The Magic in the Mess**

9:02 AM—Ethan handed me my coffee today, but this time, there was a tiny, lopsided heart in the foam. He shrugged. "First try. Don’t judge." I laughed, but something about it—the imperfection, the effort—hit me differently.

Because here’s what I’m realizing: The magic isn’t in getting it right. It’s in the messy, awkward, trying.

My sketchbook is open to a page where I ripped out a design. Not out of frustration, but curiosity. The torn edges are still there, rough and unfinished. A month ago, I would’ve hidden that page. Today? I’m tracing the jagged lines with my fingers, smiling.

Here’s the shift:

1. I’m not scared of the ugly parts anymore. Liam and I had our first real fight last night—no performative chill, just raw, clumsy words. And instead of spiraling, I sat with it. Woke up this morning and texted him: "Still here. Still figuring it out." And it felt stronger than any perfect makeup ever could.

2. My creativity is embracing ruin. That torn page? It’s not a failure. It’s a reminder—that not every idea has to be pretty to matter. Sometimes the most honest art comes from the scraps.

3. I’m learning to love the unfinished story. October in LA is all about golden, hazy mornings—no clear lines, just soft edges. I used to crave definition, certainty. Now? I’m obsessed with the blur. The not knowing. The way life tastes better when you let it surprise you.

Ethan just handed someone a flawless foam rose. Old me would’ve compared, wondered why my heart was so crooked. Today? I sip my lopsided latte and grin.

Some of the best things in life aren’t perfect. They’re just real.

xx Mandy

(P.S. That torn page? Still in my sketchbook. Still telling its story.)