˚ ☁️⋅♡Flying on Pink Clouds ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡

I have always told myself, in one way or another, that I shouldn't settle for anything less than what I'm looking for in Second Life and in people in general. Yet somehow, I have always accepted less, probably because I was so fragmented back then and wanted to please others. It’s cringeworthy to think about it.

 

This year has been very different for me. Instead of chasing after people to talk to me or like me, I have embraced the idea that I will wait for the right people who genuinely want to be with me and spend time around me.

 

It has been incredibly lonely, to say the least, but wow, did the universe listen to me! One day, while in Second Life, I decided to try out a dating app called Thundr. I had been on it sporadically before, but hadn’t found anyone who genuinely piqued my interest or with whom I clicked. A few days went by, and I found myself mostly clicking "next" for profiles that either looked stuck in 2012 or had unrealistic expectations.

 

Then, one evening, I received a message from a man. Before I opened his message, I thought, "Oh, here we go again, someone who just wants to get into my pants and be done with it." However, that was not the case at all; we actually had an enjoyable, flirty conversation. I will call him Kaz for the sake of this post. He talked to me like I mattered, just like he would any other girl.

 

What struck me the most was that he didn't seem bothered at all by the fact that I'm in a wheelchair in Second Life. He saw the wheelchair as just a tool I use to get around, which is how I want people to view it in both Second Life and real life.

 

After some flirtatious conversation, he came over to my house. We talked a little more and even shared a cup of tea. I could feel a spark between us while we were drinking, but I didn’t want to say it out loud for fear of misreading the signals.

 

I was so nervous because, honestly, I hadn’t been with anyone for a long time, and I was unsure about how he would handle me being in a wheelchair, especially if it came to moving to the bedroom.

 

He asked to use the bathroom, and I showed him the way. At this point, I had about a million butterflies in my stomach because I started to realize that this guy genuinely wanted me, and not in a superficial way.

 

When he came out of the bathroom, we continued talking and flirting. Finally, I decided to take a leap of faith; I pulled him closer by his pants, and he didn’t hesitate at all. He looked down at me and, in a soft, yet masculine voice, said, “Hi.”

 

Now, keep in mind that I had never heard his voice before, but as a highly intuitive empath, I could almost sense it. I was blushing so hard that I could barely type, so I just looked up at him and whispered, “Hi” back. Then, he did something that completely surprised me—he made the first move!

 

He placed his hand on my cheek and leaned in closer, and the next thing I knew, we were kissing—full-on, but slow and romantic. Breaking the kiss slightly, he whispered that I have soft lips, and he couldn’t believe that men ignore me. We both smiled during the kiss, and I told him that the fact that people have forgotten me since I switched to a wheelchair is, in a way, a win-win for us.

 

As we continued, clothing began to come off in the hallway, and we moved toward the bedroom. At that moment, I had no idea what to expect; I was going by how others had treated me in similar situations. But I was utterly floored by what he did next, which aligned with what I’ve been saying about staying true to how I move and navigate myself in Second Life.

 

He asked how he could help me get into bed. I communicated this through text, and before I knew it, he picked me up effortlessly, as if he’d done it a thousand times before, and laid me down on the bed. Little moments like that make me feel seen; you can’t beat anything like that when someone truly understands you, even in a virtual space like Second Life. It doesn’t take a lengthy explanation about my disability; it just takes understanding and respect.

I can't even begin to tell you how electrifying and out of this world our sex is/was!

 

 

As most of you know, I have been clinically diagnosed as a nymphomaniac since the age of 20. So I have a sex drive that most people can't even keep up with. This man can! He had me orgasming every 30 minutes. I have never been so close to orgasm blackout in years.

We could barely get loose from each other when it was time for him to go and do something in real life, and when he left, I instantly started missing him, which is something I have never felt for anyone in years in Second Life.

He even started a Discord so we could talk more often. I think the hardest thing about second life is the time zones, but if you really put in the effort, you can make it work. And that's what he did, and that's what I'm doing because I'm so freaking in love with this man, like you don't even understand, this is on a whole other level.

He works a lot, so the time he gets into Second Life is a little limited, I think.

