My own purpose is something I’ve been trying to find for a long time. I used to think that my heart would lead me there. I thought my purpose would be something big and grand. That it would be about serving others. And that it would stem from something that felt important to me.

I thought purpose was something you’d have to work hard for. And that following your purpose should earn you love, respect and admiration.

I thought finding my purpose would lead me to meaningful work that made me feel like I matter, and like I am enough.

Because purpose is supposed to catapult you into your best life, and connect you to your highest self. Right? Purpose is supposed to be the magical key that opens the door to personal fulfillment.

Hasn’t happened yet. And NOT for lack of trying.

And now I know why. The reason this never worked for me is because I wasn’t actually following my heart. I was being directed by my wounds.

I’ve tried to fit my sense of purpose into this kind of box. The one that stemmed from wounded desire. I tried working for non-profits that served valuable missions. Tried teaching people to manage stress and anxiety through yoga. Tried serving my community with wellness initiatives and events designed to connect people, and facilitate their own wellness journeys…

These were all things that felt important to me. They were in service of others. They felt big and grand. And they got me all kinds of positive attention.

But none of it ever felt quite right. These things gave me temporary feelings of boosted self-worth, but they never really felt like enough. They never made me feel the way I believed purpose was supposed to make me feel.

And since none of those things made me feel fulfilled, etc, then they must not have been my purpose. I was running out of ideas, though, so I started to get cynical.

I decided that purpose was fake. That it was little more than a pathway to feeling important. I thought, nobody really feels fulfilled by their work — their so called “purpose” — they just care about the attention it gets them, the sense of importance it earns them, the good feelings it imbues them with, and the idea that they’re “making a difference.”

And I believed that because those were my wounded desires: to get positive attention and feel important (like I matter), and to make a difference and feel good about myself (like I am enough).

But trying to prove that I matter and earn my sense of enoughness was never going to work. And neither was trying to find my purpose from a place of feeling like I don’t matter and I’m not enough.

But I’ve seen so many other people find purpose that looks exactly like that. Big and grand. Gives them a sense of importance. Serves others. And gets them positive attention. And every time I see that, I want it. I want it so badly.

Or at least, that’s how it feels. But the truth is, it’s only the part of me that’s wounded who wants that. Only the part of me who is desperate to prove the voice in my head wrong.

I’ve been thinking about purpose all wrong.

Purpose isn’t supposed to prove the wounded part of me wrong by giving me all the things that part of me wants. Purpose is supposed to be about standing proudly in my heart’s truest desires, because I choose not to believe the things my wounds keep trying to tell me.

In other words, my purpose doesn’t need to earn me anything. Not love, not respect, not importance; because I already know that I matter. And it doesn’t need to prove anything or make me feel like I’m finally good enough, because I already know that I am. AND… if any of the things I do are more about proving that I matter or earning my enoughness than they are about actual joy and desire, then that means they are wrong for me.

When I let go of those desires — the ones that come from my wounds — the drive to find a purpose that meets that criteria goes away. I stop wanting to make a difference, to serve others, and to work hard enough to do anything big and grand. And to be honest, all I really want to do is rest, and play, and connect.

So that got me thinking… maybe my purpose isn’t supposed to look like anyone else’s. Maybe it’s supposed to look completely different.

Quieter. Softer. More selfish in nature, even. Because when I sit down and ask my heart what she really wants, she whispers the sweetest most innocent things.

All she really wants is to create, to connect, to indulge, and to be surrounded by beauty, always.

And since my wounds are the things that drive my motivation and action in this life, maybe my purpose is about choosing not to act, but rather, to just be and enjoy.

Love and Magic is a publication where I unpack the things I’m working through, dive into the subjects that spark my curiosity, and exercise my ability to communicate through the written word.

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Almost as if watching myself from above, I can see the way my brain is trying to code and file away different experiences I’m having (in real time) into the boxes of my mind that believe I’m broken.

The beliefs that say:

Something is wrong with me.

I am not enough.

I am not worthy.

