merdierose

[merdierose]

lovely complex waahhhhh

It’s funny how certain shows stick with you over the years, even when you haven’t thought about them in ages. That’s exactly what happened when I stumbled upon “Lovely Complex” again on TikTok after so many years. And let me tell you, coming back to this anime felt like reuniting with an old friend who just gets it.

For those who haven’t seen it, “Lovely Complex” or “Love Com” is a rom-com about Koizumi Risa, a loud, energetic girl who’s taller than most of her peers, and her not-so-secret crush on Otani Atsushi, the tiny, grumpy guy who’s her polar opposite in height. The show is hilarious, heartwarming, and packed with the kind of awkward, relatable moments that make you cringe and cheer at the same time.

As someone who’s been taller than average since high school (and yes, that includes most of the boys), watching Risa slouch, fret over her height, and get teased for being a "giant" brought back so many memories. The way she tries to shrink herself, the way people make dumb comments like, "Wow, you’re so tall for a girl!"—yep, been there, heard that. And don’t even get me started on the eternal struggle of finding pants that are long enough or group photos where you’re always shoved to the back.

But what I love about Risa is that she owns it. (eventually). Sure, she’s self-conscious, but she’s also bold, funny, and unapologetically herself. And that’s the real charm of her plot. It’s not just about height differences or quirky romance; it’s about embracing what makes you who you are, even when it feels like the world won’t stop pointing it out.

Rewatching it now, I couldn’t help but laugh at how much younger me related to Risa’s drama and how current me still does, just with a little more confidence (and slightly better posture). And can we talk about the comedy aspect of it? The over-the-top reactions, the ridiculous misunderstandings, the Kansai-ben dialect jokes—it’s all just as fun as I remembered.

“Lovely Complex” made teenage me feel seen and adult me feel nostalgic. And to all my fellow tall girls out there, stand tall (literally and figuratively), own your Risa energy, and never let anyone tell you to "just be smaller."

- Merdie Rose

[merdierose]

on being too opinionated

Silence, to me, is a form of complicity. I’ve been called too opinionated before—sometimes with scorn, sometimes with weariness. And maybe I am. But I’d rather be criticized for speaking too much than for saying nothing at all when injustice thrives.

I don’t believe you need to be directly affected by something to care. You don’t need to be Palestinian to denounce occupation, immigrant to demand racial justice, queer to support LGBTQ+ rights, a lawyer to opine on an impeachment case, or a woman to fight for gender equality. That’s not piousness—that’s humanity. If we all waited until something touched us personally before we gave a damn, progress would crawl and suffering would go unchecked.

Yes, sometimes it’s not easy to speak. I know it makes people uncomfortable when you bring up genocide over brunch or climate change during small talk. But I’ve also learned that comfort has never been a reliable compass for conscience.

What others call “pious,” I call accountable. And what they call “too opinionated,” I call engaged. We can’t claim to want a better world and then turn away from the parts of it that are burning simply because the fire isn’t at our doorstep yet.

So no, I won’t be silent. Not because I think my voice is the most important, but because I know that collective silence is dangerous. If I can lend my voice to the people who need it most—even if I fumble, even if I get it wrong at times—then I will. I’d rather risk being misunderstood than be remembered for saying nothing.

- Merdie Rose

[merdierose]

the unexpected pull

I’ve spent years being a furmom—cleaning up after muddy paws, celebrating when they finally learn to sit on command, and losing my damn mind every time one of them so much as sneezes wrong. My dogs are my heartbeats outside my body. I’ve nursed them through infections, held them during thunderstorms, and cried like a baby when one of them went home to heaven. It’s exhausting, messy, and sometimes expensive as hell, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything. There’s a pride that swells in my chest when I see them happy, a fierce, almost irrational love that makes me think, THIS. This is what matters.

And then, out of nowhere, it hit me. That quiet, gnawing feeling I’ve been pushing down for years. The one I’ve drowned out with rants about the economy, climate change, and how bringing a kid into this world feels like handing them a burning dumpster. But here’s the thing—the heart doesn’t give a shit about logic. Lately, I catch myself staring at babies in grocery stores, lingering a little too long near the tiny shoes at the mall. I watch parents—exhausted, disheveled, happy—and feel this sharp, aching envy.

I never saw this coming. I was the one rolling my eyes at baby fever, the one who swore I’d be the cool aunt forever. But now? Now, I imagine holding a child of my own—their sticky fingers wrapped around mine, their first laugh, even the sleepless nights and the tantrums. And instead of dread, I feel this terrifying, exhilarating want. It’s not rational. The world is still a mess. My bank account still isn’t where it should be. But love isn’t about perfect timing, is it? It’s about showing up anyway.

Maybe this is what they mean by CALLING—not some divine sign, but a quiet, persistent voice that says, You’re ready. Even if you’re scared shitless. And hell, maybe I am. Because if I can love my dogs this fiercely, this completely, what’s waiting for me on the other side of motherhood?

So here I am, admitting it out loud: I want a kid. And that’s terrifying. And beautiful. And maybe, just the most human thing I’ve ever felt.

- Merdie Rose

[merdierose]

I miss the way the light once bent

when you were near—soft, different.