He came home to second life yesterday after we started talking on Discord, and actually, he was the one who said hi to me first. He said hi, baby, which made me smile from ear to ear.

It took him just seconds to climb onto our bed, and for the next 3-4 hours, we went wild together—wild in every sense of the word. During that time, I actually told him I loved him. Most people who take the time to know me understand that I don’t say things I don’t genuinely feel.

 

After those intense hours, we cuddled for a little while and talked. I asked him if he thought it was wrong for me to tell him I loved him. He confidently said no, absolutely not. I replied, “Good, because I do.” Then he said, “I love you too.” He expressed it without hesitation—no “but,” no “if,” and no “it's too early” remarks. It was nothing like that. He said, “I love you too,” and I lay there trying to absorb it all, because I’m so used to being consistently rejected, and this time was different.

 

Before he left for his real-life work, he told me, “I can't wait to see you. Spend more time together, when I have time, I love you.”

 

I can’t even begin to explain how this feels for me. It’s incredible, he actually wants me. He desires me as a woman, appreciates me for who I am, and he stands behind his words—that’s the most important thing.

 

2025 is coming to an end

 

It’s been a heck of a year. I don’t even know if I could sum it up properly, but I know one thing for sure — I’ve grown a lot. I’m not the same person I used to be. And that’s not a bad thing.

Second Life isn’t a big priority for me anymore. I deleted almost my entire friends list. I have about seven people left. We’ll see how long that lasts.

Over time, I’ve started to understand what I actually need in life. And one thing I don’t need is fake people in Second Life. People who throw around words and promises and then don’t stand behind any of it. This year has been incredibly lonely for me in Second Life. Really lonely. It feels dead. Nothing is happening. No one is talking. So I stopped forcing myself to care.

The loneliness itself doesn’t bother me that much. I’d rather be alone than surrounded by people who aren’t really there anyway. In a way, this needed to happen. I needed to take a stand for myself. And I think that started when I finally left my abusive Second Life partner. After that relationship completely tore me down, I slowly started finding myself again.

I’ve also noticed a shift in Second Life overall. People don’t talk the way they used to. Even when I go to my favorite club, everyone is quiet. They just stand there. And if someone does start talking in local chat, it’s almost like they’re doing something wrong — like they should stay quiet. It doesn’t feel social anymore. It feels uncomfortable.

But the silence itself isn’t the main issue for me. What hurts is feeling invisible. And that started the moment I transitioned from walking in Second Life to being in a wheelchair full-time. I don’t think that’s a coincidence. I think it says a lot about people, and about how quickly they stop seeing you when the first thing they notice makes them uncomfortable.

One of the clearest examples of this comes from someone I saw as a partner. I asked him to help me conceive in Second Life. He did. I became pregnant. And after that — nothing. Not a single word.

So I stopped the pregnancy. Why wouldn’t I? I’m used to being pregnant and doing it on my own, but when someone can’t even acknowledge you, when you’re completely invisible, I don’t see the point.

When I made that decision, I honestly didn’t feel much about it. I already knew he didn’t want to be involved as a father figure or anything like that. That was clear. What I did want was at least some form of acknowledgment from time to time. Just something. And he hasn’t given me that at all. In fact, he hasn’t spoken to me since I became pregnant.

I’ve had people tell me that I’ve changed a lot. But I don’t see it that way. I haven’t changed. The woman I am now has always been there. She was just dormant for a long time. I got tired of speaking my mind. Tired of saying what I felt and not being heard. So I stopped. I followed instead. Other people’s rules, other people’s expectations.

After starting this medication, that woman isn’t dormant anymore. I didn’t become someone new. I just stopped muting her. That’s why I seem different now.

As for leaving my abusive Second Life partner — I’m doing really fucking okay. Better than I ever thought I would. What’s strange is that I still miss him sometimes, even though he’s a complete asshole. I think that’s because he’s the father of my Second Life daughter, and that’s a bond I can’t fully erase.

