It takes a lot of patience to grow out a bob, two years I spent growing out hair, only to cut it again, and let it reach its maximum potential. It’s just hair. But I outgrew myself and others in those moments.

I came back from a vacation without a purpose. I didn’t go there to search for answers, I didn’t go to escape. If anything for the first time, I left longing the person I held closest to me. And when I spent my last Sunday in a car ride heading home after a weekend away, I was felt relieved knowing that when I left the city, I brought them with me. The light showed every imperfection on my face, but I didn’t think about that. I thought about tear stained sleeves in an airplane, and the notion that I’m finally home.

For the first time I’m not searching for answers that will help me devise the secret to a full heart, but I’m searching for my next move. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve done more than I thought I would at 22, but I can’t help but feel like it isn’t enough. So I spent the following Sunday in a hairdressers chair, certain that the first move would be to cut off the extra hair I was holding onto. You see, I thought that the longer my hair got the more desirable I’d feel, not for others. For myself. I wanted to follow this persona. But I started to tug at things.

Whilst reflecting this Summer abroad, I realized how love and sobriety come together. You’re so full of heart that you barely even think about what you used to drink about. Over these last four years on this blog, a lot of these posts profess heartbreak, but it was never just that. I never wanted my writing to be labelled, “oh the heartbroken stuff” “or the bad kind of love” if anything I should have just changed my domain to “daniellalearnsherlessons.org”

So I should probably state the obvious. I don’t need a broken heart to be the writer I am. I don’t need to fall in the wrong type of love to make you all feel things. But I will tell you this, lovers aren’t the only people to break your heart. Friends can do it too.

Things grew this Spring, I found my way back after spending a year by myself and rediscovering who I’m capable of being. It took me awhile to notice that. I thought to myself, “I planted all of these seeds, why isn’t anything blooming yet?” Therefore I self published my diary. I cut off my bloody ponytail because dammit I wanted too. I’ve fallen so deeply in love, and one day I’ll tell you all about it. I watered everything until it drowned in my love.

and I may be struggling to figure out my next move, but just know I’m moving forward.

Thank you for still reading. Thank you for 30,000 hits.

Daniella Beca



A lot has happened since the last time I came and vented. I crossed something off my bucket list, and published a tangible piece of work. I filled a room with loved ones, and gave them the first look at what many thought would be a bigger piece of work but was filled with enough to heal the hurting.

22, and I found myself, fetal position in the bathroom of my 9-4 job and I sobbed until it was time to get my shit together. Hell of a lunch break. I panicked because I doubted myself and whether self-publishing was even worth it. If I was even capable of doing it. Solely because once again there were printing issues, and late books. I do preach about letting those who’ve hurt you know that it’s not okay on here. That includes drafting a “THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE” email because you won’t be able to use pms as an excuse for your outburst when you head to pick them up.

I eventually want to go into detail about what this process was like for me, but I keep thinking about how many people the book has helped, and how many more people I want to have their hands on this book. So I splash cold water on my face, wash away the $200 worth of skin care products on my face (so so so painful to witness) and I walked straight to my laptop to write this.

I accomplished something Tuesday that I didn’t think was going to happen many times this last year. I graduated University, on time, and without falling on stage. I ran/hug towards a Professor that held the last English class I ever took, and was quite grateful for being the only English professor to know my name. This piece of paper, as expensive as it may be…means that I get to create now. I get to finally create without grades, and essays holding me back.

Because walking past those doors, to my own doorstep held just a brief reminder of the good in this world. It’s been keeping me sane these days, and away from the keyboard. It’s not that I don’t want to share, but it’s a lot more special to keep the good to yourself. It’s found in many things, my journal, my playlists, and it’s the remedy to a good nights rest. It makes your favourite songs sound better. Everything around you gets louder. I could see it, in a dark room only lit by a computer screen. I could hear it, amongst the silence beating against my cotton t-shirt. I could taste it, and the stars warned me against it. It found me unknowingly, feet first. I prayed for red lights on the way home, so I could feel it for just a little longer. But it’s not going anywhere.

When publishing something I worked on two years ago, I had a difficult time explaining the concept to people. Until I listened to Lorde’s song “Writer In The Dark” to which she says, “Bet you rue the day you kissed a writer in the dark” and I thought brilliant! That’s kind of what I wanted to say back then, that these were emotive musings that eventually would become an even bigger tale towards my journey of self-love, but warning those that woo the creatives. It’s very difficult my darling readers because to have everyone around you reading reflections from two years ago may attempt to drag you back to those moments, but we’re not going that way! In fact, we’ve waved enough white flags to find peace in the things that troubled us then. At the end of the day I just have to be better than who my 16 year old self thought I’d be at 22.

