Delulu Diaries: Plot Twist, It Was Love

I had finally cracked the code. I was in my stable, “look at me thriving” phase. Emotionally balanced, skincare routine on point, Spotify playlists for every mood, and just the right amount of espresso-fueled delusion to survive the weekdays.

Home didn’t feel like a place anymore—it felt like peace. Like knowing where the spatula is. Like finding my favorite oat milk on sale. Like not crying at 2 a.m. over voice notes from people who don’t text back.

And then.
Just as I was patting myself on the back for being so emotionally evolved…

BAM. LOVE.
Like, the love.
The “oh no, I want to marry this man and split grocery lists with him forever” kind.
And worst of all? It felt real.
I was like, wait—is this… is this healthy communication? Are we both emotionally available? Do I have to cancel my situationship drama series on Netflix now?

But of course, because this is still my life, he didn’t live in my city.
No. That would’ve been too easy.
Instead, the universe said: Let’s try long-distance. For character development.

So we did the “counting down days” thing. The “crying on FaceTime but pretending we’re fine” thing. The “what’s your Wi-Fi password again?” weekends.

And then… plot twist:
We got the chance to close the distance and start our little family.
Yay. Happy ending! Love wins! Credits roll, right?

Wrong.

Because while my heart was having its Pinterest-worthy soft girl moment, my career was like:
Not Found.
Still buffering.
We regret to inform you…

Basically: I traded power blazers for loungewear, spreadsheets for grocery lists, and surprise Teams messages for surprise “we’re out of almond milk again” moments.

And don’t get me wrong—there’s joy here.
There’s love, cuddles, shared toothpaste, and someone who meets me at the airport with snacks because “just in case you’re hungry.”
(A man who brings snacks is a man who understands core needs. 10/10. Would relocate again.)

But in that same airport, struggling with carts that clearly require a PhD and a local coin I didn’t have, I had a small crisis.
Three luggages, one me. I laughed. Out loud.
Because I remembered Poland. My first move. The chaos. The fear. The cart struggles.
Full circle moment? Maybe.
Delulu déjà vu? Absolutely.

And this time, it wasn’t a silent taxi driver waiting at Arrivals.
It was him.
Holding a bottle of water, a snack bar, and my heart.
I melted. Right there. In arrivals. Just a puddle of mascara and trauma healing.

NEW HOME.
Not just a place. A person. A hallway filled with two pairs of shoes. A shared Spotify account. A toothbrush that’s not mine in the bathroom.

Too perfect? Don’t worry. Here comes the twist again.

Now that the heart is secure…
The professional me is screaming in the background like:
“Hello??? Where’s our LinkedIn update? Where’s our daily chaos? Where are the people who email ‘per my last message’?”

So yes. I’m happy.
And yes. I’m also spiraling a little bit.
Because I don’t have a job right now.
And because being a housewife sounds dreamy until it’s Tuesday at 11:23 a.m. and your biggest achievement of the day is folding the towels evenly.

But I’m trying.
Trying to believe that life gives you different main characters in each chapter.
And right now, I’m the barefoot, slightly unemployed, love-soaked version of myself.

Plot twist? Maybe.
But that’s the delulu way.
We romanticize uncertainty.
We trust the vibes.
We believe the universe is just slow with deliveries, not ignoring us.

So here I am.
Manifesting. Trusting. Reapplying for jobs in a cute outfit.

Wish me luck.
Or better—wish me delusion. It’s been working so far.