Not a plea, just testament:

some silences stay resonant.

If you feel it too, then say,

we’ll meet the words halfway.

If not, I’ll keep the memory bright,

unbruised by need, still edged in light.

No weight in this, no debt, no claim

just an open door, no blame.

But if your heart echoes, even faint,

walk through. I’ll be here.

[merdierose]

"the grind"

Life’s a fucking mess most days, isn’t it? One minute you’re convincing yourself that things will get better, and the next, you’re hit with some new bullshit that knocks the wind right out of you. Bills pile up, people disappoint you, opportunities slip through your fingers, and sometimes it feels like the universe is just testing how much you can take before you break. And yet, here we are—still standing, still fighting, still dreaming of something more.

I don’t know about you, but there are days when my hands tremble with this weird mix of frustration and hunger. Frustration because I know I’m capable of so much more than what my current situation allows. Hunger because that fire inside me refuses to die, no matter how many times life tries to drown it. It’s like there’s this voice in my head screaming, "You were meant for more than this," and ignoring it is fucking impossible. But then reality slaps you back into place—money’s tight, time’s limited, and the world doesn’t give a shit about your potential.

But here’s the thing—perseverance isn’t some grand, heroic act. It’s the quiet, stubborn decision to get up every damn day and try again, even when yesterday kicked your ass. Resilience isn’t about being unbreakable; it’s about breaking a thousand times and still finding a way to glue yourself back together. And faith? It’s not always some spiritual surrender. Sometimes it’s just the raw, defiant belief in yourself when nobody else sees what you see.

Yeah, life’s unfair. Yeah, the weight can feel unbearable. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the only way out is through. You keep moving, keep grinding, and keep believing. Not because it’s easy, but because the alternative is letting the bullshit win. And fuck that. The dream of a better life isn’t just some naive fantasy; it’s the fuel that keeps us going. So tremble, scream, cry if you have to, but never stop pushing. The world might not owe you anything, but you owe yourself the fight.

- Merdie Rose

[merdierose]

“pick me”: navigating the bullshit

Let’s talk about the "pick me" girl label—because apparently, I might be one. Or at least, that’s what a few people have decided before quietly (or not so quietly) exiting my life. And honestly? It’s left me confused, hurt, and scrolling through TikTok at 2 AM wondering if I’ve been unknowingly starring in my own version of *that* Meredith Grey scene.

It’s iconic, it’s cringe, and now it’s the universal reference point for any woman deemed too eager, too accommodating, or too whatever for male validation. But here’s the thing—I don’t remember auditioning for that role.

According to the internet, a "pick me" girl is a woman who goes out of her way to prove she’s not like other girls—usually by putting down other women or molding herself into whatever she thinks men want. She’s the "I only have guy friends because girls are too much drama" type, the "I eat burgers and never work out, teehee" girl, the one who performs humility like it’s an Olympic sport.

And yeah, those women exist. But here’s where it gets messy: the term gets thrown around so loosely now that it’s become a catch-all for any woman who’s confident, unapologetic, or just different from the people criticizing her.

Losing friends over this accusation sucks. Especially when you weren’t even trying to compete. In my case, I was just… living. Maybe I closed off myself too much from other women that I ended up only hanging out with male friends. Maybe I was happy in a way that made someone else question why they weren’t. And suddenly, I’m the "pick me" who’s doing the most and faking her personality for attention.

But here’s a thought: what if sometimes the "pick me" label says more about the person using it than the person they’re targeting? What if it’s easier to call someone desperate than to admit you’re jealous of their confidence, their relationships, or the things they have that you wish you did?

Being labeled a "pick me" does something weird to your head. You start second-guessing every interaction.

“Was that joke too flirty? Did I seem too agreeable? Am I allowed to be happy about my relationship, or will that make me insufferable?”

It’s exhausting. And the worst part? It pits women against each other—as if there’s only room for one kind of woman to be loved, successful, or valued.

I’ve had to ask myself: Is there truth to this? And after some brutal self-reflection, the answer is… MAYBE, in tiny ways I’ll never fully see. But also…MAYBE NOT. Maybe some people just need a reason to dislike you, and "pick me" is the convenient buzzword of the moment.

Here’s what I’ve decided: I’m done overanalyzing whether I’m "too much" or "not enough" for someone else’s comfort. If being myself—unfiltered, happy, and yes, different—makes me a "pick me" in someone’s eyes, then fine. Call me whatever you want. But I won’t shrink myself to fit into a label that was designed to police women’s behavior in the first place.

To anyone else who’s been called a "pick me" when you were just “existing”—I see you. Keep being you. The right people won’t make you feel like you have to audition for their approval. And honestly? Fuck them. Haha. Just going to shake it all off until my fairy dust allows me to fly. 🧚🏻‍♂️

- Merdie Rose

[merdierose]

limbo: a little life/heart update

March 24, 2025

I never thought I’d be here. Not here, in this place where the air feels lighter, where the sun seems to kiss my skin a little more gently, where I can laugh without it feeling like a betrayal to the heartache I once carried. But here I am. And yet, even in this space of healing, there’s this quiet, stubborn part of me that still whispers his name. It’s not a scream anymore, not a desperate cry—just a whisper, like the echo of a song I used to love but can’t quite remember all the words to.