I do not matter

And because I can see this process happening in real-time, I am able to override it relatively quickly — but not without giving myself space to feel the initial emotions that come with these beliefs being activated. Those feelings are valid. But once I’ve moved through them, I’m able to move on without adding the experiences into the boxes of evidence for these beliefs.

It’s changing the game for me a bit.

There’s another layer too. I can see how my desires for certain things are actually coming from those wounded beliefs. Because subconsciously, I seem to think that achieving those desires will undo the wounds. And also, wanting those things is keeping me in a state of dissatisfaction with myself and my life. It’s like, I can see how believing that I am not enough, means nothing outside of me can ever be enough for me either.

It’s wild.

Believe it or not, this kundalini activation was brought on by the most intense orgasm I’ve ever had — made possible for me because of something that changed within me after becoming a mom. Let’s just say I’m not quite as uptight as I used to be, and something about that makes sex significantly more enjoyable.

I’ve been in this state of clarity for a few days now. And I know that human nature being what it is, I might not be able to hold onto it at all times. That’s why I want to document as much of this clarity as I can for myself — so I can come back to it in the moments where my subconscious has the upper hand.

I wrote a separate piece immediately after that magical orgasm I mentioned. You can read that one here… if you’re a paid subscriber.

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You are a miracle worker. You’re able to do things that other people can definitely do too, it’s just that you do it better. Every time. And you have standards that you can’t (or won’t) compromise.

Maybe you’re just a control freak.

In either case, you’ve bogged yourself down with too many commitments, too many to-dos, too much work, and now you’re wondering what happened to your joy? What happened to your excitement? And why are you so exhausted?

It’s because you feel like you have to do everything yourself. Like you have to be the responsible one. Like it’s your job to single-handedly take care of everything.

Well I have news for you. You don’t.

And, what if doing everything yourself is stopping someone else from realizing that they really enjoy this thing that you, simply do not? What if you’re depriving someone else from the opportunity to grow and evolve? What if you’re enabling someone in the worst ways? And worst of all… what if you’re being taken advantage of?

Everyone else knows you do it better too, after all. And they know you have standards.

But what would happen if you let those standards go? Loosened your grip. Stopped showing up to save the day? Would everything fall apart?

No — because other people can definitely do the things you do too. Just maybe not as well. But, is that really such a bad thing? Are your standards really worth the sacrifice… this disconnection you feel from your joy, your spark, your zest for life?

I don’t think so.

So give it a rest. Stop taking the lead on everything. Take a step back from the expectations that you created for yourself. Give someone else a chance to shine. Or totally flop — it’s okay for people to try and fail at things! Uncomfortable emotions won’t really hurt anyone. Who knows… maybe it will help them grow.

Start with the things that bring you the most dread. Put them on the chopping block and let them go. Or at least, cut back on how often you’re doing them. Ease yourself out of the responsibility. Assert that you will demonstrate how something is done if need be, but after that, you will no longer be handling it.

And if you’re worried that these things you’ve been doing are the only things that prove your worth, or help you stay loved and needed by others… or that if you stop, you’ll lose the love, respect and admiration others have for you… then take yourself in your own arms and hold yourself close. Whisper, I love you and you are worthy of love even when you aren’t doing things for others.

You are worthy of love even when you aren’t performing. You are capable of so much, and people appreciate that about you. But it’s not the thing that makes you lovable.

It’s your joy.

Your excitement.

Your creative spark.

Your zest for life.

Your very essence.

It’s the person you are when you’re not burnt out. And that’s the person we want to see. So stop doing everything yourself. And get a life.

xoxo,

a fellow burnt-out queen.

If this resonated, please like, comment or share. And consider subscribing for more content like this.

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I write stories, essays. and letters that speak to the part of you living underneath your wounds. The part of you that sees everything; that knows the truth, but is too afraid to step forward.

I prepared myself to be a perfect mom too — just like I prepared myself to have a perfect birth (which also, didn’t happen, by the way).

I always seem to think that I can control my way into perfection. Know the variables. Have a plan. Stick to it. That’s all it should take, right?

Wrong. Because you can’t plan for all the variables. The variables are infinite. And you can’t always stick to the plan. Sometimes the plan doesn’t even work.