Heal yourself with the new SZA album, dance to Lorde’s Melodrama, and
Love always,
Daniella Beca

To purchase “I’m Not Blue Anymore” head to https://www.etsy.com/ca/shop/GirlInDiorGlasses?ref=seller-platform-mcnav

Mess is Mine

Discretely trying to hide rosy cheeks, holding a bottle of white wine whilst typing out a message, I listened to the girl behind me succumbing to momentary sadness. She couldn’t stop thinking about the boy who wouldn’t give her a straight answer. I can say that I’ve experienced that one too many times. I’d wash away the inconsistency with cheap rum, and cheap heels. Cheap heels kill your feet, but you’ll only feel that in the morning (that goes for the rum as well). Today, you’re grateful.

Recently everything in my life has moved so quickly, hence a lack of posts. I bought $10 faux-leather sneakers before a job interview, because my shoes screamed “salt stains and 10 minutes to leave the house.” I entered into my attempt of the real world, and took my two year old cheetah coat with me, because it’s sort of a visual resume (or at least that’s what I tell myself). I took a 45 minute subway ride, and for someone that can barely be underground for one stop, I spent majority of it distracted and writing this.

They say choose someone whose heart is bigger than yours. I say it’s impossible. And I’m so silent. Here, there, anywhere because my mind is spinning a wheel of things I want to say but it doesn’t stop spinning or land on any answer. But to sit in silence is the loudest noise I could make. It’s a sign of proud defeat. Someone has finally shut me up. And I can take as many Buzzfeed quizzes as I’d like about whether his choice in Pizza toppings means we’re compatible enough to make this work, but none of that means anything.

Because the more I took care of myself, the better I attracted. That I should have taken blue ink, and written about myself and what I needed to work on. This is the journey, and the ride I was supposed to be on. And when I ran listening to Lorde’s Green Light, I was late to brunch and I realized that I can’t run, I’m not cut out for cardio but I’m heading towards that better version of myself at lightening speed. I don’t need to run from anything anymore because the more my cheeks hurt from sincere happiness, the more appreciative I am and grateful for many moments. 97 of them here, to be exact. 98 now.

And they ask why I took time to myself, and it’s because the sound of slammed Uber doors became as familiar as my alarm clock. To which I dreaded both. Instead, there’s someone opening the door for me now, and willingly I broke all my rules. Keep it hidden. So you can peacefully write. No face to a sentence. Yeah, that lasted briefly. Sorry, but the more I restrict myself the more I rebel. And!!!!!! I highly doubt anyone cares!!! Can’t hide behind this blog forever. (More on that to come)

I’m sitting cross legged, in matching socks (for once) typing this up from my palm sized Moleskine listening to John Mayer’s guitars. I get to wear my spring flood pants again, and I’m days away from finishing my undergraduate career. Then you’ll all get to see a physical form of what I wrote two years ago, and HOPEFULLY YOU’RE ALL FANS OF IT.

I forgot how much I missed the way my house has this distinct smell when the weather gets warmer. How much I love when the sun momentarily stops the rain, and everyone’s mood suddenly shifts to the tune of a Vance Joy song. This happened as I was walking over to a cinema I write about, but have never stepped into. There’s this wondrous lack of restriction, and everything I’ve learned on this journey has built potential not just for myself, but for others. I can’t tell you how many people have complimented me on my rosy/glowy complexion but there are many things to thank for that, because there’s so much good to come and a lot of it has found a place, or a saw a spark where there wasn’t a flame (Dua Lipa wrote that last sentence). Click.


In Peppermint Oil We Trust

I’ve started obsessing over another song, but unlike the Emeli Sande song this one is what you listen to when you’re dancing in your Calvins, instead of running for the bus. This is the anthem for January/February. I’m talking about Dua Lipa’s Blow Your Mind (MWAH).

The first two lines in the chorus are:
“If you don’t like the way I talk then why am I on your mind?
If you don’t like the way I rock then finish your glass of wine.”

and just those two lines, have tattooed themselves onto my skin*

*Not literally, I know my parents are reading this, I still have my only Kensington Market adventure “So it Goes.”

Today, I stood in front of the same mirror I had my first University panic-attack in front of. 4 years later, and I was coming down from my Latte, and setting an alarm to remind me to buy bananas on the way home. Something I’ve forgotten to do for almost a week now. For some reason that was the first thing I thought of, instead of “did you leave your scarf in the stall.”