It’s strange, isn’t it? How you can miss someone who left you in the dust, who walked away without looking back. How you can feel ready to move on, to step into a new chapter, and yet still find yourself lingering on the last page of the old one. I used to hate this feeling, this limbo. I used to fight it, to scream at myself in the mirror,

“Why can’t you just let go? Why are you still holding on to someone who didn’t choose you?”

But now, I’ve learned to sit with it. To let it be. To understand that healing isn’t about erasing the past—it’s about making peace with it.

I miss him. There, I said it. I miss the way he laughed at my stupid jokes, the way he made me feel like I was the only person in the room. But I also miss the version of me that believed in forever with him. The version of me that didn’t know how it felt to be left behind, to be deserted like a house someone once called home but decided to abandon. That version of me was softer, more trusting, maybe even a little naive. And while I don’t want to be her again, I can’t help but feel a tenderness for her. She didn’t deserve what happened to her. She didn’t deserve to be left standing there, holding the pieces of a love that shattered without warning.

But here’s the thing: I’m not her anymore. I’m someone new. Someone stronger. Someone who’s learned how to pick up those pieces and build something beautiful out of them. Someone who’s learned that being left behind doesn’t mean you’re unworthy of love—it just means the person who left wasn’t brave enough to stay. And that’s not on me. That’s on him.

Still, there are moments. Moments when a song comes on, and I feel that familiar ache in my chest. It’s not the kind of ache that brings me to my knees anymore. It’s softer, quieter, like a bruise that’s almost healed but still tender to the touch. And in those moments, I let myself feel it. I let myself remember. Because the truth is, I don’t want to forget. Forgetting would mean erasing a part of myself, a part of my story. And I’ve worked too hard to reclaim my story to let anyone—even him—take that away from me.

I used to think moving on meant closing the door, locking it, and throwing away the key. But now I know it’s more like turning the page. You don’t have to burn the book. You don’t have to pretend the previous chapters didn’t happen. You just have to keep reading. And that’s what I’m doing. I’m reading. I’m writing. I’m living. And yes, sometimes I still glance back at the pages I’ve already turned. Sometimes I still wonder what could have been. But I don’t stay there. I can’t. Because the story keeps going, and so must I.

So here I am. In this limbo. In this space between missing him and loving myself, between holding on and letting go. And you know what? It’s okay. It’s okay to be here. It’s okay to feel both healed and hurting, both ready and reluctant. It’s okay to miss someone who didn’t deserve you. It’s okay to still love the parts of them that were good, even if the rest of it wasn’t. It’s okay to be a little messy, a little imperfect, a little human.

- Merdie Rose

[merdierose]

the notebook: through the lens of a grown-up hopeless romantic

"You are a song, a dream, a whisper and I don't know how I could have lived without you for as long as I have." - Noah Calhoun

I rewatched The Notebook the other night. You know, that movie we all obsessed over as teenagers, crying into our popcorn, dreaming of a love as epic as Allie and Noah’s. Back then, it was a fairytale. Now? It’s become my mirror.

I’m not the same girl who first watched this movie. I’m a woman who’s lived it. I’ve had my Noah. I’ve had my Lon. And now I am here to share the tale that I lived.

It all started one February, like it does in the movies about love. He wasn’t supposed to mean anything. Just a guy, someone I hangout with, a distraction. But isn’t that how it always goes? The ones who are supposed to be temporary end up carving their names into your heart.

We were friends first. Annoying cliché. We laughed, we talked, we stayed up too late. And then, one day, it wasn’t just friendship anymore. It was everything. It was messy and loud and chaotic. It was Taylor Swift’s “The Way I Loved You” on repeat, because she gets it. She always gets it.

He was my Noah. Not the perfect, romanticized version from the movies, but the real one. The one who made me feel alive in a way I didn’t know was possible. The one who made me believe in miracles, even if just for a little while.

But life isn’t a Nicholas Sparks novel, is it? Distance, timing, circumstances – they all got in the way. And just like Allie, I had to walk away. I told myself it was for the best. I told myself I’d get over it.

Spoiler alert: I didn’t.

Then came my Lon. God, he was perfect. Kind, loving, stable. The kind of guy you’re supposed to want. The kind of guy your mom prays you’ll end up with. And I tried. I really did. I tried to love him the way he deserved. I tried to convince myself that this was it – this was the love that would last a lifetime.

But here’s the thing about perfect love: it doesn’t leave bruises. It doesn’t make you scream or cry or feel like your heart might burst out of your chest. And as much as I wanted to be content with that, I couldn’t. Because my heart? It was still back there, tangled up in the chaos of my Noah.

Taylor was right: “He’s charming and endearing, and I’m comfortable, but I miss screaming and fighting and kissing in the rain.” And to quote her best friend, Selena Gomez, "The heart wants what it wants."

So, I did the unthinkable. I left my Lon. Not because he wasn’t enough, but because I wasn’t. I couldn’t give him my whole heart when half of it was still with someone else. And yeah, it was selfish. It was messy. It was unfair. But it was real.