I am not a perfect mom. That’s been a hard pill to swallow. Sometimes I’m still mad about it. But trying to force the perfection wasn’t just making me miserable. It was making motherhood harder than it needs to be.

The only thing that makes any of this easier, is letting go of my obsessive need to control everything. Like when my child goes to sleep and what our bedtime routine looks like. Or what my child eats and how much. Or whether or not he gets screen time.

There are so many things that haven’t looked at all like how I planned for them to be. And I’m learning to be okay with that.

Because here’s what does matter:

That my child sleeps.

That he eats.

That his emotional needs are met.

That I am well enough (mentally, physically, emotionally) to give him my best available self every day.

That I have support from my husband and our village.

That my child feels loved.

That’s it. No perfection required. No need to control everything little thing.

I want to raise a happy, healthy child. Not a perfect one. And I don’t want him to think for a second that he has to be perfect to be worthy of love.

An Excerpt from the First Draft of My Novel

This is an excerpt from the first draft of my novel — when it was still in its raw, infant form, filled with backstory dumps and more telling than showing. This little bit was born from my own conflicted feelings about living in Florida and it felt important to me — but it needed to be cut.

I still love it, though, and I still want to share. So here it is:

I sat back in my chair, closed my eyes, and let out a big frustrated sigh. I’d been thinking about the past a lot lately. Remembering the smell of salt in the air with the passing of a summer breeze; the sharp, sour taste of wild oranges directly from the trees; and the sound of palm fronds blowing in the wind during afternoon storms.

Sometimes, at night, I had dreams that felt more like memories; about watching tourists walking through the city’s historic district, or breathing in the subtle scent of whisky-breath and sweat in the dimly lit, Saint Augustine bars; and then passing out on the twin bed in my childhood room after drinking way too much during a late night shift.

Or, I dreamt about storms rolling in over the ocean; waves crashing up far beyond the shores, into the streets, and seeping into the buildings from under the doors. Like the ocean was angry. Like she had something important to say.

I would dream that I was driving over a bridge while the ocean was actively swallowing it whole; and I had nowhere to go but into her depths.

Could these dreams have been related to the sudden, very unwelcome feeling that it was time to move on? I didn’t listen to my inner knowing back then – when I was still in Florida – when it whispered similar words into my hollow, hardened heart. That was the real mistake. And yet, at this point in my life, I had so much more to lose.

Another deep breath filled my lungs and then slowly released. I opened my eyes, placed the CHANEL frames back on my face, and reached for my phone.

What I’m Currently Reading

The Book Witch by Meg Shaffer. That’s it. Just one book this month.

From the Yoga Mat

I started teaching a weekly class for paid subscribers. It takes place via live stream every Thursday at 6:30PM. Last week I noticed a lot of anger in my body — possibly postpartum related, but also, possibly not.

So I focused class around the theme of surrender and acceptance.

The gaol with these classes is to spend more time with our bodies, to get comfortable listening to them, to connect with our inner creative fire, and to strengthen our sense of self-trust.

Join me each week for an opportunity to move, connect, and journal — I always keep my journal handy when I practice yoga so I can stop and write down anything that comes up.

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I write stories, essays. and letters that speak to the part of you living underneath your wounds. The part of you that sees everything; that knows the truth, but is too afraid to step forward.

I hadn’t known it until I discovered her, but that was exactly what I wanted — to build a dual career as a writer and yoga teacher. Write words that people would read, and teach movement classes that positively impacted their lives.

Most importantly, I wanted the freedom that I imagined would come with building my life that way. And I wanted the joy of doing work that I loved so much, it didn’t feel like work at all (because my most honest truth is that I actually don’t want to work. Not in the traditional sense anyway; but I’m still unpacking that).

Over the course of two years, I worked really hard to build a portfolio as a writer and get certified as a yoga teacher. And when I finally got there, I was devastated to discover that it wasn’t the freedom and fulfillment I’d hoped for that was waiting for me. It was full scale burn out.

