I started writing when I was eleven, publishing online when I was fifteen. At thirty six for the very first time, I am writing as there is no audience, and here is the scattered September of mine…

Things that got me excited this September:

1. Waking up to a voice message from B.

2. Buying fancy headphones for my dad. The exact ones he skipped when researching, because “this would be an unnecessary expense; he can get good enough quality for a lesser price.” My father is that person who never wants you to worry about them. Always doing just fine. Asks for nothing. Happy when his loved ones are. He’s the first to bite his lip whenever I run into trouble, yet the absolute last to complain about his own problems. (If you love a person like this, you know too well how secretly terrifying this is.) The type of character who inspires entire novels, leaving readers rolling their eyes at how unrealistic they are.

3. Watching a live comedy club improv performance with a friend I don’t have to pretend I’m fine with.

4. Finding a quiet path on a walk with another friend on a day the whole city was buzzing with Warsaw Marathon loudness and last summer tourist remnants.

5. Finalizing the (almost 2-month-long) recruitment process into Meta and getting the job offer. I have never met such kind and welcoming people. Eventually, I didn’t accept the offer for personal reasons, but even the pre-entry experience was exceptionally positive. I haven’t felt this much sincere appreciation at a professional level in a very long time.

6. My dad calling me to ask if I created an e-delivery account for entrepreneurs. Iykyk.

7. Hearing from B. that he’s proud of me.

8. Seeing my doctor at the quarterly check-up. I told him I feel numb; he said that’s amazing because that’s finally something he knows how to fix. We listened to Linkin Park after.

On a flat line, finding elements of life that excite you and listing them is like taking a breath of air when, for the rest of the time, you live underwater. This is the moment when I would disclaim something like: “It’s uncomfortable to show vulnerability, but if this helps at least one person, it’s worth publishing.” Feel free to scratch that. Most likely the only person this blog entry will help is me. And I don’t want to be ashamed of it, hiding behind a pose of some greater good. Let’s admit I’m writing for an average good and move on.

9. Another September highlight is getting back to the Demon Copperhead story. I have an interesting relationship with this book. Not as awed by it as the rest of the world seems to be, but I get the phenomenon and respect it. I only wonder whether Demon’s character is honestly making people alike feel seen, or if it’s more of a not-so-gentle reminder for those who were dealt at least a little better hand in life to count their luck and keep it close.

10. Running two yoga sessions (covering for another teacher) – equally draining and fun. Especially the second one. I miss having enough serenity to lead classes regularly.

11. Re-watching The Diplomat in prep for the next season. Women dream of hearts and flowers; mine is the loyalty and respect at a Hal-and-Kate level.

You try to save the peace, you try to save the marriage, you keep talking. You talk to the people who want to kill you. You talk to the person who just blew up your life. You stay in the room because that's the job. You never stop talking.
_{The Diplomat. 2023. Season 1, episode 8, "The James Bond Clause." Directed by Alex Graves. Written by Debora Cahn.}

12. Booking a single ticket for Arlo Parks’ concert. I gave up on denying myself music experiences when I can’t find anyone who’d like to go with me. Thanks to that, I experienced one of the most magical moments of my life at Ben Howard’s outdoor concert a couple of summers back. Highly recommended.

2. Finding a new healthy dish in the local breakfast place that I actually enjoy (this is rare).

3. Purchasing new books (this is not rare at all):

   • King Heart, by Lily King, translated to Polish by Dominika Chylińska

   • Blue Sisters, by Coco Mellors, translated to Polish by Anna Tomczyk
     (I have had it in original since 2024, but never picked it up – giving it another go in my native language).

   • The Highway Code (I don’t even know why I bought it.)

   • Dina, dina, by Agata Romaniuk

   • Sploty, by Anna Ciarkowska

   • Violet Bent Backwards Over The Grass, by Lana Del Rey

4. Adding a quote to my notebook:

It’s good to know the truth and talk about it. It’s better to know the truth and speak of palm trees.
_{— Arabic Proverb}

***

I’ve always been decent at swimming. Decent at recognizing what I need to keep myself afloat. I think my brain is taking a break from knowing how to swim. It’s confusing. You watch this and do nothing, being used to a different me. What do I need? How can you help me? I’m living underwater. Some people call it drowning. Not sure this is a state you can instruct your savior. But I’m living here quietly. Without struggle. Without making noise. Without splashing water all over the place. Occasionally, making a few tactical moves that let me surface and grab a lousy breath. Some people call it diving.

