“Distance sometimes lets you know who is worth keeping, and who is worth letting go.” - Lana Del Rey, musician
I am going to just be straightforward when I say this: I fucking miss Bailey.
Not in the cute long-distance way either. I mean the kind of missing where the apartment gets too quiet, the nights get too long, and you realize how much of “home” was actually another person existing beside you.
Bailey left for Michigan in the middle of the night on January 31st, 2026. At the time, it didn’t feel fair. I had only been out of the behavioral health hospital for three days after an 11-day stay. We had barely gotten the chance to settle back into normal life together before life pulled us in opposite directions again. Bailey had just learned that his grandmother had been found unresponsive in her home, and without hesitation, he went to help his mom and stepdad navigate the aftermath.
That is who Bailey is. He is the kind of person who shows up. While he was doing that, I had to learn how to do something I had never really done before: Exist independently without someone else constantly beside me. The hardest part wasn’t even the distance itself; it was not knowing when he was coming home. There was no countdown timer. No guarantee. No concrete plan. Just silence, uncertainty, and two people trying to survive separate storms at the same time.
I wish I could say I handled it gracefully, but I didn’t. The first week after Bailey left was brutal. I was freshly adjusting to new medications, emotionally exhausted from the hospital stay, terrified about finances, and suddenly forced into making decisions completely on my own. Rent had gone up. Medical bills were arriving. I genuinely didn’t know if I was going to be able to keep the apartment Bailey and I worked so hard to build together.
And in the middle of that fear, I made one of the worst decisions I have ever made. I took Robbie to her doggy daycare with intentions of not going back for her. I convinced myself that I wouldn’t be able to take care of her anymore. That I was failing at everything else already, so eventually I would fail her too. I spent three days in my apartment completely alone, and those three days were pure hell. No tiny Chihuahua footsteps, no big girl bark, no warm body curled up next to me while I rotted on the couch trying to process my own thoughts. Just silence.
I called the daycare crying and admitted I had made a mistake. I paid for the booking and was able to bring her back home. Getting Robbie back felt like the first good decision I had made in weeks, and I eventually registered her as an emotional support animal to help manage major depressive disorder. I still carry guilt for ever giving up on her in the first place, but I also think that moment taught me something important: Fear will convince you to abandon the very things keeping you alive if you let it.
Unfortunately, Robbie was not the only thing I almost pushed away during this time. I also treated Bailey terribly in the beginning of all of this. Looking back now, I do not recognize the version of me that saw him as the enemy. I was struggling deeply with feelings of abandonment, distrust, fear, and emotional instability from medications that were not working properly for me. Every time Bailey could not give me a direct answer about when he was coming home, I spiraled. I got angry quickly. I made him feel guilty for helping his family. There were moments where the pressure and arguing became so overwhelming that he felt like he needed to stay longer just to think.
That realization hurts to write, especially because somewhere in the middle of all of this, I finally realized something that should have been obvious all along: Bailey has always been part of the show. For years, Bailey quietly sacrificed pieces of himself so I could pursue my dream of becoming a virtual game host. He stayed awake during shows when he was exhausted from work. He helped organize stream-a-thons. He relieved me when I was overwhelmed. He filmed ridiculous videos with me, participated in absurd challenges, and consistently supported my success even when I knew it demanded energy he barely had left.
And instead of fully appreciating that at times, I criticized him. During parts of 2025, I openly complained about Bailey not taking the show “as seriously” as I did. I pointed out his mistakes to friends and sometimes even my audience. At the time, I convinced myself it was harmless venting or trying to fit into conversations with other people in my life.
It wasn’t harmless. It was hurtful.
Meanwhile, Bailey was the one hosting shows for me in Las Vegas while I was attending collaborative events for work. Bailey was the one shipping sticker orders while I sat in group therapy talking to doctors about how badly I was struggling mentally. What kind of spouse does that? One who genuinely loves somebody. And somewhere along the way, I had twisted that love into resentment because I was too emotionally unwell to recognize support when it was standing directly in front of me.
February was probably the lowest point of my entire life. Everything felt heavy. I cried constantly. The smallest inconvenience could completely derail my day. I felt like I was failing at every role I occupied: content creator, partner, daughter, friend, human being.
On top of all of that, outside stressors kept piling on. Rumors circulated that Bailey and I were getting divorced or that I had hidden motives and plans. It felt like every corner of my life was collapsing simultaneously. But somewhere inside all of that chaos, I realized something important: I could either become harder from this experience…
…or I could become better.
