick. They can be about harm, identity, sex, morality, relationships, safety, and much more. Intrusive thoughts alone don’t equal OCD; everyone gets them. OCD becomes OCD when the thoughts trigger intense fear and the person experiencing them feels compelled to perform certain rituals (mental or physical) to neutralize them. Growing up queer or questioning can already involve a lot of uncertainty, social pressure, and self-exploration. OCD thrives on uncertainty, and it loves latching onto the things that matter most to someone; e.g., identity, relationships, safety, morality, belonging. OCD frequently fixates on the question “What if I’m not who I think I am?”. Many LGBTQ+ youth don’t talk about OCD because the intrusive thoughts feel “too weird" or “too dark". But intrusive thoughts are not reflective of who someone is, in fact, they often target the things a person cares about most.
When I was diagnosed, I was seeing an OCD specialist. I was told that ERP was my best bet for treatment. ERP stands for Exposure and Response Prevention. I was on a strict schedule of bi-weekly zoom calls and assessments to come face to face with my rumination themes and track my progress. I quickly realized that ERP was not for me, my mind was way too powerful for the journal entries, chants, and diners & drive ins episodes. Once I paired with a psychiatrist, I started on medication and began the journey of starting an anti-depressant. When you first start Prozac, change doesn’t show up in fireworks. It’s more like waiting for water to boil while staring at the pot, everything feels the same, except maybe you’re a little nauseous or your sleep is off.
Your body is adjusting.
Your brain is adjusting.
You’re adjusting.
This journey full of guessing games: Is this normal? Is this me? Is this the meds? Which then turns into tiny shifts. It’s rarely dramatic, it’s more like a soft re-entry into yourself. Getting used to Prozac is not just physical; it’s deeply emotional. There’s a quiet grief in realizing how heavy things had become, and a quiet relief in feeling that weight lift. It takes time to trust that the better days are real. I used to struggle to even get through the smallest of tasks. I spent my days in a fog, readjusting myself in my chair 50+ times, picking at my skin, retracing my steps, holding my breath (nearly to death), rotting in bed for hours, re-reading past conversations, and ruminating to the point of pure exhaustion. At the height of my OCD it was truly the lowest point I have ever been at.
"i haven’t known peace in awhile
Your body is adjusting.
Your brain is adjusting.
You’re adjusting.
This journey full of guessing games: Is this normal? Is this me? Is this the meds? Which then turns into tiny shifts. It’s rarely dramatic, it’s more like a soft re-entry into yourself. Getting used to Prozac is not just physical; it’s deeply emotional. There’s a quiet grief in realizing how heavy things had become, and a quiet relief in feeling that weight lift. It takes time to trust that the better days are real. I used to struggle to even get through the smallest of tasks. I spent my days in a fog, readjusting myself in my chair 50+ times, picking at my skin, retracing my steps, holding my breath (nearly to death), rotting in bed for hours, re-reading past conversations, and ruminating to the point of pure exhaustion. At the height of my OCD it was truly the lowest point I have ever been at.
"i haven’t known peace in awhile
i know some peace when i finish my laundry and can clear the pile of clothes from the chair that sits under my desk
these moments are just short blips in time, where peace seeps through the cracks and i can breathe, just for a moment.
those times leave swiftly and i am back to reality
touch the edge of my credit card 15 times, then 16 to make 31, because may 31st is carly’s birthday and i don’t want her to leave me
after the shower, flip my hair 15 times each and rub my neck with the towel on the last two swipes of each 5th time.
same with parking the car, reverse and drive 3 times until you're in the spot, even if you’re already in the spot just fine.
you have to grab the straw that isn’t the first one you saw, maybe the second? or the third? whatever feels right, but it never feels right. so go back? get the other straw? idk which one feels right, i forget."