Driven by the vision I’d been holding for myself, I got to a place where I was working:

• full time as a copywriter for an ad agency

• part time as a content writer for a yoga brand that was just starting out

• teaching three 5 am yoga classes a week

• plus a Saturday morning class and a Sunday morning class.

All at the same time!

I was burnt out and so anxious that my doctor diagnosed me with generalized anxiety disorder and prescribed me some meds that would allow me to keep up with the insanity without losing my sanity.

My husband and I talked it over and we agreed that wasn’t the right move for me. So with his blessing, I quit my full time job. And just like that, I’d achieved my goal. I was a part-time writer and a part-time yoga teacher.

But it didn’t feel like enough.

So I decided to start working on my own platform as a yoga and lifestyle blogger…

I’ll let you know when that finally starts paying off (she said almost 10 years later).

The point is, I’ve been chasing this dream for a long time. And I’ve lost and found myself again so many times along the way. I’ve changed, I’ve grown, I’ve shifted gears, changed my focus, abandoned the idea and come back to it — over and over and over again.

But I kept coming back to this place where I just didn’t feel satisfied with any of it. It was never enough for me in so many ways.

And then I finally realized something. And more importantly, accepted it. The uncomfortable truth that had really been driving me…

It was my desire to be seen. To feel worthy of love. And to earn respect.

The wounds I carry from childhood.

And so long as those wounds were in the driver’s seat, there could never be joy behind this work that I was supposed to love.

So I decided to let it go. Again. And then I realized something that my teachers had said over and over during yoga teacher training…

It’s not about me. All this time I’ve been making it about me,. About my inner wounds. about controlling how I felt and how people perceived me. It’s not supposed to be about that.

It’s supposed to be about joy. About connection. About collective empowerment.

I think had the right idea all along. I knew what I wanted and why I wanted it. I just didn’t realize that the wounded part of me wanted the same things for slightly different reasons.

That’s the hardest part about following your heart. Your heart wants the things it wants. Full stop. But if you don’t have your wounds in check, they have a way of stealing your heart’s thunder and taking the joy right out of it.

So I’m realizing — I don’t want to work so hard. Especially not to earn the things that I am inherently deserving of. All I really want is to enjoy my life… and to get paid for it. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

I’m finding joy and presence in my life as it is through daily embodiment; and I’m inviting anyone who wants to do the same, to join me.

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Right now, my baby is napping safely in his room. When he wakes up, we’ll have lunch and then play together on the floor. There is nowhere else I need to be. There’s nothing else I need to do. I get to be home with him. Fully present. Totally hands on. And that’s exactly how I always imagined it.

At some point my husband will come home. Baby and I will welcome him without stress, anxiety, or uncertainty regarding what kind of energy he’ll be bringing with him. And that is such a gift.

I didn’t have that kind of luxury growing up. I never knew what to expect at the end of the day when my dad came home from work. He was emotionally chaotic, and he didn’t know how to make it through the day without letting that chaos spill out onto us — his children. That’s scary for a kid.

Now, I live in a safe, loving, and peaceful home. And I have everything I need to live life the way I've always wanted to. Not because I achieved any of my career goals; but because I slowed down and listened to my heart when it said, you’re not happy.

I told my husband, and he asked me what I wanted. Let’s sell our house, quit our jobs and just travel for a while. It was a big ask and it took some convincing, but he loves me, and he wants me to be happy, so eventually, he agreed.

That decision changed something in us. It changed our lives. We’re both happier now. More confident. More comfortable with ourselves and in our marriage. That decision is what paved the way for where I am today — living happily in the beautiful pause of motherhood, without having to work or be away from my baby for more than a few hours at a time.

And sometimes I forget. I get stuck in this feeling that I’m not where I want to be. It moves through my body like violent waves crashing against the shore. Convinces me that I still need to figure out how to work hard enough to stop working —wait, what? That can’t be right, can it?

It’s not. It’s just that the storms I grew up with still live inside of me…

My brain thinks I need to work hard to receive love. That I need to find ways to earn respect. That I need to prove I matter. Those are the things that drive me to work hard. If I earn those things, then I can stop working.