Now, here I am. Alone. Rewatching The Notebook and wondering if my story will ever have that kind of ending. You know the one – where love conquers all, where time and distance don’t matter, where miracles happen.

I’m holding onto that. Not because it’s healthy or rational, but because I just can’t let go for now. Because somewhere deep down, I still believe that if our love was real – if it was as big and messy and beautiful as it felt – then maybe, just maybe, it’ll bring us back together.

Even if he’s gone. Even if he’s moved on. Even if there’s no chance in hell.

The movie ends with Allie and Noah together, even in death. It’s romantic and heartbreaking and perfect. But my story? It’s still being written. And I don’t know how it ends.

Maybe I’ll find my way back to my Noah. Maybe I’ll learn to love someone new. Maybe I’ll just keep waiting, holding onto the hope that love really can make miracles happen.

Because a love like that? It doesn’t just disappear. It lingers. It haunts. It reminds you that you’re alive.

"There are no monuments dedicated to me and my name will soon be forgotten, but I've loved another with all my heart and soul, and to me, this has always been enough." - Noah Calhoun

- Merdie Rose

[merdierose]

from skinny, to fat, to FREE

**Trigger Warning: This blog discusses body image issues and bullying. If these topics are triggering for you, please proceed with caution, or skip this post.**

I’ve always had a complicated relationship with my body. It’s like this fucking rollercoaster of self-loathing, societal pressure, and fleeting moments of acceptance. And honestly? It’s exhausting. But here’s the thing—I’m done letting other people’s opinions dictate how I feel about myself. This is my story, and maybe, just maybe, someone out there will see themselves in it and feel a little less alone.

When I was a kid, I was *that* kid. You know, the one who was always too skinny, too small, too *something*. My family was worried sick about me because no matter what they did—extra meals, vitamins, you name it—I just wouldn’t gain weight. I was even put in my elementary school’s feeding program for a while because it was that bad. I remember feeling like a problem that needed to be fixed, like my body was some kind of failure. And trust me, growing up in an Asian household with that mentality sucks ass.

Things started to change when I discovered vegetables. Yeah, bloody vegetables. My appetite picked up, I grew taller, and I finally started to gain a bit of weight. But even then, I was still thin. And in high school? That became my defining trait. I was bullied relentlessly. They called me “walking clothes hanger” and other cruel names that made me feel like I wasn’t even human. I hated my body so much that I started eating junk to gain weight and make the bullying stop. I just wanted to be NORMAL. But the thing about trying to please other people is that it never fucking ends. I gained weight, but the bullying didn’t stop. It just shifted. And so did my mindset. I developed body dysmorphia, constantly obsessing over how I looked, never feeling good enough.

College was supposed to be a fresh start, but the insecurities followed me. At 5’11”, I towered over most Filipinas, and people still saw me as “too thin” for my height. So I kept eating unhealthily, rapidly gaining weight, and kept hating myself more. By my mid-20s, I felt like a disgusting piece of shit. I didn’t recognize the person staring back at me in the mirror. I wanted to be thin again, but I also wanted to be accepted. It was this endless cycle of self-hatred and confusion.

But here’s the turning point: I realized I was fucking tired. Tired of hating myself. Tired of letting other people’s opinions dictate how I felt about my body. Tired of punishing myself for not fitting into some arbitrary standard of beauty. So I started to unlearn all the bullshit I’d internalized over the years. I started to love myself—not just in spite of my flaws, but BECAUSE of them. My body has carried me through so much, and it deserves kindness, not contempt.

I’m not going to lie and say everything is perfect now. My weight still fluctuates, and some days are harder than others. Stress, hormones, life—it all plays a role. But I’m learning to be okay with that. I’m learning to see my body as something more than a number on a scale or a reflection in the mirror. It’s my home, and it’s worthy of love and respect.

So here’s my message to anyone who’s struggling with their body image: You are not defined by your weight, your size, or anyone else’s opinion of you. Fuck the standards. Fuck the bullies. Fuck the noise. Your worth is not tied to how you look. Healing isn’t linear, and it’s okay to have bad days. But you deserve to feel at home in your own skin. Start small. Be kind to yourself. And remember, you are so much more than your body.

You’ve got this. And so do I. 🧚🏻‍♂️

- Merdie Rose

[merdierose]

parentified (and pissed off)

Let’s get one thing straight: being the eldest child in an Asian household is a fucking nightmare wrapped in the guise of "honor" and "responsibility."

From the moment you can walk, you’re handed a script you didn’t audition for: the perfect child, the role model, the third parent, the family’s backup plan. And guess what? There’s no room for error. You’re expected to grow up faster, work harder, and sacrifice more—all while smiling through the bullshit.

You know that saying, "Enjoy your childhood while it lasts"? Yeah, we didn’t get that memo. From the time we were old enough to hold a spoon, we were expected to be "mature." While other kids were out playing, we were at home babysitting our siblings, helping with homework, or translating bills for our parents because they didn’t speak the language.

The pressure to be perfect was suffocating. You couldn’t just be a kid who made mistakes. You had to be the fucking poster child for success. Good grades? Non-negotiable. Good behavior? Mandatory. Any slip-up, and you were met with that look of disappointment that cuts deeper than any punishment.