Rewind a bit, to before I was diagnosed and before I was medicated, enter: Carly Rice. The reason I am here today, the light within all the darkness, and the glue that holds me together. Carly and I met at a time where I was in no way healed from my past, still trying to breathe under the weight of things I never had words for. I didn’t have language for what was happening in my brain, all I knew was that I felt broken in ways I couldn’t express to the outside world. I was running on empty, surviving on autopilot, and trying to hide the parts of me I thought were too much. She just appeared, steady, bright in a way that didn’t blind but warmed. She had this astonishing way of stepping into the heaviness without shrinking from it, of sitting beside my shadows as if they were simply another part of the landscape. She didn’t try to repaint me. She didn’t force the light. She just stayed long enough for my eyes to adjust. She didn’t show up expecting me to be anything other than what I was. She didn’t rush me or force me to open up or act like she had all the answers. She just stayed patient, present, steady in a way that made the world feel a little less sharp. Carly has this subtle way of making heavy things feel lighter. When I spiraled, she didn’t tell me to calm down; she sat beside me until the spiral slowed. When I shut down, she didn’t take it personally; she waited until I felt ready to speak. She learned the rhythm of my anxiety without me ever having to explain it. She accepted the parts of me I thought would push her away.
And in that, something shifted.
For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I had to carry everything alone.
I'm not here to pull the cliche "my partner fixed me" card. Carly didn't fix me, she gave me the room, safety, and love for me to begin fixing myself. That is far better than any cliche.
During this period of a new relationship, starting therapy again, and starting mdication, I began to align with everything I was learning about myself. I began to recognize the difference between my OCD thoughts and my true self, slowly reclaiming the mental space that fear had once filled. And there Carly was, softly witnessing every small breakthrough with me: a morning without compulsions, a night where sleep finally came, a thought I could let pass without wrestling it to the ground. Each small moment felt monumental because she was there, noticing with me, holding them gently alongside me.
Those moments of progress didn’t arrive with finality, they didn’t signal that I had crossed some invisible finish line. They simply gave me enough ground to stand on, enough sense of myself to meet the evolving shape of my life. And once that happened, the clouds parted. Life started actually moving again, in all the messy, overwhelming, unglamorous ways it does in your early twenties. There were choices to make, opportunities to chase, routines to rebuild, and responsibilities that didn’t care whether I was fully healed or not. I was still navigating my mind, still in the thick of unlearning years of fear, but I no longer felt pinned down by it. I had enough room, enough steadiness, to start paying attention to the world outside my own head. And in that space, that bit of breathing room, the next part of my life quietly started to form around me, piece by piece, without ceremony or warning.
Carly and I were still learning each other, still figuring out what it meant to show up for someone else while taking care of ourselves. We were both navigating post-grad life: jobs that didn’t always feel meaningful, constant uncertainty, the grind of trying to prove ourselves, and everything else that early adulthood throws at you.
2022 Lily had a very different idea of how post-grad life would go, I don't think there was ever a clear idea, but it wasn't this. She dreamed of an apartment with her friends, where things felt similar to nights in our college home, with pints of ben and jerry's leading to falling asleep on the couch while the faint sound of the gilmore girls theme song hums through the house. I had never imagined I would be picking up my prozac prescription at the pharmacy down the street from my girlfriend's childhood home. It was something I had to adjust to, this unforeseen path. But nonetheless I was here, and it felt right. I never felt like it wasn't, it was just different.
Carly and I spent months chasing opportunities that felt just out of reach. We went to interview after interview, weighing job offers, considering moves to different states, crossing our fingers and toes for things that might work out and wondering if they ever would. The news never stopped, the political climate never quieted, and the ongoing swirl of social and global tensions was a constant backdrop. So it’s no surprise that, against all of that, even small victories felt fleeting and nothing ever seemed to fall into place.
And then, slowly, they did. Little signs, little breaks in the chaos, like the moment Carly found herself suddenly in the running for a job with the Sixers, or when I stumbled into an internship opportunity that felt like an actual, honest-to-God fit. Suddenly we were mapping out neighborhoods, refreshing Zillow tabs, comparing commutes, and daydreaming out loud. And before we could catch our breath, everything clicked into place, the offers, the timing. Our daily routine was tossed out the window, replaced by cardboard boxes, lease agreements, and the giddy panic of gearing up to move into our very first space together.
