How I Found My Broken Hallelujah pt. 4 of 4

Have you read Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3? If not, I recommend doing so!So, what does a girl do after the worst panic attack of her life leads to a broken mug, a surprising amount of clarity, and a new song?She stays up all night so that she won’t miss her early morning flight, and then takes her first flight in forever to Missouri, for her middle school bestie’s wedding.It was absolutely beautiful. I cried a lot.While I was on the trip, I got a lead on an even better opportunity than the new temporary job I was originally excited about back in Part 1.That fall, between the new gig(s) and some unexpected money, I was able to start paying off my credit card debt.Suddenly, I could afford to go to happy hour with my friends again. We came in second place at Broadway trivia.I had energy again. I started having fun again.I came super close to falling in love, but got my heart broken instead.I saw Dylan Mulvaney’s epic solo show three times. I told her about the guy who broke my heart. She said he sounded like a coward. I can’t help but agree. She also inspired the name, The Nuance Diaries, and I got to tell her about that, too.I went viral on Substack again, with another essay referencing - but not about - Taylor Swift.I developed a multi-step skin care routine, which I have now fallen off of (but I don’t feel too bad about it because the girls at Sephora are always gagged when I tell them I’m 31.)All the while, I kept the broken mug. To this day, I am still fascinated by it. It feels like a relic from the dark age I’d survived.And yet, when Lunar New Year came around, and I read that broken glass was bad luck, I knew that it was time to part with the broken mug for good.I took a few last pictures - and even traced the handle to make an abstract drawing.I also broke it even more before throwing it out — for catharsis. I couldn’t find my hammer, so I used the handle of a screwdriver 😂Ironically, as I was finishing this piece, I came across even more broken glass; a container of leftovers slipped out of the refrigerator and onto the floor. The glass shards looked so much like ice, scattered among spaghetti noodles and marinara sauce. I was once again fascinated.I thought about taking a picture of the icy shards in the dustpan. I wondered what symbolism this moment might hold — another sign about the beauty of broken things?Maybe. Probably. Who am I to fight the alchemy?And then I thought,Is there such a thing as too much alchemy?I swept the glass away and threw it out.I used to listen to a song called Broken Glass all the time when I was living in Portland, Oregon. Another wild chapter. A story for another time.The first week or so I was there, I took this very dramatic walk over a highway every day, to get my coffee from a Starbucks inside a huge grocery store.Was there a closer coffee shop? Probably. Could I have found something similar to (or better than) my cinnamon dolce latte? Definitely. But that’s not the choice I made at 22 years old.I was living across the country by myself for the very first time. It somehow felt scarier than being in London by myself. I needed my familiar comforts — like cinnamon dolce lattes.(My therapist also totally validated this for me years later. I had a panic attack after Trader Joe’s was out of my favorite creamer for 3 days. She said it was because one of the few constants in my life was ripped away. Yes, I was going through it.)I feel like the universe sent me all kinds of signs through my favorite songs, inside that grocery store with the Starbucks. Whoever made those weekday morning playlists had excellent taste.But on the way to the grocery store, I was the DJ. And every morning, like clockwork, I played Broken Glass by Rachel Platten.There was something so 90s music video about crossing a highway while blasting the lyrics “I’m on a highway full of re