And let’s not even get started on the emotional labor. You weren’t allowed to cry, to be angry, or to be selfish. You had to be the "strong one," the one who held it all together while everyone else got to fall apart. By the time you hit your teens, you were already an adult in every way that mattered. Except you never got the chance to actually enjoy being a kid.

Here’s the kicker: you weren’t just a kid—you were a second parent. While your friends were out partying or figuring out who they were, you were at home changing diapers, helping with homework, or playing mediator in family arguments. You didn’t get to be a teenager; you were too busy being a fucking adult.

Parentification is a bitch. It’s the emotional equivalent of being thrown into the deep end without a life jacket. You’re expected to know how to swim, even though no one taught you. And if you dare to complain? You’re met with, "You’re the eldest, it’s your job."

The worst part? You start to believe it. You internalize the idea that your worth is tied to how much you can do for others. You sacrifice your own dreams, your own needs, because you’ve been conditioned to believe that your happiness comes second. And by the time you realize how fucked up that is, you’re already drowning in guilt and resentment.

Let’s talk about the elephant in the room: you’re not just a child, you’re also the family’s insurance policy. From the moment you’re born, your future is already mapped out. You’re expected to get a stable job, make good money, and take care of your parents when they’re old. It’s not a question of *if* you’ll do it—it’s a given.

The pressure to succeed is relentless. You’re not just working for yourself; you’re working for your entire family. One wrong move, and you’re not just failing yourself: you’re failing everyone who’s counting on you. And God forbid you want to pursue something that doesn’t fit into the "doctor-lawyer-engineer" mold. You’re met with guilt trips, passive-aggressive comments, and the ever-present fear of being a disappointment.

It’s exhausting. You’re constantly walking on eggshells, trying to balance your own dreams with the weight of your family’s expectations. And no matter how much you achieve, it never feels like enough.

Here’s the thing no one tells you: the shit you deal with as a kid doesn’t just magically go away when you grow up. It follows you. It shapes you. And not in a good way.

You become a people pleaser. You’ve spent your entire life seeking approval, so now you can’t say no without feeling like a terrible person. You overcommit, overwork, and overextend yourself because you’ve been conditioned to believe that your worth is tied to how much you can do for others.

And then there’s the burnout. You’re so used to putting everyone else first that you don’t even know how to take care of yourself. You’re running on empty, but you keep pushing because stopping feels like failure.

Relationships? Yeah, those are a minefield. You either attract people who take advantage of your people-pleasing tendencies, or you push people away because you’re so used to being the "strong one" that you don’t know how to be vulnerable.

So, how do you break free from this shit?

First, you have to acknowledge that it’s not your fault. You didn’t ask for this role, and you sure as hell didn’t deserve to have your childhood stolen from you.

Next, you need to set boundaries. This is hard, especially when you’ve been conditioned to feel guilty for prioritizing yourself. But you have to start saying no. You have to start putting your own needs first, even if it feels selfish.

Therapy is a game-changer. It’s a safe space to unpack all the shit you’ve been carrying around for years. It’s okay to ask for help. You don’t have to do this alone. Trust me. It worked for me.

Finally, you need to redefine what success means to you. It’s not about being the perfect child, the perfect sibling, or the perfect parent. It’s about being happy. It’s about living a life that’s true to who you are, not who everyone else expects you to be.

Being the eldest child in an Asian household is a heavy fucking burden. It’s a role that demands everything from you and gives little in return. But here’s the thing: you don’t have to keep playing that role. You’re allowed to take off the mask, to set down the weight, and to live for yourself.

To all the eldest children out there: I see you. I hear you. And I’m here to tell you that it’s okay to put yourself first. It’s okay to be angry, to be tired, to be human. You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be you.

And that’s more than enough.

- Merdie Rose

[merdierose]

letting go: reflecting on "eternal sunshine of the spotless mind"

I just watched Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind for the first time, and I feel like someone reached into my chest, pulled out my heart, and handed it back to me with a note that says, “I know.” The movie isn’t just a film; it’s a mirror. It reflects the messy, beautiful, and devastating truth about love and loss—and how we try to cope when the person we thought was our forever turns out to be just another chapter.

I’ve been there. I’ve stood in the wreckage of a relationship that was supposed to be my endgame, clutching the shattered pieces of what I thought was unbreakable. And like Joel, I’ve wished for a way to erase the pain, to wipe the slate clean and forget they ever existed. But here’s the thing: even as I longed to forget, I couldn’t let go of the happy memories. Because forgetting them would mean losing the part of me that loved and was loved in return.

There’s a scene in the movie where Joel says, “I can’t see anything I don’t like about you,” and it hits like a punch to the gut. Because isn’t that how it always starts? You fall for someone, and they’re perfect—flaws and all. But when it ends, the flaws become magnified, and the pain overshadows everything else. You start to wonder if it would be easier to just forget them entirely.

I’ve had those thoughts. I’ve lain in bed, staring at the ceiling, wishing I could erase the sound of their voice, the way they laughed, the way they made me feel like I was the only person in the world. I’ve wanted to forget the way they walked away, like I was nothing.