That was September of mine.

October has found me a diving tube, and now I breathe easy here. Writing letters to my future self. Occasionally noticing the coral reefs.

Maybe I’m gonna tell you about it in November.


Love,
Lena

In my world—grown from Polish roots—humility is armor; in his, confidence is currency. And this is where our cultural streams clash, with feelings surfing through them in a wobbly balance.

The HALT Principle: Why We Default to Quick Fixes

Neurobiology tells us that a healthy body can self‑regulate all its systems—provided we aren’t exposed to HALT: Hunger, Anger, Loneliness, or Tiredness. In therapy, you can’t dive into deeper issues until you address your HALT state, because our brains always seek the quickest relief, not the healthiest long‑term solution. That’s why an angry alcoholic reaches for a drink, a sleep‑deprived child throws a tantrum, and an overthinker spirals into negativity when lonely or exhausted.

Some coping patterns stem from our personal history, but many others are written into the collective scripts our culture hands us—often without our conscious permission.

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Straddling Two Identities

I grew up in a world where a boy asks a girl to be his girlfriend as a gesture, not to "for sure, for sure" confirm they’re exclusive and not dating eight other people anymore. Yes, we’re part of a global culture shaped by the internet and Netflix-produced trends, yet in my generation—especially among women—modesty remains a virtue. Openly expressing confidence can be perceived as arrogance. Research on collectivist societies shows we downplay our achievements to maintain group harmony and avoid standing out.

That backdrop influences how Central and Eastern European women navigate self‑worth. Internalizing humility often leads to self‑silencing—suppressing needs and desires to conform to societal expectations. This behavior has been linked to higher rates of depression and anxiety. By contrast, American culture, particularly since the late twentieth century, celebrates individualism and self‑confidence; U.S. women score 45 percent higher on self‑esteem measures and more readily express achievements and needs compared to Polish peers.

The American approach isn’t unfamiliar to women in my circle. We were raised during Poland’s democratic transformation—from a collectivist communist system to a more individualistic society. Mothers taught obedience and autonomy in equal measure, often shouldering both paid work and the lion’s share of home life. Education was non‑negotiable: many parents from humble backgrounds reshuffled household chores so their daughters could focus on school (my family included).

As you probably deducted by now, it wasn’t simply about “catching up” to Western confidence. Free from communism as a system, we remain deeply tethered to its tradition and to a Catholic cultural framework that lingers even as church attendance declines. We juggle both modest “Matka Polka” values and “girl‑boss” savvy, carry the emotional baggage of loved ones and strive to protect our own well‑being. There is no either/or—only a complex, ever‑shifting “messy soup” of identity and aspiration.

The Legacy of Parentification

Not to make it a contest of hardships. I’m fully aware that everyone carries their own pile of struggles. One of mine was having a leader’s personality yet being reared on the mantra “Go to your corner; they’ll find you.” On the flip side, American Culture Master Studies equipped me with a fair dose of gumption and by twenty‑eight, I found myself in a head of marketing position (definitely too soon). When my team’s first conflict demanded a balanced solution, my father advised: “Fire the aggressor.” My mother—the same woman who taught me to always have my own savings, pursue higher education, learn languages, and invest in real estate—said, “Bake everyone a cheesecake.”

A cheesecake.

Oh, family is another difference in approach: for an American, cutting ties can be natural; for a Pole, connection—even tangled—is everything. Outsiders might see clinging, but what we feel is loyalty, respect, and the weight of unspoken obligations. I understand how it looks like we can’t claim full independence. But is it because we need the connection so much? Or maybe…

In my generation, roughly 36 percent of Polish adolescents experienced high emotional parentification—acting as caregivers to their parents. Those persistent patterns—resilience and secure attachment on one hand, self‑sacrifice and boundary issues on the other—shape how we show up in love and life. As adults, we face emotional entanglements, impaired boundaries, and caregiver burnout, even in new relationships.

