We’ll always have pizza.

It was Aug. 15, 2021.

The floors of 33F creaked under the weight of a dream come true. My sister Melissa and I — tired, excited, overly idealistic — sat on the hardwood of our first New York City apartment, staring at each other like, “Is this real? Did we actually pull this off?”

No couch yet. No coffee table. Just two girls and a Prince Street pizza box on the floor, hearts full of possibility and pepperoni oil.

I was wearing pink pajamas covered in hearts — a Valentine’s Day gift from a boyfriend who lived miles away. I remember feeling small in my body, maybe 102 pounds, maybe less, trying to make myself even smaller.

Even joy, back then, had to be portioned out carefully.

The pizza was technically a violation. Thick dough. Thick thighs. Thick shame.

But I took a bite anyway, and for a moment, I felt free.

I didn’t know then that I was building a relationship with that greasy little box. I didn’t know that pizza would become my love language. My ritual.

The “I did it” meal after a promotion.
The “I’ll be OK” meal after a breakup.
The “I’m so hungover” meal after Rochelles, where vodka sodas were ordered in irresponsible quantities.

That box was there for birthdays, post-games, 3 a.m. cries, solo Friday nights, and the mornings I woke up with swollen eyes and a to-do list I couldn’t face. And every time I looked at it — just cardboard and grease — it reflected everything I was going through.

At first, the box felt like a container. A metaphor for how I lived: within strict boundaries.

Don’t eat too much. Don’t say too much.
Don’t be too emotional. Don’t be too loud.
Don’t mess up. Don’t fall apart.

Look put together, even if you’re unraveling in silence.

I wouldn’t go outside without sunglasses. Not because of the sun — but because I didn’t want anyone to see me. Not really see me. I was haunted by my own mind, by old ghosts in dive bars, by the gnawing fear that I was too much and not enough at the same time.

I wasn’t living in New York — I was hiding in it.

I’ve thought a lot about boxes since then.

Pizza boxes.
Pill boxes I didn’t want to fill.
Shoe boxes full of things I didn’t want to remember.
The invisible ones we place around ourselves — this is who I’m allowed to be. This is what success should look like. This is how you keep it all together.

I followed the rules. Stayed in the lines.
I made my life small because small felt safe.

And then, slowly — then all at once — something shifted. Not in a dramatic, movie-ending kind of way. In the quiet, messy, very human way that life often changes.

I got laid off.
I got heartbroken.
I got stuck in bed for months while my body and mind went to war.

I made mistakes.
I started therapy.
I built something new — not just a company, but a self.

A whole identity, outside the box.

Now it’s Aug. 20, 2025.

I’m still in 33F, but it feels different.

Melissa’s next to me. Evan’s across from us.
We’re drunk on martinis and laughter, eating pizza like it’s sacred.

And the box — the same greasy box I once stared at with fear and shame — feels holy.

It holds memories. Growth. Forgiveness. It’s no longer a symbol of confinement. It’s a symbol of capacity. Turns out, the messiest, oiliest parts of life — the stuff that stains and sticks — are where the good stuff lives.

That box isn’t empty. It’s full of who I’ve become.

I’ve loved and lost inside these walls.
I’ve failed, succeeded and reinvented myself more times than I can count.
I stopped putting my emotions in storage and let them live out loud.
I stopped hiding and started showing up, even when I was scared.

I used to look at boxes as things to be trapped in.

Now I see them as gifts.
Containers for memory, magic and movement.
Reminders that you can hold way more than you think.

So I’m saying goodbye to 33F — but not to the version of me I found here.

She’s coming with me — greasy fingerprints, softer belly, unfiltered feelings and all.

Let the boxes pile up. I’ll keep unpacking.

And if all else fails... we’ll always have pizza <3