Confessions of a Hot Mess was born in a parking lot.
Not a metaphor. Not a cute anecdote. Just a cold October night in front of Pure Country, where I stood across from a boy I loved and heard him say—
“I don’t know what else to say. It’s like… you know you’re broken, right?”
And that was it.
I went back inside.
Laughed.
Danced.
Pretended I was okay.
But that night, I wrote.
Not because I felt brave.
Because I didn’t know what else to do with all that pain.
That night became the first Confession. I didn’t know I’d keep going. But I did. And somewhere along the way, it became a column. A weekly thing. A rhythm. A release.
And now?
Thirty Confessions later—
I’m graduating.
I’ve written about the boys, obviously.
The ones who told me I was too much and then got mad when they missed the version of me that didn’t speak.
The ones who begged for a Confession and then blamed me for the mirror I held up.
The ones who turned their apologies into punchlines.
But I also wrote about losing my dream job before I got the chance to prove I belonged.
About the group chat that got quieter until I realized I wasn’t in it anymore.
About the friends I thought would be in my wedding who now scroll past my life like it was never part of theirs.
About my mentor—a man I admired deeply—who I lost at a time I still needed guidance most.
I wrote about my sister.
My family.
The people I love with a complicated kind of softness that lives in the back of your throat when you’re trying not to cry.
I wrote about faith.
And walking away.
And blocking people.
And boundaries.
And shame.
And how survival sometimes looks like being misunderstood by people you used to love.
I wrote about what it means to feel humiliated in pink pajamas.
And what it means to keep showing up anyway.
And yeah—
I wrote about the sticky stuff.
The gross stuff.
The stuff people don’t want to talk about but live through anyway.
The nights you say you’re fine when you’re not.
The mornings you wake up still holding the ache.
I wrote it because someone had to.
Because I wished someone had done it for me.
And I know how that sounds.
Like I think this was some big important thing.
Like I think this column mattered.
But I do.
Even if it’s a little vain.
Even if it’s a little messy.
Because I know what it meant to me.
It gave me a voice.
It helped me grieve out loud.
It gave shape to things I didn’t know how to say.
And I hope—so badly—that it helped someone else too.
People wrote to me.
Said thank you.
Said “I thought I was the only one.”
And that’s the point.
This was never just about me.
This column didn’t just help me survive.
It helped me become.
It taught me how to grieve in public.
How to be seen—fully, unfiltered, unapologetically.
So this is the last one.
The final Confession of my college career.
I’m not broken.
I’m not bitter.
And I’m not ashamed of what I’ve written.
I’m graduating.
With thirty stories behind me—
And so many more still waiting to be told.
If you’ve ever read one of these and saw yourself in it—thank you.
If you cried with me, or laughed at the timing of the universe, or whispered “same”—thank you.
If you told a friend to read it, or DM’d me something you were too scared to say out loud—thank you.
You helped me keep going.
You reminded me that words can be a bridge when the world feels too lonely.
Thank you for showing up for me, even when it wasn’t pretty.
Even when it was messy.
Even when I was still figuring it out.
You gave me the space to be real.
And I hope I gave you something too.
A little light. A little truth.
A little proof that surviving doesn’t have to look perfect to be beautiful.
Confessions of a Hot Mess ends here.
But I don’t.
The voice you’ve heard in these columns?
She’s not done.
She’s just getting started.
✦
Read the archive or follow the next chapter at confessionsofahotmess.substack.com.
Stay soft. Stay loud.
Can’t get enough of Confessions? Me neither! Check out the official Substack for extra content!
Wanna listen while you read? You can listen to the official playlist now! 💕
Confessions of a Hot Mess is the personal work of Emily Hess. The opinions expressed in this column, as well as those published in The Nevada Sagebrush, are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of The Sagebrush or its staff.