But then the movie shows Joel fighting to keep his memories of Clementine as they’re being erased, and it breaks me. Because it’s not just the pain he’s trying to hold onto—it’s the joy, the love, the moments that made him feel alive. And I realize: I don’t want to forget everything.

I don’t want to forget the way he was there for me when I was struggling with my previous job, or the way his eyes crinkle when I compliment one thing about him. I don’t want to forget the way he made me feel like I was home, even if it was only for a little while. Because those memories are a part of me. They shaped me. They made me who I am.

Here’s the paradox: even as I want to erase them, I can’t let go of the happy memories. I cling to them like a lifeline, because they’re proof that it wasn’t all for nothing. That for a little while, we were happy. That for a little while, I was loved.

The movie captures this perfectly. Joel and Clementine’s happiest moments are the hardest to let go of, even as he tries to erase her. And I get it. I don’t want to forget the way they made me laugh, or the way they looked at me like I was the most beautiful thing they’d ever seen. I don’t want to forget the way they made me feel like I mattered.

The movie ends with Joel and Clementine choosing to try again, despite knowing their relationship might fail. And it’s heartbreaking and beautiful all at once. Because that’s the thing about love: it’s never guaranteed. It’s messy and imperfect and fleeting. But that’s what makes it so precious.

I do not know if I am ready to try again. Not when there is still a part of me that yearns for him. But I’m starting to realize that erasing them entirely would mean losing the lessons and growth that came from the relationship. It would mean losing the part of me that loved them, and the part of me that still believes in love, even after everything.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind taught me that love is messy, painful, and beautiful. And erasing it would mean losing a part of myself. So I’m choosing to hold onto the good memories, even as I let go of the pain. I’m choosing to believe that the heartbreak was worth it, because for a little while, I was loved.

I don’t have all the answers. I’m still hurting. But I’m starting to see that the pain is just proof that I loved deeply. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

Would you erase someone from your memory if you could? Or would you hold onto the good memories, even if it means keeping the pain? Let me know. And if you haven’t seen Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, watch it. It might just break your heart—and then put it back together again.

- Merdie Rose

[merdierose]

hi ! i know it sucks right now but no amount of acne can hide how pretty you are ^^

Hello! Thank you for this message. I appreciate it a lot. Honestly made my day. 💕

[merdierose]

adult acne

Hi! Let us all take a break from all my sad girl posts. Allow me to talk about one of my biggest insecurities in life: ADULT ACNE.

I remember staring at the mirror one morning, my fingertips gently tracing the new breakout on my chin. It was red, angry, and impossible to ignore. I sighed, feeling that familiar wave of frustration wash over me. Growing up, I had always been blessed with smooth, clear skin. But everything changed when I started working. Stress, late nights, and the pressures of adulthood brought with them a new, unwelcome companion: adult acne.

At first, I thought it was just a phase. But as the breakouts persisted, so did the feelings of insecurity. I began to feel ugly, unworthy, and ashamed of my reflection. I resorted to filters, creating an illusion of the flawless skin I once had. But deep down, I knew I was hiding.

When my skin first started changing, I was in fucking denial. I kept waiting for it to go back to the way it was. But as the breakouts became more frequent, I began to feel like a stranger in my own body. I avoided mirrors, dreaded photos, and spent hours scrolling through social media, comparing myself to people with seemingly perfect skin.

There were days when I felt so ugly that I didn’t want to leave the house. I’d layer on makeup, hoping to cover the redness, but it never felt like enough. I started using filters on every photo I posted, creating a version of myself that didn’t exist. It was exhausting.

“Mirrorball” by Taylor Swift perfectly captures how I felt during this time. Like a mirrorball, I was trying to reflect perfection, spinning and shimmering to meet everyone’s expectations. But behind the glitter, I was fragile, cracked, and barely holding it together.

I became obsessed with fixing my skin. I tried every skincare product I could find—cleansers, toners, serums, masks, you name it. I read articles, watched tutorials, and even tried supplements. But no matter what I did, the acne persisted.

It was frustrating and disheartening. I felt like I was failing at something that seemed so simple. Why couldn’t I just have clear skin again?

Over time, I realized that adult acne isn’t something you can always “fix.” It’s often hormonal, stress-related, or just a part of your body’s natural changes. And while that realization was hard to accept, it also helped me let go of the idea that I needed perfect skin to be happy.

One day, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror without makeup. My skin was far from perfect, but for the first time in a long time, I didn’t look away. I saw the acne, yes, but I also saw my eyes, my smile, and the person I’ve grown to be.

I realized that I had been equating my worth with my appearance. But beauty isn’t just about having clear skin. It’s about the way you treat others, the way you carry yourself, and the light you bring into the world.

As I began to shift my mindset, I noticed small moments of joy breaking through. A friend told me I looked radiant, even though I wasn’t wearing makeup. I caught myself laughing in a photo, not caring about the breakout on my cheek. These moments reminded me that life is about so much more than how you look.

I started to focus on the things that truly matter—my relationships, my passions, and the things that make me feel alive. I realized that my acne doesn’t take away from my ability to love, to create, or to make a difference in the world.