I’ve been mad at myself for the last couple of weeks, because I have two completed projects still sitting on my bookshelf, and I have a copious amount of opportunities to start creating. Why aren’t I doing so? Because I had a writer’s crisis. That sounded dramatic whether I liked it or not.

What do I even have to say? I was here to offer all of my romantic wisdom, and all of the heartbreak that comes with the text messages we aren’t supposed to respond to! But I haven’t had to deal with anything remotely amorous since the Summer. Not because I downloaded Tinder for 5 minutes, and gave up because I was swiping mostly for dogs, but because I was too lazy to be enchanted. Actually, the better word to use is tired. Once I started writing essays, instead of over-caffeinated poetry, I entered the “crisis” where I sat back, and said “What am I going to write about now?”


If you actually go back and read this blog from the start, (The start being almost 3 years ago) (We turn 3 on February 9th!!!) you meet different versions of myself, but the one thing that stayed consistent was my voice.

I got into a funk this weekend, and napped majority of it while watching Grey’s Anatomy, and I was upset with myself for being unproductive. I told myself it was “self care” but it was far from that. So it resulted in a Sunday evening of self loathing, until my sister doused me in Peppermint Oil, told me to sit beside her and catch up on her vlogs. I was in and out of sleep, but the woman in this video said that she would speak things into existence, and by doing so they’d happen.

So. Here’s a couple of things I wrote down today, and as I type them I’m saying them aloud:

Just because your window faces a brick wall, doesn’t mean you have to.

Spending an entire weekend napping on a couch isn’t self care.

Stop apologizing for wanting to be on your phone.

If people are ahead of you in life, refrain from envy. Start walking.

Adulthood means taking care of you FOR YOU. So stop beating yourself up for forgetting to buy bananas for the 4th day in a row.

Carry granola bars in your bag.


Just because you’ve hit a blank space writing about modern romance, doesn’t mean you have to stop being a writer.

So I’m going to go tackle the laundry I’ve neglected.
You think waiting for a text back is agonizing, try waiting for the dryer to stop.

With love, and freshly ripe bananas

Twenty Sixteen

This year took a lot out of me. I got off a plane in January and gasped for air. Turbulence I tell ya.

Let’s think back to February, being in the back of an Uber, eating pizza, listening to Robyn’s Dancing On My Own, and how pure that was.

That was healing. That Robyn song was also foreshadowing.

March was a pair of scissors to a handful of hair restrained by the grip of someone’s hand, and a “what did I just do” came 48 hours later when I couldn’t gather all of the hair into a simple ponytail. A new coping mechanism must be sought out. They also tell you that things grow in April, they didn’t mean an impulsive bob.

Then the same Robyn song came on at the end of May, in the Drake Hotel. I was supposed to be somewhere else that night. In an audience listening to songs written about other women, you know the tune. Isn’t that your favourite part of a show, when the audience sings your lyrics back to you? #Communication #Am #I #Right

It came on as I was out of the bar, and I was more concerned about being 21 and running away to Europe for 6 weeks because those cab moments are temporary. So I ran as fast as I could in June, and July. I immersed my whole self in solitude, and let salt water into my lungs.

August was slip dresses and taking the flower petal from behind your ear and setting it down on your night table. I watched the time ferociously in August, God how bad did we want time to stop.

But we had to move forward in September, October, and November and we could not stop moving because once you stop you think, and these thoughts pick away at soft voices.

I said this two years ago but what I want for Christmas isn’t a tangible thing this year. I wanted the generic iPhone ringtone to echo in my pocket, to hear the husky voice at the other end of the line, letting me know that he didn’t mean to change with the seasons. That’s what we want. But yeah, that’s what we can’t get.

I want to stop editing the things people say to me so that they sound better. I need to learn that the gentleness people show you will hold the door open for them as they walk out without a word. They didn’t want to wake you they said. You haven’t slept soundly since September you respond.

I tried to stop picking at it. I got used to a routine. But admiring someone’s mannerisms like poetry, and then walking into empty rooms filled with individuals became the new norm. So did silence. We tried to speak, but we were put on hold. Or is that the dial tone?

Regardless we are here, December is almost over and we’re running out of air.

Our lungs are too heavy that we look even more tired with every step we take. But we keep walking because our souls hoped to meet halfway. They’ll be here soon. Just one more minute.

Eventually you’ll know why all of this had to happen.