I'm sitting here writing this as Carly loads the dishwasher in our Fishtown apartment. I'm exhausted after a long day on set, and we are both slowly packing our weekender bags to go home for Thanksgiving. Rewind a bit, to before I was diagnosed and before I was medicated, enter: Carly Rice. The reason I am here today, the light within all the darkness, and the glue that holds me together. Carly and I met at a time where I was in no way healed from my past, still trying to breathe under the weight of things I never had words for. I didn’t have language for what was happening in my brain, all I knew was that I felt broken in ways I couldn’t express to the outside world. I was running on empty, surviving on autopilot, and trying to hide the parts of me I thought were too much. She just appeared, steady, bright in a way that didn’t blind but warmed. She had this astonishing way of stepping into the heaviness without shrinking from it, of sitting beside my shadows as if they were simply another part of the landscape. She didn’t try to repaint me. She didn’t force the light. She just stayed long enough for my eyes to adjust. She didn’t show up expecting me to be anything other than what I was. She didn’t rush me or force me to open up or act like she had all the answers. She just stayed patient, present, steady in a way that made the world feel a little less sharp. Carly has this subtle way of making heavy things feel lighter. When I spiraled, she didn’t tell me to calm down; she sat beside me until the spiral slowed. When I shut down, she didn’t take it personally; she waited until I felt ready to speak. She learned the rhythm of my anxiety without me ever having to explain it. She accepted the parts of me I thought would push her away.
And in that, something shifted.
For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I had to carry everything alone.
I'm not here to pull the cliche "my partner fixed me" card. Carly didn't fix me, she gave me the room, safety, and love for me to begin fixing myself. That is far better than any cliche.
During this period of a new relationship, starting therapy again, and starting mdication, I began to align with everything I was learning about myself. I began to recognize the difference between my OCD thoughts and my true self, slowly reclaiming the mental space that fear had once filled. And there Carly was, softly witnessing every small breakthrough with me: a morning without compulsions, a night where sleep finally came, a thought I could let pass without wrestling it to the ground. Each small moment felt monumental because she was there, noticing with me, holding them gently alongside me.
Those moments of progress didn’t arrive with finality, they didn’t signal that I had crossed some invisible finish line. They simply gave me enough ground to stand on, enough sense of myself to meet the evolving shape of my life. And once that happened, the clouds parted. Life started actually moving again, in all the messy, overwhelming, unglamorous ways it does in your early twenties. There were choices to make, opportunities to chase, routines to rebuild, and responsibilities that didn’t care whether I was fully healed or not. I was still navigating my mind, still in the thick of unlearning years of fear, but I no longer felt pinned down by it. I had enough room, enough steadiness, to start paying attention to the world outside my own head. And in that space, that bit of breathing room, the next part of my life quietly started to form around me, piece by piece, without ceremony or warning.
Carly and I were still learning each other, still figuring out what it meant to show up for someone else while taking care of ourselves. We were both navigating post-grad life: jobs that didn’t always feel meaningful, constant uncertainty, the grind of trying to prove ourselves, and everything else that early adulthood throws at you.
2022 Lily had a very different idea of how post-grad life would go, I don't think there was ever a clear idea, but it wasn't this. She dreamed of an apartment with her friends, where things felt similar to nights in our college home, with pints of ben and jerry's leading to falling asleep on the couch while the faint sound of the gilmore girls theme song hums through the house. I had never imagined I would be picking up my prozac prescription at the pharmacy down the street from my girlfriend's childhood home. It was something I had to adjust to, this unforeseen path. But nonetheless I was here, and it felt right. I never felt like it wasn't, it was just different.
Carly and I spent months chasing opportunities that felt just out of reach. We went to interview after interview, weighing job offers, considering moves to different states, crossing our fingers and toes for things that might work out and wondering if they ever would. The news never stopped, the political climate never quieted, and the ongoing swirl of social and global tensions was a constant backdrop. So it’s no surprise that, against all of that, even small victories felt fleeting and nothing ever seemed to fall into place.
And then, slowly, they did. Little signs, little breaks in the chaos, like the moment Carly found herself suddenly in the running for a job with the Sixers, or when I stumbled into an internship opportunity that felt like an actual, honest-to-God fit. Suddenly we were mapping out neighborhoods, refreshing Zillow tabs, comparing commutes, and daydreaming out loud. And before we could catch our breath, everything clicked into place, the offers, the timing. Our daily routine was tossed out the window, replaced by cardboard boxes, lease agreements, and the giddy panic of gearing up to move into our very first space together.
2025 Lily doesn't really know what to think. I guess that she know that the work, the waiting, the missteps, and the endless trying had actually led to something tangible. Nothing perfect, nothing final, but mine, ours.