As far as I know, he’s blocked me. And I don’t want to talk to him ever again. I really don’t. He can stay far away from my life. I also know he’s the kind of person who checks my social media from other accounts. And I know that something in his real life has changed — something that means he’s no longer “allowed” to talk to me. Let’s leave it at that.

Leaving 2025 behind, I have a strong feeling about 2026. Not in a material way. Not about things or achievements. But in a deeper sense. I think 2026 is going to show me what I’m actually meant to do.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.

The Collision I Was Not Prepared For in Second Life

Even before I started using my wheelchair full-time in Second Life, there were moments that stuck with me. One in particular still sits with me. I was in the premium sandbox, just minding my own business and doing my building work, when a man walks straight up to me and says, “You need an update because you look like a man.”

And I just stared at him. I didn’t even give him a chance to explain himself. I said, “Excuse me? I look the way I want to look, and so do you. And maybe if you take a look at yourself, it’s actually you who needs an update.”

And strangely enough, when I was still walking in Second Life, I could shake comments off like nobody’s business. They slid right off me. But now that I use my wheelchair full-time, the comments hit differently. They cut deeper. It makes me feel even more that the way I choose to move through Second Life is not socially accepted by other people. And that’s what I can’t wrap my head around.

Because I know the real-life world outside of Second Life. I’m used to the stares, I’m used to the comments, I’m used to the laughter behind my back. I’m used to that world. But I’m not used to that world bleeding into Second Life, where everything is supposed to be freeing — not a place where you get silently bullied because your way of moving isn’t socially accepted. It feels like the two worlds have merged into one, and people can’t look past it, even in a place that’s supposed to be limitless.

Even though people aren’t saying it to my face, the pressure is still there. It sits in the silence, in the way people avoid me, in the way conversations dry up. And sometimes it makes me feel this immense, uncomfortable pressure to stop using my wheelchair in Second Life — just so people will talk to me again. Just so I can feel desired again. Wanted again.

But here’s the truth: I’m strong enough not to bend to that pressure. I’m not going to erase a part of myself just to make other people more comfortable.

In fact, I already bent to that pressure once. I stopped using my wheelchair because I wanted to fit in, because I wanted people to talk to me, because I didn’t want to feel like the odd one out. But I’m not doing that again. This is my truth, and I’m not living for everyone else — I’m living for me and for the people who actually matter.

But that doesn’t take away from the reality of it. The silent pressure is real. It feels like being inside a pressure cooker, and every comment, every silence, every avoidance just turns the dial a little higher… more and more and more… until you expect the lid to blow off.

But I’m not going to let it pop. I refuse to let it. I’m choosing myself this time.

I started seeing the signs early — signs that I was about to be alone in a way I had never experienced before. It took only five hours after choosing to be in my wheelchair full-time. I have a long-time partner, kind of off and on, someone I have a connection with every now and then. Let’s call him the redhead.

When I showed him my wheelchair and explained why I decided to be in it, he said, “Oh, so that’s the experiment? To see if people will talk to you or not.”

And I told him, “No. This isn’t an experiment. This is how I want to be in Second Life.”

And after that, he didn’t talk to me again.

I approached him once because I had run out of lindens, and he was kind enough to lend me some — which I paid back later. Even then, he didn’t speak to me normally afterward. When he gave me the money, I joked, “How about I pay you back like we used to, if you still want me like that?” And he said, “Of course I want you like that still. You’re nice to me.”

But that was it. That was the last normal moment. Since the day I got into my wheelchair full-time, he has not spoken to me like before.

I knew this choice might come with challenges, but this… this is a whole different level of hard.

So why do people feel so entitled to say something in Second Life about how you live your life? About how you look? About how you move? Why do they think they have the right to comment at all?

And why do so many people place you in this silent pressure cooker — where they don’t say anything directly, but their silence, their distance, their sudden change in behavior pushes and pushes and pushes until you feel like you’re the one who’s going to break?

Why does a place that is supposed to be freeing turn into a mirror of the same judgments we fight in real life?

When People Flip On You

 

Today I had this sudden urge to write, and I honestly don’t remember the last time that happened. I’ve been quiet for weeks, almost frozen inside myself, and then out of nowhere everything came rushing up at once. And the strange part is that nothing big triggered it. It wasn’t some dramatic moment or emotional explosion. It was just me finally noticing how fast people changed the moment I started using my wheelchair full-time in Second Life.