Adult acne has been a challenging chapter in my life, but it’s just that: a chapter. It doesn’t define me, and it certainly doesn’t diminish my worth. True beauty isn’t about having flawless skin; it’s about the way you live your life, the kindness you show, and the joy you bring to others.

So, to anyone struggling with adult acne, know this: you are not alone. Your breakouts don’t make you any less beautiful or worthy. You are so much more than your skin.

And at the end of the day, I will still smile because I am not defined by my acne. I am defined by my heart, my resilience, and the light I choose to shine.

After all, as Taylor Swift says in the outro of “Daylight”, “You are what you love.” And I love the person I am, acne and all.

- Merdie Rose

[merdierose]

yearning

It’s been months since it happened, but some days, it feels like you never left. Time was supposed to soften your presence, but instead, you remain. You are tattoed into my thoughts, stitched into the quiet moments when I think I’ve finally let go. Love like this, the kind that consumes and lingers, doesn’t just disappear.

Taylor Swift once sang, “When you are young, they assume you know nothing.” But I knew YOU. I knew what we had was something deep, something that felt like home, even if it was fleeting. “Cardigan” is a song about being chosen, then discarded, about love that feels inevitable and unforgettable all at once. And that’s exactly what we were.

I catch glimpses of you everywhere. In the games that we used to play, in the way the light hits the pavement on a slow afternoon, in the silence that stretches too long between songs on my playlist. And then there’s About You by The 1975 and the way Matty Healy sings, “Do you think I have forgotten about you?” It echoes the question I never dare to ask out loud. Do you think about me too? Do you ever wonder if I still feel you in my bones?

There’s something about us that still haunts me, much like the way Taylor and Matty seemed to circle back to each other over the years. Their story was always laced with yearning: unfinished and unresolved. They were two people who knew each other in ways most wouldn’t understand, drawn together and pulled apart by timing, circumstance, and the weight of what could have been. Maybe that’s why I can’t shake the feeling of you. Maybe we were the same. Never quite meant to last, but too significant to forget.

I tell myself I’m moving forward. Some days, I almost believe it. But then, in a random moment, I hear those two songs. And suddenly, I’m back where we left off. It’s frustrating, the way the past refuses to stay buried. But maybe that’s just the nature of love like ours: never truly gone, only waiting in the spaces between memories.

I don’t know if I’ll ever fully stop looking back. But for now, I’ll keep walking forward, even if your ghost follows me a little longer.

- Merdie Rose

[merdierose]

all too unwell

Nothing could have ever prepared me for it. Not my accumulated tenacity as an eldest daughter. Not my engineering degree. Not the poetic brain working 24/7 weaving romanticism into the mundane. It froze my fingers, my breath catching in my throat like I’d been sucker-punched. There goes my sunshine, beaming its light onto a new town. A place that is not here, a home that is not me. And just like that, the fragile illusion I’d been clinging to shattered into a million pieces.

It’s funny, isn’t it? How one little thing can feel like a thousand paper cuts, each one reopening wounds you thought had started to heal. And there I was, staring at the screen, paralyzed by the glimpses into a life I am no longer a part of. The longing and grief were so sharp I felt like I might be swallowed whole.

I couldn’t help but think of us. Of the way we used to be. The late-night conversations, the inside jokes, the way you made me feel yours. I thought we were forever. But forever came and went, and now all I have are memories that feel like ghosts, haunting me at the most unexpected moments. I replay those moments in my mind, like a movie I can’t stop watching, searching for clues I must have missed. But the truth is, the magic’s long gone, and no amount of rewinding will bring it back.

It is a special kind of torture. It’s not just the jealousy, though that’s there too. It’s the insecurity that creeps in, whispering lies I can’t seem to silence. Was I not enough? Was I replaced so easily? Does he even think about me anymore?

And then there’s the longing. The part of me that still loves him, still hopes he’ll come back, still imagines a future where we find our way to each other again. But he’s happy now. And I’m here, stuck in the past, holding onto something that no longer exists.

I’ll be honest: I can’t see myself moving on. Not yet. The thought of letting go feels like betraying the love I still carry for him. I know I should take things slow, give myself time to heal, but the truth is, I’m not ready. I’m not ready to say goodbye to the hope that one day, he’ll realize what we had and come back to me.

“Time won’t fly, it’s like I’m paralyzed by it / I’d like to be my old self again, but I’m still trying to find it.” These lyrics hit harder than ever. I feel stuck, frozen in a moment that’s long passed, while the world keeps spinning around me. I miss the person I was before all of this—before the heartbreak, before the longing, before the pain. But I’m still trying to find her.

Heartbreak is a strange thing. It feels like it might kill you, but it doesn’t. Somehow, you keep breathing, keep waking up, keep putting one foot in front of the other. And maybe that’s the first step toward healing: just surviving.

I’m not okay. Not even close. But I’m still here. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough for now. Maybe one day, I’ll be able to look back at this moment without feeling the same sharp pain. Maybe one day, I’ll be able to listen to All Too Well without crying. But for now, I’ll let the tears fall. I’ll let myself feel everything, even when it hurts. Because this pain is proof that what we had was real, at least to me.

