Standing upright on a ladder on a surprisingly sunny Sunday afternoon, my friend and I weren’t entirely sure how this home improvement project was going to go.
The space above four beautiful floor-to-ceiling windows—where an old curtain rod used to hang—needed patching. Eight stubborn plastic screw anchors glared back at us like tiny, passive-aggressive villains.
Notorious for convincing myself I can probably fix that with just one other person and a little girl-math logic, I figured: of course we’ve got this. She holds the ladder, I do the grunt work. Because honestly? Girls can do anything—with a helping hand, a little muscle, and a lot of goober will.
The first attempt with pliers? Not our finest moment. The anchor twisted, wiggled, but wouldn’t budge. A few more forehead-wrinkling tugs and the plastic started to cave dangerously inward.
…
We were giggling at the chaotic arc of our day—what began as brunch and trying on outfits for spring had now somehow morphed into a DIY repair session.
She passed me a hammer, saying with full confidence, “You’ve got this.”
…
Cautiously and confidently—trust me, it was both—I wedged the claw of the hammer under the anchor and tried to remember how levers and physics work. It didn’t budge. I hesitated, nervous I might dent the wall or send myself flying backward.
But I took a breath, adjusted my stance, and reminded myself: I’ve been working on this body.
The glutes were gluting. The thighs were holding it down.
All those squats and hip thrusts had prepared me for this moment of minor best friend domestic glory.
And then she started singing.
“I can be your hero, baby…”
Soft and ridiculous and perfect.
The laugh that followed could’ve cracked the ceiling.
We kept singing, each Enrique lyric more absurd and encouraging than the last.
“I will stand by you forever,” she declared, gripping the ladder like it was a life-or-death mission.
I pulled again.
She steadied me with one hand and a laugh.
We laughed louder.
And somehow, that dumb little plastic piece finally popped free.
We did not, for the record, manage to get the other seven out.
Because after that first glorious victory, it became abundantly clear that the real priority was collapsing on the couch, limbs heavy with laughter, and letting the sunlight spill across our cheeks.
We stared at the ceiling, talked about spring and summer and how deeply, desperately we missed the feeling of warmth. The ease of it.
And beneath that, something deeper.
The kind of tired that comes from a long season of things not going how you hoped they would.
The intensity. The stillness that feels more like emotional limbo than peace.
Everyone’s been a little scared in 2025.
A little more clenched.
A little more convinced that something might fall through.
The night before, one of my oldest friends had invited me to his band’s show—an alt-rock set in a small venue in the East Village. I said yes immediately and brought a few friends along. We just knew we needed it.
Not to go out.
But to get out.
What did we dance out? I’m not sure.
The tension. The gloom. The way the little crease between your eyebrows has become a permanent resident.
But I do know this: when the music started, and the bass kicked in, and the lights glittered against the disco ball and across someone’s cheekbone—I could feel something shake loose.
Because when a good beat reverberates through your chest, something shifts.
Not just in your mood—but in your body.
In a dark room, under swaying lights, surrounded by thirty-somethings in coats and Converse and eyeliner and sweat—we all remembered:
Oh. This is what it’s about.
Not taking yourself so seriously.
Not decoding the world.
Not fixing every anchor in the wall.
Just being.
Just moving.
Just smiling at the people who decided to show up, too
.
The band that closed out the night with a very apropos take on “I Will Survive” by Gloria Estefan.
Drummers standing and clapping and drumming.
The crowd singing back.
A group of seventies-blazer-clad performers belting into the mics like they meant it.
We didn’t fix it all.
But we felt and found a beat again.
Rock and roll.
TLDR movie suggestion: “It all begins with a song.”