It all happened so quickly that I’m still trying to make sense of it. One day I was the same person I’ve always been — someone people talked to, someone people wanted around — and then almost overnight it felt like I wasn’t even in the room anymore. Not because I acted differently. Not because I became difficult or distant. I just stopped walking. That’s it. I stopped walking, and suddenly people didn’t seem to know how to look at me, talk to me, or connect with me. And it makes me wonder what that says about the people I used to trust.

A few weeks ago, I decided to become pregnant in Second Life, and I still am, but even that feels different this time. I used to enjoy it — the closeness, the interaction, the warmth it added to my days — but now it all feels flat. I’m still me, nothing about me changed, but the moment I stayed in my wheelchair full-time, it was like nobody wanted to reach for me anymore. The joy I used to feel around pregnancy just disappeared, and I ended up turning it into nothing more than an outfit. Because why should I bother when nobody even notices? And no, I’m not depressed. I’m just feeling the loneliness settle into places where excitement used to live.

The moment that stayed with me the most was with one of my long-time partners — five or six years now — and we were together in the bedroom, and I could feel how far away he was. Not his body, but him. His presence. His care. He felt cold and mechanical, like he just wanted to get through the motions so he could say he showed up. And I realized I didn’t have the energy to pretend everything was fine, so I logged off. Because if someone who knows me that well can’t even show basic closeness anymore, then what am I holding onto?

And then there were the new potential partners — people who seemed promising at first, but every single one of them turned into something I didn’t expect. Some were drowning so deeply in their own depression that they couldn’t see anyone but themselves. Others were too busy pretending to be someone else — talking in the third person, changing their personality every other day — and the whole thing just became tiring. I did meet one person who seemed normal at first, even attractive in that easy Second Life way. And then the next day he showed up in my house wearing a leather vest and a mullet, looking exactly like the singer Günther — “Touch Me” vibes and all — and I remember sitting in front of him thinking, what in the actual hell am I looking at? And we were twelve hours apart in time zone, so that was never going to work. So I took my cursor to him, right-clicked, hit block, and kicked him out of my house without saying a single word.

I keep trying to understand why people act like this, but deep down I already know. If I suddenly stood up and walked again, all these people would come crawling back like nothing ever happened. And that’s what hurts the most. Because it shows me how shallow Second Life really is sometimes. If you don’t fit the image people want, they act like you shouldn’t be there at all. All I did was stop walking, and somehow that tiny thing made people treat me like I was a problem.

But in a strange way, I’m also grateful. I thank myself, and the universe, and whatever else guides me through these moments, because now I see things as they are. I see how many people in Second Life avoid honesty because they’re scared of real emotion. They hide, they pretend, they build versions of themselves they think are safe. And in a way, I’m glad I see it now. It reminds me that I don’t need any of these people to feel worthy.

But that doesn’t make the loneliness disappear. It just makes it clearer.

As I’m writing this, I’m actually laughing a little, because all of this — every reaction, every disappearance, every cold shoulder — all happened because of one tiny change. I stopped walking. That’s it. And it flipped everything upside down. And what makes it even more ridiculous is that I’m not asking for anything complicated. When people talk to me or interact with me, I’m not asking for long paragraphs or dramatic scenes. I just want acknowledgment. A little awareness that I’m in a wheelchair. A detail. A nuance. Something small that tells me they see me. It shouldn’t be that hard.

And to the people who have known me for years, it shouldn’t even be something I have to explain. They know I don’t see Second Life as roleplay. This is real for me — just lived in another form. Real connection. Real interaction. Real presence. And because there aren’t animations for lifting someone or helping them move, writing is the only way to show it. And even then, I’m not asking for much. Just acknowledgment. Just awareness. But somehow that’s too much for most people.