Eventually you stop reaching your hand out for others to join you on a dance floor.

Eventually you’ll change with the Seasons, with the year, with the 24 hours we’re given everyday.

Eventually your soft voice will change into an unfamiliar one, and they’ll have to get to used to the way you say their name. With a little less hope, and a little more of a lesson.

Wishing you Godspeed,

That Emeli Sande Song I Love So Much

I told myself that if I was going to continue sealing envelopes, I better start sending them. I had this Password Protected blog post up for awhile. It was/is meant for one person, and I sent it before starting my Saturday night a few weeks back.

It’s probably my best piece of writing. Regardless of how much my soul was shaking in the moments that I was writing it, I wanted to protect the subject, they became my favourite song. But I became a different version of myself that wanted to stray away from my own emotions. That post became the last thing I wrote.

It hit me that I was already in my 4th year, and I chose to sit in a familiar classroom on the right side, glancing to the left once in awhile to get a certain kind of view. When I sat there I thought about how the “they once were just a glance upon the room” idea became what I’m probably going to remember most about University.

This woman walked through the pouring rain, holding an umbrella covered in sunflowers. I found that notion quite ironic. I walked through the rain, umbrella-less, letting my hair uncurl and I thought about what someone had said to me earlier, the sentence was echoing over the sound of the rain hitting the pavement. “Are you gonna blog about it?” Because it was a pun to them, a harmless one of course, but it reminded me that for awhile I hadn’t been writing. I would write everything, and anything, and I stopped.

Believe me, I tried. I played with the tangled lights on my headboard hoping some sort of prose would come out, but I refused to turn them on. I hoped dying my hair dark brown, would metaphorically water whatever growth I was trying to achieve, but nothing. Something else I also picked up on, was how individuals give you attention when they’re not receiving it on their end, the same individuals who refuse to pay attention to the bright red Exit sign flashing right in front of them. Hm.

I learned about forgiveness behind a glass of Rose. Right now I’m stumped in front of the keyboard trying to figure out a statement that would follow that, because everytime I wave a white flag, someone sets fire to it. I chose to forgive someone because they picked up the phone and made the effort. We even discussed these posts, and I explained to them how important it is to me, to keep things private. I thought that would make me write again. It didn’t.

But alas, lucky number November 13. Brought me back in front of the black keys. All because a coffee mug reminded me of somebody, and I found it in a room full of lights hanging from the ceiling. I let that wave of emotion take me with it, despite the fact that their silence
became their way of saying, “You’re not for me right now.” and boy does that ache, but in two different ways; the aching that comes with longing for that person’s return, and the ache that comes with the question behind why they left in the first place.

Just take this as me taking the jump, holding onto a sunflower covered umbrella hoping it will ease whatever comes with the fall.


Somewhere Only We Know

Someone shot a pistol into the sky, but didn’t know we’d run hand in hand. Because of that it became meetings at the bottom of the wrong street, between the right people. I pulled at the fabric lingering at the end of my slip dress. Time wasn’t a factor throughout all of this, because I thought we had all of it. What a flaw that is, to just want more of it. The Universe seems to only give you what you can handle, it takes the form of a game show host holding the microphone pressed up against its lips, “You asked for a pure heart with good intentions, and it’s yours if you want it.” We forget to read the fine print that says for a limited time only, but once we see it we scratch away at it with the tips of our fingernails. Suddenly my emotional vertigo wanders away, while my head settles in the clouds refusing to come down. What your sister says about him, becomes the lyrics to your favourite song, all you do is here it over and over again. My eyes are tired as a result of doing everything tenaciously, but I laugh at how heavy they are. I ripped holes in my jeans when I couldn’t write, and the girl that craves Autumn because it feels like her favourite James Bay song, doesn’t want September to come. We can’t help turning the lessons into habits, even if that becomes evident in our mannerisms, or even how we expect situations to work out. But my, how fast do we forget about that notion the moment they look at us to the point where we can see bolts of lightning in the reflection of their eyes.

So we sit patiently, we’re good at it. We’re used to waiting for the chime that echoes throughout our bedrooms that let you know that they’ve reached their bus stop. You wonder what the new normal will be at 3am, and for the next little while it will come in waves of powerfully pressed pen marks in your notebook, no ink just outlines. I’ll think about that evening where my eyes almost gave me away, but the entangled lights weren’t bright enough to do so.

It didn’t take a Marquee to tell me where I was going, so I pushed my way through the crowd and managed to catch the last song, hoping for an encore.