And to YOU, I hope you are happy and healthy. I really do. But I also hope you know that what we had mattered. It mattered to me. And maybe one day, I’ll be able to say that without it hurting. Just know that even if you were never mine, I have always been yours. Even until now.

Until then, I’ll keep breathing. I’ll keep surviving. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll find my way back to myself.

- Merdie Rose

[merdierose]

a story that echoed taylor’s eras

There’s something about Taylor Swift’s music that feels like it was written just for you. Her songs have this uncanny ability to mirror your emotions, to put words to the feelings you can’t quite articulate. For me, Taylor’s eras didn’t just mark her evolution—they marked ours. I fell in love with him during the 1989 (Taylor’s Version) era, and our love ended during The Tortured Poets Department. It’s almost poetic, isn’t it? From the glittering yearning of “Slut!” to the gut-wrenching ache of “The Black Dog”, our story was a Taylor Swift album that became a reality I had to live and endure.

When 1989 (Taylor’s Version) came out, I was already deep in the throes of a long-distance love that felt like it belonged in a rom-com. We were miles apart, but the distance didn’t matter. We had late-night calls that stretched into early mornings, inside jokes that made us laugh until our stomachs hurt, and a connection that felt like it was written in the stars.

I remember listening to “You Are in Love” and thinking, This is it. This is us. The lyrics—“You can hear it in the silence, you can feel it on the way home”—felt like they were pulled straight from our story. We were the kind of love that Taylor sang about: electric, all-consuming, and a little bit magical.

Even the distance felt romantic. We were like “Out of the Woods,” navigating the challenges but holding onto the hope that we’d make it through. I’d play “Clean” on repeat everytime I am reminded that I was yours, reminding myself that our love was worth all the previous mess. And for a while, it was.

But then, something shifted. Maybe it was the distance finally taking its toll, or maybe it was just the inevitable unraveling of something that wasn’t meant to last. By the time The Tortured Poets Department era rolled around, our love felt less like a synth-pop anthem and more like a melancholic ballad.

I didn’t see it coming. One day, we were planning visits and dreaming about the future, and the next, I could feel him slipping away. The calls became shorter, the texts less frequent, and the silence between us grew louder. It was like listening to “So Long, London” on repeat—the slow, painful realization that something you thought was forever was coming to an end.

When the breakup finally happened, it felt like a punch to the gut. I remember sitting in my room, playing “The Tortured Poets Department” on loop, wondering how something that felt so right could end so wrong. Taylor’s lyrics became my lifeline, her words a mirror to my pain. “You’re not sure if you’re gonna make it out alive,” she sang, and for the first time, I understood what it meant to feel like your heart was breaking in real time.

In the months that followed, I did everything I could to move forward. I threw myself into work, reconnected with friends, and even tried dating again. But no matter how much I tried to distract myself, the memories always found a way back.

Taylor’s music was both my comfort and my curse. Songs like “Is It Over Now?” and “Now That We Don’t Talk” felt like they were written just for me, capturing the ache of missing someone who was no longer mine. I’d dance around my room to “Shake It Off,” pretending I was fine, only to collapse into tears when “loml” came on shuffle.

Healing, I’ve learned, is not a straight line. Just when I thought I was over him, a memory would rush in: a song we used to love, a place we talked about visiting, or even a random Friday that felt like it belonged to us—and I’d be right back where I started.

There are moments when it feels like I’m stuck in a loop. I’ll be going about my day, feeling strong and independent, and then something will trigger a memory. Maybe it’s the way the sunlight hits my room in the morning, reminding me of the time we video-called as the sun rose in his city and set in mine. Or maybe it’s hearing “Wildest Dreams” and remembering how we used to joke that we were living in one.

Those moments are the hardest. They remind me that love doesn’t just disappear because a relationship ends. It lingers, like a song you can’t get out of your head, playing on repeat even when you wish it would stop.

But here’s the thing: I’m still standing. I’m still dancing, still singing, still finding my way through the mess. Taylor’s music has taught me that heartbreak isn’t the end—it’s just the beginning of a new chapter.

Maybe our love was never meant to last forever. Maybe it was just a season, a beautiful, painful, unforgettable lesson that taught me how to love deeply and lose bravely. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

As I listen to The Tortured Poets Department, I’m starting to see my story in a new light. It’s not just about the pain of losing him: it’s about the strength I’ve found in myself, the lessons I’ve learned, and the hope that one day, I’ll find a love that feels like coming home.

So, here’s to the 1989 love that once was, and the Tortured Poets Department heartbreak that brought me here. Here’s to Taylor Swift, for giving me the words when I couldn’t find my own. And here’s to me for being brave enough to keep going, even when the memories try to pull me back.

The next era is ours, and I can’t wait to see what it sounds like.

- Merdie Rose

[merdierose]

Just like a butterfly spreading its wings for the first time on a spring sunrise, may all the beginnings and restarts you take become beautiful stories of faith and transformation.

Believe that your season of growth is preparing you for a harvest that rewards all of your efforts, patience, and sacrifices.

Heartbreaks will soon turn into happiness.

- Merdie Rose