So the mean little voice inside my head says things like, you are lazy, and entitled, and you don’t deserve to be taken care of. You have to get off your ass and do something — clean the house. Do the laundry. Get a freaking job. It’s not my voice. It’s a voice I inherited from my father. I don’t even think it’s his, to be honest. He inherited it too.

My heart knows the truth, though. I don’t need to earn love or respect. I don’t need to prove that I matter. I am allowed to enjoy this time. I am allowed to embrace the slow pace of life. And I do not have to work hard. Period.

My body is learning to love where we are too. The more time I spend with my body, the more and more comfortable it gets with where we are. And when my body is comfortable, my mind quiets down.

I also know that my heart wants more. There are things I want to do, and I will. Slowly. In my own time. Because right now, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

Just a writer | yoga teacher | mom…

writing about the power of presence, the sweetness of romanticizing life, the impact of self-trust, the magic of following your heart, the joy of being creative, and the act of living life well. Let’s connect. Leave a comment or click the button below to subscribe.

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I’ve been trying really hard to write lately. To come up with good stories, topics, lessons, messages, and relatable material to share. And the constant effort of racking my brain has hindered my sleep and pushed me in the direction of anxiety.

Oops.

That, my friends, is called being in your head. It’s the over-thinking, the over-analyzing, the over-planning, over-anticipating, and over-achieving. And I know I’m not the only one who is guilty of this.

So the other day, I decided to just stop. And in order to shut my brain up, I needed to get into my body. So I sat down on the ground and felt the sensation of my butt against the floor. I imagined myself rooted to the ground — like I had actual roots that were digging into the earth and pulling nutrients up into my body.

I found the sensation of my breath — in and out through my nostrils, expanding and contracting through my belly and my lungs. I paid attention to the rhythm of breath moving in my body. Noticed the sensation of cool air against my skin. Tried to get still enough to sense my heart beating in my chest.

I spent maybe five minutes like this. Giving my brain space to rest by becoming hyper aware of my body, my breath, and the support of the earth all around me. And then the inspiration hit.

I got up, ran to my computer, and started writing down some notes. It felt borderline blissful to let something just come to me. Move through me.

To be honest, I’m not having fun with my writing if I’m trying to force it. And here’s the icky thing; that urge to force words to the page doesn’t come from my natural desire to create. It comes from my wounded desire to be seen.

That’s not nourishing. Or inspiring. And it’s not a good use of my precious energy.

I want to write from my natural desire to create. I want to let the words pour through me like magic. I want the act of writing to bring me joy and satisfaction. And being connected to my body is the key to finding that flow state.

My creativity and drive to create are signatures of my soul. And my wounded desire to be seen is a shadow that sometimes gets in the way. Being too much in my head is a clear sign that I’m leaning into the wound. But sometimes it takes days (or weeks even) for me to notice.

Now, I’m not saying that wanting to be seen is a bad thing or that it’s wrong. I always want my work to be seen. That’s the point of sharing it. But when I’m trying to create out of desperation to be seen, I’m usually not in my genius.

Reconnecting with my body is what helps me get back there. Every time.

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Welcome to Love and Magic. This is becoming a space where I lean into yoga, energy awareness, and self-trust to write essays that support, inform, and inspire my fellow readers, writers, creators and friends.

I wrote this piece at 5-months postpartum, and in it, I processed a lot of uncomfortable feelings that were hard to look at. I did not think it would ever see the light of day. But now, I’m finally ready to share. If you are a paid subscriber (or choose to become one), please read it with compassion and understanding for the uncomfortable truth that becoming a mother is not all magic and wonder. If you are an expecting mother, or a woman who hopes to become a mom someday, it may not be the right time for a piece like this.

Trigger warning for C-section mamas.

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I think, I expected to just become myself again at some point. But that never really happened, because truth be told, I never stopped being me. It’s just that my capacities became limited. I stopped having the time and energy for some things, and so I decided to let them go.

As time has quickly revealed, my baby won’t be a baby for ever. And I don’t want to miss any of this time with him. I don’t want to short change him during this enormous period of development. I want to give him everything I’ve got and soak up every minute that time will allow.