Communication Styles: The “Face Negotiation” Act

Now imagine someone so attuned to these subtleties falling for a (very) American man who names and criticizes whatever rubs him the wrong way, expects you to say exactly what’s on your mind, and can’t understand why you need to be asked “Are you really fine?” four times before you shift from “Sure” to “Not really.” To him, downplaying your feelings seems unnecessary—and frankly, baffling.

Even conflict plays out differently: American communication often centers on “self‑face,” honoring each person’s right to speak plainly and defend their perspective. By contrast, Polish norms—described in Ting‑Toomey’s face‑negotiation theory—lean toward “mutual‑face” work: softening criticism and avoiding direct confrontation. So when he asks, “What’s really bothering you?” I circle around the issue to preserve harmony, and he can easily mistake my caution for withholding.

The Art of Cultural Diplomacy

Yet every relationship can find its own equilibrium. We started small by tweaking our cultural scripts: he now prefaces his occasional venting with, “It’s not directed at you…,” and I make a point to share my struggles unprompted (not always successfully).

Ultimately, relationships aren’t just about chemistry and feelings; they’re exercises in cultural diplomacy. His confusion isn’t a judgment, and my habits aren’t flaws. But without bridge‑building, cultural gaps accumulate into resentment. Entering this couplehood, we’ve become a part of a rich, bilingual identity. Embracing both Polish humility and American confidence doesn’t mean choosing one over the other; it means celebrating the full, beautiful complexity of who we are together.

Multicultural connections are less about erasing differences and more about blending distinct colors on a single canvas. Each partner becomes a student and teacher—learning new emotional languages, questioning long-held assumptions, and discovering fresh ways to find common ground. When you treat cultural quirks not as hurdles but as invitations to grow—whether by adapting communication styles, inventing hybrid traditions, or simply asking, “What does this mean to you?”—you build a partnership that’s resilient, curious, and endlessly enriching. In the end, creating a family across cultures is an ongoing dialogue, one where each difference deepens understanding, and where every shared experience becomes a foundation for a life that’s deeper, more vibrant, and unmistakably your own.

cinnamon desert is meant to be accessible to anyone and thus I don’t hide it behind the paywall. However, if you'd like to support the project, you're very much invited to grant me a coffee aka the ultimate writer's fuel.

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Bibliography

Borchet, Judyta, Lisa M. Hooper, Sara Tomek, Wei S. Schneider, and Maciej Dębski. “Parentification in Polish Adolescents: A Prevalence Study.” Journal of Child & Adolescent Trauma 15, no. 3 (2021): 567–583. https://doi.org/10.1007/s40653-021-00411-8.

Borchet, Judyta, Aleksandra Lewandowska‑Walter, Piotr Połomski, and Aleksandra Peplińska. “Construction of a Parentification Questionnaire for Youth.” Health Psychology Report 8, no. 2 (2020): 175–188. https://doi.org/10.5114/hpr.2019.89492.

Borchet, Judyta, Aleksandra Lewandowska‑Walter, Piotr Połomski, Aleksandra Peplińska, and Lisa M. Hooper. “We Are in This Together: Retrospective Parentification, Sibling Relationships, and Self-Esteem.” Journal of Child & Family Studies 29, no. 11 (2020): 2982–2999. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10826-020-01723-3.

Dębski, Maciej, Sara Tomek, Judyta Borchet, and Lisa M. Hooper. “The Relations Among Types of Parentification, School Achievement, and Quality of Life in Early Adolescence: An Exploratory Study.” Frontiers in Psychology 12 (2021): 635171. https://doi.org/10.3389/fpsyg.2021.635171.

Krupa‑Kotara, Karolina, Jarosław Markowski, Agnieszka Gdańska, Mateusz Grajek, Eliza Działach, Grzegorz Szlachta, and Mateusz Rozmiarek. “Global Self‑Esteem, Body Composition, and Physical Activity in Polish University Students.” Nutrients 15, no. 18 (2023): 3907. https://doi.org/10.3390/nu15183907.

Lim, Tae‑Seop, and John W. Bowers. “Facework: Solidarity, Approbation, and Tact.” Human Communication Research 18, no. 4 (1992): 620–644. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1468-2958.1992.tb00629.x.

PolandInsight.com. “Polish Women Dream of Self‑Confidence, but They Lack It.” February 2024. Accessed June 2025. https://polandinsight.com/polish-women-dream-of-self-confidence-but-they-lack-it-60511.