So until someone comes along who actually wants me as I am, in whatever form I take, I’ll be on my own. And I’m okay with that. But being okay doesn’t stop the emptiness that comes when I log in and nothing happens. I get tired. I get fed up. I log into Second Life, sit there for hours — sometimes six, sometimes twelve, sometimes eighteen — and nothing changes. The world keeps moving around me like I’m invisible. And I start to wonder why I’m wasting my time waiting for something that doesn’t happen.

But one thing I know for sure: I will never close my Second Life account. I started here when I was twenty. I’m thirty-six now. Sixteen years of my life are tied into this place. Closing my account would feel like cutting out a part of myself. So no, I won’t disappear. But maybe I won’t be here every day either.

I talked about this months ago, and it hurts that the feeling has come back. When I first got my wheelchair in Second Life, I felt excited — like I was finally aligned with the truth of who I am. But the loneliness that came afterward was something I didn’t expect. And now everything feels quiet in a way I don’t like. I have sixteen friends on my list, and most of them don’t talk unless I talk first. That’s why I cleaned my list once already. And honestly, it’s getting ridiculous again — the silence, the distance, the feeling of being forgotten. There’s one friend I wish I could keep close, but even he feels far away. And the woman I call a friend — she doesn’t talk unless I reach out first.

So for now, it’s just me. And maybe one day I’ll wipe my whole friends list clean again, because at this point, it doesn’t matter. If people don’t care enough to be here, then why am I carrying them with me?

Because in all honesty, I’m just carrying around people’s names.
/Tessa

From Clutter to Clarity

 

In yesterday’s post, I wrote about what it felt like to move through life in fragments. For so long, I carried that sense of being scattered, as if I could never quite hold myself together.

Today, as I began sorting through my Second Life inventory, I realized just how true that feeling had been. My inventory wasn’t just full — it was heavy. It mirrored the weight I used to carry in my own body and mind, before starting the medication that steadies me now. Every folder, every duplicate, every object tied to a memory or a moment I no longer needed — all of it added up to the same kind of heaviness I once lived inside.

While sorting through mountains of old things — pieces collected years ago, fragments of the person I used to be — I stumbled across a folder I had once named “Forget.”

And in that moment, I had to ask myself: why would you even make a folder called Forget?

If something truly needed to be forgotten, why hadn’t I just deleted it? Why did I hold onto the things I didn’t want, giving them a labeled place in my world instead of letting them go? That folder was the clearest proof of how fragmented I really was back then — trying to tuck pain away in corners rather than releasing it.

One folder in particular jolted me back into memories I would rather not revisit. It was the folder where I had saved paintings from the time of my abusive relationship. Back then, he — and his brother — wanted me to “work” for them. And I did. But looking at it now, with the clarity I have today, I can see it for what it truly was. That “work” wasn’t real. It wasn’t valued. It was just a way to keep me busy, to keep me quiet, to keep me from bothering them.

When I finally hit “delete” on that folder, it wasn’t just digital clutter disappearing. It was me permanently saying goodbye to my abusive ex-partner. With a single choice, I erased the remnants of his hold on my world.

I realized then that by deleting that folder, I deleted whatever remnants of him were still attached to me. And now that I live on my own in Second Life, I don’t even feel the need to know what he has been up to or whether he is still married to someone else. He is just pathetic in my eyes — the most pathetic and insecure person I have ever come across. He used to say, “I’m not insecure, I’m not insecure at all,” but his actions told me otherwise.

This medication makes me see so clearly. It feels like I had brain fog for so many years, and now that it has lifted, I can finally see the truth.

In fact, I no longer feel the need to twist myself around for anyone else’s happiness or pleasure. That old pattern of bending, reshaping, and sacrificing myself to make others comfortable — it doesn’t belong to me anymore.

When I began this cleaning, my inventory sat at nearly 64,700 items — an overwhelming weight pressing on me every time I opened it. After today, that number dropped to around 59,311. It isn’t just about numbers, though. Each deletion felt like shedding a layer, like laying down something I no longer needed to carry.

Every day before this, I’d open my inventory and think, why do I need all this stuff? I’m a proven mesh creator now. I can make what I want — pieces that carry meaning, that belong to my life today. I don’t need to hold other people’s things unless they’re truly excellent or deeply aligned with me. The rest can go.