And for the first time in a long time, I genuinely wanted to become better. Not just for myself, but also for Bailey.
For Bailey.
One of the first major changes I made was scheduling an emergency appointment with my psychiatrist. We were able to identify that Wellbutrin was contributing heavily to my mood swings and emotional instability. I switched medications, adjusted my mood stabilizer dosage, and slowly began transitioning onto Zoloft instead.
Once the Wellbutrin fully left my system, the difference was immediate. Not perfect, but noticeable. The emotional extremes started calming down. My reactions became less explosive. I felt more grounded, and other people noticed it too.
I also started attending therapy weekly, and honestly? Therapy changed my life. For the first time, I felt like I had a safe space to unpack every complicated feeling I had been carrying without judgment. I learned healthier coping mechanisms, healthier communication skills, and healthier ways to process fear instead of weaponizing it against myself or other people. I used to think therapy was something I could never afford, but I was fortunate enough to find an insurance plan that allowed me to continue prioritizing it. That investment saved me.
I also started rebuilding my relationship with rest. If you know me, you know I struggle with slowing down. I always feel like I need to be productive. Hosting. Planning. Creating. Fixing. Moving. But during these past four months, I started implementing something simple into my routine: If we hit our hot dog goal by Saturday night, I take Sunday off. Because one of the most important things I have learned during this process is this: I deserve rest. We all do.
Most Sundays became dedicated to reconnecting with my parents and with myself, usually consisting of puppy playdates with Robbie and lunch with my mom where we somehow talked about everything and nothing at the exact same time.
My parents helped me keep my apartment while Bailey was gone, and I genuinely do not know what I would have done without them. This apartment became more than just a place to live during these months; it became proof that I survived here.
One night, I found myself holding a small stone carving of a house that a former mentor gave Bailey and me when we first moved in together. At the time, it represented excitement and possibility. Now it means something different.
A house is built from people just as much as walls. Some people stay forever, while some only pass through briefly. Some leave fingerprints on your life even after they are gone, yet they all become part of the story of a home. Despite everything that changed this year, I am still grateful for the people who helped build mine, starting from the very beginning of my journey on TikTok. And I get to keep this story going for at least another 18 months in our home.
I also reached out to crisis intervention resources during this time. That was a huge step for me. My crisis navigator helped connect me with counseling resources, employment guidance, and additional mental health support. More importantly, she made me feel like somebody was actually in my corner while I was trying to untangle my life one thread at a time. My crisis case officially closed on May 9th, 2026. And honestly? I am proud of that: Not because the work is “done,” but because I finally stopped pretending I had to survive everything alone.
I also rediscovered pieces of myself I forgot existed outside of survival mode and started socializing more. I kept hosting games on TikTok and over in Discord, even during nights where I felt emotionally destroyed. There were evenings where I was genuinely on the verge of crying, so instead I opened a Jackbox room and let myself laugh with people who cared about me. And somehow, every single time, it helped. My community carried me more than they probably realize. Movie nights. Discord chaos. Wednesday game nights with Bailey. Dumb jokes. Poorly explained trivia categories. Hot dog goals.
I also started going out to karaoke here in Phoenix and slowly built friendships there too. One of the bouncers started calling me “Vocalz,” (yes, with a Z) which still makes me laugh every time I hear it. Music became part of my healing process again. There is something strangely therapeutic about screaming your feelings into a microphone in front of strangers while eating some piping hot french fries afterward.
All of it mattered. All of it reminded me that joy still existed even while I was hurting.
Through all of this, Bailey and I slowly found each other again too. Sometimes quality time looked incredibly small: Watching YouTube videos together on Discord, sending TikToks back and forth, and hosting Wednesday game nights together online. Every single one of those moments mattered. They reminded us that love is not always grand gestures. Sometimes, it is simply continuing to choose each other through difficult seasons.
Now that the dust has finally started settling after the passing of Bailey’s grandmother, we have gotten to focus on the thing we both wanted most from the very beginning: Bringing Bailey home. As we prepare to complete Operation Bring Bailey Home this weekend, I keep thinking about how much these past four months changed me.
This season hurt. There is no poetic way around that. But somewhere between January 31st and May 25th, I stopped trying to merely survive the experience and started learning from it instead.
I learned how to ask for help. I learned how to rest. I learned how to be accountable. I learned how to be softer. And maybe most importantly, I learned that independence does not mean isolation. Bailey coming home means more to me than I could ever properly explain.
But truthfully? I think a part of me is finally coming home too.
