Here We Go!

Hi all — if you clicked this link, first of all, thank you for trusting me not to completely ruin your life by hacking your data or wrecking your phone. Honestly, that level of loyalty? I’m honored.

So, here’s the thing: I recently haven’t been able to shake this thought that I’m supposed to be writing. I’m being serious when I say that I wake up mid-REM cycle in a cold sweat (with no mouth tape and “dangerously” sleeping on my stomach—sorry, TikTok) thinking, What if I just started writing? Is this normal behavior for a 22-year-old? Probably not. Do I need a new therapist? Maybe. But instead, I’ve decided to rant on the internet because apparently that’s what we’re going with now.

I’ve never really considered myself a serious writer (starting this off strong, I know). But I’ve always considered myself pretty decent — or at least my 10th-grade English teacher thought so. And while I still can’t spell the word "calendar" without double-checking it on my Notes app, I’ve never been exactly sure where a comma, should go, and ABSOLUTELY ran this through Grammarly before posting it — here we are — going with a blog. Like all mentally sane people, I could have simply gotten a journal to write all my thoughts and feelings into. However (in true Meaghan fashion), nothing could ever be that easy. Soooo, without further ado…

Welcome!

Welcome to my little corner of the internet where I live my Carrie Bradshaw dreams — minus the budget for Manolo Blahniks and with significantly fewer cringe takes (god, let’s hope). (If I’m being honest though, I’m definitely more of a Charlotte York, and frankly, I found Carrie unbearably annoying at times — I said what I said).

What will this blog be? No clue. Maybe I’ll tell you all about my life as an actor (even though I still can’t figure out how to fold that damn backdrop… if you know, you KNOW). Or maybe I’ll ramble about how I spiritually identify with a 6-year-old children’s book character who lives at the Plaza Hotel with her nanny, Miss Julie Andrews. Or we could unpack my bizarre belief that if I get to the microwave before the time goes off, my wildest dreams will come true. Seriously... does anyone have a good therapist to refer me to?

But here’s the deal — at my ripe, youthful, completely unqualified age of 22, I’ve learned this: Life has a way of surprising you. Last year alone, I lived in four different states, met incredible people, and finally mastered the dishwasher at my parents’ house. Honestly? None of that was on my 2024 bingo card.

So buckle up (or don’t — no pressure) and come along for this journey to... wherever we end up!