To see my own creations take their place inside a now-structured inventory feels surreal. I never thought I would be here — a mesh creator, building with my own hands. Maybe I’ll never measure up to the “high popularity” standards of others, but the truth is, I don’t care. These are my creations. They carry my heart, my love, my enjoyment. And that makes them enough.

Making space for my own work has done more than clear an inventory. It has strengthened me. It has proven to me that I can do anything I choose, if I set my mind and heart to it.

Another change in me is knowing that I do have a partner — someone who is mine, and who will always remain unseen by the outside world. That privacy is part of our strength. Even though we are long distance, and even though I spend most of my days alone, the bond we share gives me courage. It reminds me that I can stand on my own, but I am never truly alone.

So even though I’m mostly alone in Second Life now — most days, it feels like everyone has given up on talking there — the truth is, I’m never really alone. It might look that way from the outside, but it isn’t my reality.

Because even in the quiet, I am held. I am connected. I am not alone.

As I cleaned my inventory today, I could almost see it in my mind: every single box carried out, one by one, thrown into a dumpster. And then, finally, the door closing behind me.

That door doesn’t need to be opened again. What’s inside no longer belongs to me.

So I guess what I’m really trying to say is this: take a look at your own inventories in Second Life. Many of you might have 2,000 items or more tucked away. Ask yourself — does the chaos inside that inventory reflect the chaos inside you?

And if it does, maybe it’s time to do something about it.

/Tessa

If it doesn’t exist in Second Life, make it exist

 For the longest time, I felt like an outsider in a place that promises freedom — a world where everyone should have the joy of existing in their own way. Yet for me, something was always off. To see myself walking in Second Life was to live a version of myself that wasn’t my truth.

I’ll admit, it was liberating for a while — to see myself walking, to move freely in a way the physical world doesn’t allow. But even in that freedom, something was missing. My truth.

I’ve always told myself: I will never accept my disability. But I am learning to live with it. When I speak of my truth, it is because I’m learning to live with something I cannot change.

In the beginning, Second Life was, for me — as for many others — an escape. But as the years went on, it became something else. I began to feel safe, secure within myself, and more willing to let my true reflection show. The same reflection I see when I look into any mirror in my real life.

A couple of years into my Second Life, I realized something: there was nothing out there for people who wanted to reflect their disability in an honest way. Wheelchairs existed, yes — but too often they were made into jokes, or turned into tools for adult performance. Nowhere could I find a chair that looked like what I use every single day. A normal wheelchair. Something that felt like me.

That realization sparked an idea: if I couldn’t find a wheelchair that reflected my truth, I would have to make it exist. I hired someone to create one for me, and that dream came true a couple of years ago. For a time — a year, maybe two — it felt like enough. But slowly, I felt the gap again. I realized what was missing: I had created a manual wheelchair, when in my real life, I use a power chair. My truth was still waiting to be seen.

So I went back to the same creator who had built my manual chair, hoping this time for a power wheelchair. But instead of progress, there were only delays. Promises stretched out into silence, and eventually I had to say: enough is enough. I stopped waiting for something that would never arrive. And so, I returned to walking in Second Life — always with the quiet ache that something was missing.

Fast forward to 2025 — the year everything changed for me. And I mean everything.

2025 has been the most grounding year of my entire existence on this planet. And that says a lot.

The fundamental change came because one single doctor chose to listen to me — not just as a patient, but as a person. When I was finally diagnosed with a disorder I had known, deep down, all my life, everything shifted.

I didn’t know that being put on the right medication would change me so deeply. I didn’t know something so small could be so fundamental. So life-changing.

When I walked into the doctor’s office and we finally decided what we decided, it felt like I left the old me sitting there in that room. That version of me was broken into fragments. But when I began taking this medication, my whole being started to knit itself back together. For the first time, I felt whole instead of shattered. And let me be clear — this wasn’t psychological medication. This was something different. Something my body had been waiting for all along.

That’s the best way I can explain it. The person I was before this medication was scattered — fragmented into tiny, tiny, tiny pieces. But when I finally began taking it, those fragments came together. They solidified. For the first time, I felt like one whole person again.

