life is as dulce as leche

Words by Contributing Writer: Divina Boko

When I was younger, I only got one treat from one place: Cold Stone’s vanilla ice cream. No mix-ins or fancy syrups. No heavy indecisions. Just plain vanilla bean ice cream. I’m not exactly sure why that was. Maybe it was its proximity to our frequented shopping center. Maybe it was because I possessed an overwhelming sweet tooth. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the way I’d always see some lucky fuck walk out with ice cream plastered all over their face, unaware of the sugar crash in t-minus 30 minutes. 

I craved that delectable cold rush coursing through my veins. Looking back, that mindset went beyond the parlor. Up until I entered college, I was type-A. Pretty good grades, great at juggling different extracurriculars, having tons and tons of friends from varying groups. Simple, no complications, easily within reach. 

But it seems I need to start listening to my parents: if you eat too much of the same ice cream, you’ll eventually get a stomach ache.

When I got to college, I thought my plans wouldn’t really deviate very much. I mean, I had a pretty good routine established and I was on track to paving my own success. I was going to be an honor roll student who always landed a scholarship just because. I’d go on to be a news writer who visits war zones and makes an impact. If I had time, I’d even win a couple of Noble Piece Prizes here and there.

I was going to be something. An amazing something.

Instead, I found myself to be nothing.

Somewhere along the lines, I lost myself. I found the joys of declining mental health, a less than stable support system, and what it felt like losing someone important to you. I thought that through it all, I just needed to do more. You hear those crazy success stories of people who have a 1.0 gpa and then somehow, with the power of friendship, they’re able to be one of the top performing students within their grade. My story didn’t go like that. 

Over time, it became sticky and overwhelming. I thought that if I tried filling my bowl with the same amount of ice cream and the same lack of toppings and from the very same Cold Stone then everything would go back to normal. The recipe to my happiness was followed to a T and yet it still never felt right. I mean it surely wasn’t the perfectly curated formula I made at six years old, so it had to be me. What was wrong with me?

It was December of 2025 and I was alone again. Everyone was at home with their loved ones and I was in my apartment, tucked away in the far corner of my room. I was tired of staining my pillows with tears and talking to unanswering walls. It was cold, dark, and gloomy and I was becoming increasingly aware of how it was affecting me. I decided to do something about it. 

You know what they say about surviving winter: you got to fight the cold with cold. 

I went to my local 7-Eleven and scavenged through the freezer. Cookie dough, strawberry shortcake, cookies and cream. No plain vanilla. I was about to give up before it caught my eye. Draped in icicles and just about two steps away from being freezer burned was a pint of dulce de leche. It looked promising. I mean I always loved caramel candy so I wasn’t opposed to trying it in dairy form. I bought it, brought it home, and got in my most intimate outfit (my pajamas). I sat on the bed and took a bite. My teeth chattered and my mouth dropped to a familiar temperature but a new flavor was explored. Sweet caramel goodness. It reminded me of when I first met my grandfather and he treated me to these huge cubes of caramel. I desperately wanted to hate it but I kept reaching for more. 

My spoon just kept digging through the pint until the cold permeated the layers of clothing I was wearing. I had unearthed a new flavor, one I wouldn’t have even batted an eye towards if it weren't for the circumstances. In that moment, through tears and rumination, I realized that nothing was going to be the same. But that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. It would just taste a bit different. I know now that I can’t go back to what I originally felt was enough. I especially can’t have it in excess as I once did. I needed to microdose it. Steps at a time. My success wasn’t meant to come handed to me by a Cold Stone cashier. It was meant to be sought out in a corner store, especially when I should be cutting back on my sugar.

My life is different from when I started college. I’m now aiming to be a fashion journalist, medicated, and also no where near an honor roll student. But I’m starting to feel ok with that. So now, when I pass a Cold Stone on my way to work, and I see another lucky fuck with their icecream everywhere but in their mouth, I don’t feel jealousy but instead hope. I hope that they enjoy every bite of that sweet treat and that they don’t get too attached to that flavor. Soon, they’ll have to go searching for what will truly be right for them.

I know I did. And all while I’m lactose intolerant.

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Thank you for reading! Keep up with contributing writer Divina via their Instagram and Substack.