Skalski‑Bednarz, Sebastian B., Karol Konaszewski, Loren L. Toussaint, Arndt Büssing, and Janusz Surzykiewicz. “Positive Religious Coping Acts Through Perception of Nature and Silence in Its Association with Well‑Being and Life Satisfaction Among Polish Catholics.” Frontiers in Public Health 10 (2022): 1020007. https://doi.org/10.3389/fpubh.2022.1020007.

Ting‑Toomey, Stella. Communicating Across Cultures. New York: Guilford Press, 1999.

Vignoles, Vivian L., Maja Becker, Ellinor Owe, and Rupert Brown. “Cultural Bases of Self‑Esteem: Seeing Oneself Positively in Different Cultural Contexts.” Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin 40, no. 2 (2014): 170–83. https://doi.org/10.1177/0146167214522836.

———. “Cultural Differences Between Poland and the United States Found Through Hofstede’s Model: A Brief Report.” Sociology Journal (2019): 85–90. Accessed June 2025. (Study predicting lower self-esteem levels among Poles compared to Americans.)

World Health Organization. The Role of Religion in Mental Health: A Meta‑Analytical Review. Geneva: WHO, 2021.

Throughout all this ‘waiting’ time, I’ve noticed how often it’s mistaken for stagnancy. The silent, weighted inaction where nothing moves, yet the stillness begins to ache.

Many times I’ve heard, from people both near and far, that I chose a career-oriented life, or that I chose to stay single for years, or that I chose to live in the city, or that I chose this or the other version of me.

The only choice I truly satellite my life around is contentment — being as close to happiness as I can in any given moment.

You don’t see what I chose independently and what I molded from the life I was handed. I might hope to build a family. Be a part working, part stay‑at‑home cool parent who knows every bit of neighborhood teenage drama, as half of them drift through her kitchen every day after school stealing baked goods and adult advice. (The other half doing the same on weekends.)

I might dream of creating a safe haven for people who can’t go back home when they long for harmony — who don’t know what it’s like to always have a bed they can peacefully fall asleep in. Who don’t set their goals on becoming world-famous athletes or globetrotters, but instead dream of a predictable life: safety in routine, a warm meal each day, and the ability to stay afloat without gasping for air.

Maybe I’m just self‑aware enough to know that to support others, I first need to create a strong, supportive world for myself. In a plane emergency, you secure your mask first before helping anyone else. Perhaps that’s been my path as friends launched families. Perhaps it’s why I ‘chose’ to be here now.

Then there’s the option of intentionally living like I’m twenty-five (even though I’m nearly thirty-five), with the only kid I’ll ever take responsibility for being the one on my Nirvana t-shirt.

Twist the plot the way it suits you.

Nevertheless, imagine the track’s blocked. So instead of staring at the obstacle like it owes you answers, you slip into the trees, follow a squirrel, and carve your own little footpath — landing in a place that doesn’t even exist on Google Maps. Bliss.

Keeping still in one area doesn’t mean you can’t take a detour; grow in other directions while waiting for the right moment ahead. One can walk without moving a limb — the left hand tucked in their pocket. The arm feels stagnant, the palm warm and comfy, and yet it’s still changing the coordinates.

If the dream of parenthood (whether real or Nevermind inspired) needs to sleep a while longer, I fill my days with the opportunities that won’t be as reachable later. Spontaneous travel. Intentional afternoons with my father — getting to know him anew now that we’re both adults. Writing whenever a thought needs release. Sleeping like a baby, savoring unrushed mornings. Practicing aunt-life, watching friends excel as caregivers. Learning, reading, imagining different future scenarios. Drawing boundaries. Then erasing them, and sketching new ones elsewhere. Opening up to adaptation. Figuring out who I am, and who I want to become. Because how else do we introduce a new person to themselves and to this world?

Maybe you dream of a full-time writing career but can’t yet leave your nine-to-five. Maybe you wish for a certain salary to live comfortably by your definition, but for now your time and energy lie elsewhere. Maybe what you want most is to be healthy, and that feels out of reach. That takes a hell of a lot of patience and adaptability. Or maybe—and that’s perfectly valid—you’re counting down the days until your (lovely, I’m sure) kids are grown and you can reclaim the carefree joy of couplehood. Whatever it is, it’s all about learning to wait without standing still.