That wholeness began to show itself in the choices I made. I found the strength to step away from connections in Second Life that were ridiculous, shallow, and did not serve me anymore. I cut those ties without apology, without explanation — because I don’t owe anyone excuses for protecting my own truth.

The empowerment I feel now — the self-confidence I carry — is incredible. I speak with clarity. I hold my head high. I move through life in a way I never have before. And I no longer care about people who so clearly do not care about me. That weight is gone.

I don’t have time to waste on people or things that no longer matter to me. My energy belongs to what is real, what is important, and what helps me grow.

I used to get so offended when people disappeared for months without a word. Now, I don’t even care about the silence. The silence speaks louder than words ever could.

In that silence, I began to wonder if I should leave Second Life altogether. There were days I felt it gave me nothing anymore — no meaning, no joy, no truth. I could spend my time in ways that felt more efficient, more nourishing, more true to who I am now.

Then a spark lit inside me. I realized I had the ability to create the very things I had been longing for in Second Life. If you remember from a previous post, I once wrote about how I used to shop endlessly, trying to fill the void of having nothing else meaningful to do. But when I discovered I could create — not just anything, but the exact products I wanted and no one else was willing to make — everything changed for me.

Within that spark, I reached out to a woman who, like me, was living her truth in Second Life — in a wheelchair. Her chair was the closest replica I had ever seen of a real power wheelchair. I asked if she would be willing to share it with me, and she said yes. She gave me a copy, and I spent six hours scripting it by hand until it behaved exactly the way I needed it to.

And then, seeing myself portrayed correctly for the first time in Second Life, I broke down. I sobbed until I couldn’t breathe. It was overwhelming — to finally be reflected as I am.

In that moment, I realized I could find ways to create one-of-a-kind things. Not for the marketplace, not for the world at large, but for me — and for the people I love.

So that’s what I’ve been doing for the past week or so — leaving people to sit with the silence from me, instead of the other way around. My energy is finally where it belongs.

If someone would like to see my creations, I can always share them. But the core of this reflection is simple: if you are longing for something, find a way to make it exist. There’s always a way. You just need to find it.

/Tessa

When a World No Longer Holds You

 For the past fifteen years, Second Life has been part of my every single day. It was my safety blanket — the place I always returned to. A constant, a comfort.

But something has shifted. Yesterday, for the first time in over a decade, I didn’t log in at all. Not because I was avoiding it, but because I was too absorbed in something new: creating with my own hands, with help, with love. Part of that shift comes from the medications I’m on now — they’ve changed how I see myself and the world around me.

And here’s the surprising part: I didn’t miss it. The people I meet there, the energy — it doesn’t hold me the way it once did. It feels like I’ve outgrown it.

Even the things I used to buy there don’t fit me anymore. What I shopped for never really reflected the things I use in my daily life, or matched my style. Apart from lingerie, most of what’s out there just isn’t me. I used to shop every weekend, filling in that gap. But now? I haven’t gone shopping in over two weeks. And I don’t feel like I’ve lost anything — because I don’t need to. I can create my own things, and they finally reflect who I am.

One big shift came when I finally got the wheelchair I had wanted for over fifteen years. Seeing myself in Second Life with it — moving as I truly do in real life — changed everything. For the first time, my avatar wasn’t just an image, it was a reflection. I could really see myself. And once I did, I couldn’t go back to the things that didn’t feel true anymore.

When Second Life introduced actual mirrors, everyone rushed to them. People were excited to see themselves in a new way. But I didn’t care about those mirrors — they never showed me the truth. My real mirror was my wheelchair. That was the moment I truly recognized myself, and that reflection meant more to me than any surface ever could.

And then another shift came: the moment I realized I could create things with my own hands. With the right tools, it wasn’t nearly as complicated as I had feared. Suddenly the question became: What else can I do? What else am I capable of? The spark of creation turned into possibility, and possibility turned into freedom.

It’s becoming clearer to me each day: I’m outgrowing something that once kept me grounded. And yet, I don’t feel sad about it. I feel free.

And maybe the next spark is already waiting for me.