From Soulmate to Side Condiment: A True Story

Issue Two: What a jar of Vegenaise taught me about intimacy, disappearance, and remembering my worth

It was a Tuesday, I think.

Or maybe a Sunday disguised as a Tuesday.

Either way, I was in San Francisco, in love with a man who made chaos look like jazz.

And I adored jazz.

Let’s call him Jonathan.

Jonathan was… unforgettable.

Not because he picked me up at the airport. (He didn’t.)

Not because he serenaded me. (He ghosted me for two days before we met.)

But because when I looked into his eyes, my soul went,

“Oh. It’s you.”

We had one of those rare connections that feel like a past life just reached out and grabbed your thigh.

Words flowed. Bodies pulsed.

I wrote poetry like my ribcage was a typewriter.

And then…

He disappeared.

Not dramatically. Not cruelly.

Just softly dissolved into a cloud of “I’m not ready” and “You deserve better”—

Which, of course, was code for:

“I felt something real. And it scared the shit out of me.”

Fast forward 12 years.

I’m sipping tea, scrolling through my professional Instagram page, when this message pings in:

“Anisa!!! Do you remember me?? You introduced me to Vegenaise!!”

Vegenaise.

Not the way I held your gaze for hours.

Not the poem I wrote you from 30,000 feet in the sky.

Not the night we made love so slowly the moon took notes.

No.

Condiments.

And that, dear reader, was the moment I gave myself permission to want more.

More than being remembered as an artisan sandwich enhancer.

More than the people who mistake emotional depth for drama.

More than the ones who swim in your ocean but panic when they realise it has tides.

Because I’ve done the internal work.

I’ve met my shadow.

Danced with my shame.

Introduced them both to my therapist.

I’m not looking for perfection.

But I am looking for someone who won’t flee the continent when intimacy knocks.

So yes, I remember you, Jonathan.

I remember it all.

And I also remember that I am not here to be someone’s spiritual side dish.

I am the whole meal.

Starter, main, and goddamn dessert.

And I want to be loved and desired accordingly.

San Fransisco 2013. Paradise was not what I thought it would be. But the story? Worth it.

Here’s the thing nobody tells you about intimacy:

It’s not always about closeness.

Sometimes, it’s about confrontation.

Not with the other person—

But with yourself.

Because when someone sees you—really sees you—

they don’t just reflect back the parts you’re proud of.

They illuminate the places you’ve been hiding.

The tenderness you never shared.

The grief you never processed.

The needs you buried so deep you convinced yourself you didn’t have them.

Because once you’ve been seen like that,

you can’t go back to pretending.

It’s easier to ghost.

To dismiss it.

To make a joke about Vegenaise and pretend you weren’t cracked open by someone’s love and presence.

Meanwhile—some of us choose to lean in.

Not because it’s easy.

Not because we’re fearless.

But because we’d rather risk heartbreak than stay numb.

We’d rather burn than shrink.

We don’t confuse comfort with connection.

We want the kind of love that expands us.

And yes, sometimes that means we love people who cannot meet us there.

But I’d rather live with aliveness

than sedate my soul for comfort.