Perhaps right now, the dream is the arm we’re not moving. Yet the whole body journeys on. We’ve got to keep going, folks. Push forward even when part of us stays put. Seize the day and quietly prepare for the ones ahead.

Life isn’t a race; the one who waits best wins.

Am I sad on occasion? Yes.
Would I reshape my life if I could? I don’t know.
Am I happy with the life I’ve crafted? Absolutely.
Do I lose my patience sometimes? Hell, yes.

And so I ask in that space between waiting and acting:
Can stillness nourish growth?
Can patience carry momentum?
What truly separates waiting from stalling?

Each question is a gentle reminder:
Stillness isn’t a traffic ban.

Waiting doesn’t have to equal wasting.

Sometimes the hardest work is feeling the ache. And then taking the next step. Finding our rhythm in keeping the left hand tucked in the pocket, walking. Still.

cinnamon desert is meant to be accessible to anyone and thus I don’t hide it behind the paywall. However, if you'd like to support the project, you're very much invited to grant me a coffee aka the ultimate writer's fuel.

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The paradox I keep circling. I want to be read, deeply and slowly, by people who feel what I feel before I even name it. I want my words to echo. To be the underlined sentences in someone else's late-night scroll or saved-for-later tab. I want to matter. Quietly.

But I don’t want to be watched. Or dissected. Or mythologized into some version of myself I don’t recognize. I don’t want strangers knowing what haunts me at 2am or what kind of childhood silence shaped my voice. I don’t want the exposure that often comes with being "understood." Because what if they misunderstand?

There’s safety in invisibility. But there’s power in honesty. And I’m trying to find the tightrope between the two — trying to write in a way that keeps me real, but not raw and bleeding in public.

I’m learning that publishing doesn’t have to mean performing. And visibility doesn’t have to mean confession. It can mean clarity. It can mean connection.

It can mean: I’m here. Not fully open. Not fully hidden. But here.

I want to whisper through life. Keep being a private person. Beyond the handful of loved ones I absolutely crave knowing me to the bottom of my soul, I don’t want people to know me. I want them to know the way I think. To know my thought input into this world — my views, my perceptions, the feelings — but not the facts. Does that even make sense? I don’t want people to know me. I want them to know my writing.

The easy answer, I know, is to write novels, short stories, fiction. I do that too. But that’s not the same. I’m sorry, but it’s not the same as pouring your heart, insecurities like spilled ink, and telling the reader — me, the real person who lives and breathes — is going through this. Relate, recreate, or refuse to follow my path. It’s real.

You’re free to have a real reaction.

Then there’s the ego and its unobvious best friend: shame.

What if all this (over)thinking is for nothing anyway? Who am I to assume that what I have to say is even worth a read? I often return to a grounding thought when the spiral gets too loud: Solve the problems that already exist. You can face the rest when they actually approach you. It’s the sentence that steadies me, that pulls me out of the endless loop of what-ifs.

Let’s get out of the loop.

I’m learning to balance my inner critic with self-gentleness. I don’t shy away from looking in the mirror, but I try to focus on what’s there — not on what isn’t, or what should have been. I’m meeting myself eye to eye, asking with honest curiosity:

Are you afraid of failure or of people seeing you trying?

And I think that’s the clue. I don’t like the answer, but here it is: I’m most afraid of becoming a joke. I’d rather think of myself as far less than I truly am than risk believing in a version that overshoots reality. Even slightly.

I don’t like that answer — I’m saying it again to make peace with being uncomfortable. Taming the ego.

Look at how being funny is seen as desirable, charming even. But being laughable? That makes you pathetic. Two sides of the same coin. Or maybe not. Maybe the real opposites are laughable and respected. And funny is the edge of the coin that lets it roll through life. Maybe funny is what keeps us in balance.

That’s what I’m trying to do with my writing:
Roll through life. Keeping the balance.

You’re welcome to watch me trying.

cinnamon desert is meant to be accessible to anyone and thus I don’t hide it behind the paywall. However, if you'd like to support the project, you're very much invited to grant me a coffee aka the ultimate writer's fuel.

☕️ Buy Me a Coffee