And one day, he won’t be a baby anymore, and slowly but surely, I’ll get my time back. My capacities will expand. I’ll be able to add things back to my life. And it will be beautiful. But for now, this is enough.

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Phases

I moved through this cycle with relative ease, perhaps because it was a busy month. I haven’t been in my regular routine for more than 28 days (since before the end of my last cycle). Summer has a way of doing that, and it has been lovely. Exhausting, but so lovely. The days have been filled with three of my favorite F’s: family, friends, and fun.

The follicular phase brought you this personal piece which I released for paid subscribers only. It’s kind of about how I’ve made peace with growing up in a home with a narcissist:

During my luteal phase, I published a post about Hillary Duff and being a millennial. The first half is readable to all, the second half is my monthly list, which is available to paid subscribers only:

And finally, I shared a memoir style piece that gives you a glimpse into what childhood can look like in a home with a narcissist, available to all:

Stinky Old House

I thought about calling this new section “Home Updates,” but Stinky Old House feels appropriate, even though my home is no longer stinky.

I moved into my house 6 months ago now. But before we committed to this life-long project, the home inspector recommended a professional termite evaluation, for he was not confident in his own assessment.

He told me there was “no evidence of major termite damage.” That was enough for me. So I wiped my hands clean of the issue and said, “let’s buy it.”

It may have been March or April the first time I noticed two sets of wings in the bathroom. So I snapped a photo and asked the internet.

The verdict: Termites.

Okay, but it’s just a couple of discarded wings — no big deal, right?

LOL. Because in June, the wings suddenly started piling up. In the bathroom. In the dining room. On the front porch.

Hundreds of wings.

So I called a termite inspector to take a look. Bad news. We have termites. And they’ve swarmed. Which means, not only do we have at least 2 active colonies, but now, more colonies will form, and in the next 3-5 years, they’ll be established and ready to do some major damage to our home.

Well, poop.

The good news is, this isn’t an urgent issue. We still have no evidence of major termite damage, and we have 3 to 5 years before our (potentially hundreds) of new colonies become active enough to start doing damage.

But we’re going to get it taken care of asap. Because, why wait?

So in November, when we take our little trip to the Redwoods with my fam, our house will be tented. Yay.

What I’m Reading

I finally finished The Weird Sisters and it was truly such a beautiful book about growing up, the complicated mess of being a family, how we sometimes betray ourselves, and the messy journey back to who we want to be. It’s a slow read, which is important, because it’s also about what happens when we are forced to slow down. I think we all could use a little of that in our lives.

I’m still reading A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms and Dungeon Crawler Carl. I didn’t start anything new during this cycle.

How I show up as a writer is always evolving, because I am always evolving. Lately I’ve been writing about growing up with a parent who is (probably) a narcissist, old crushes and young love, my house, and occasionally new mom and millennial things.

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Maybe a pop tart will help me get back whatever it is I’ve lost through the effort I’d put forth to survive the day. So I give it a try.

The flakey crust, the crunchy frosted front, the sticky sweet insides—all perfectly designed to trigger the dopamine producing centers of my brain. And it works. For now.

It had been a particularly difficult day. My best friend at school isn’t speaking to me. Again. And I don’t know why. I never do. The silent treatment she’d deployed was loud. And not secret. She is very good at making it publicly known that she is not speaking to me. That I have been rejected like a rotten piece of fruit—no longer plump, pleasant, or nourishing. That now, I am nothing but a piece of garbage, stinking and taking up space. Needing to be discarded.

I don’t know how to cope with the confusion. Or the pain of it. So I numb out on the couch with my pop tart, watching who-knows-what on the Disney channel with my sisters.

Then we hear it. The screeching of the brakes that becomes audible only seconds before my dad pulls into the drive way. My sisters and I all panic in unison.

My older sister heads for the kitchen to start washing dishes. I start picking up socks and shoes that have been haphazardly tossed around the room. My younger sister grabs our school bags and takes them to our rooms.

We are as swift and efficient as an intelligently designed system. But we don’t do it for praise, or because we want to be helpful. We don’t do it because we’ve been assigned chores or responsibilities.

It’s just that this is the only way we know how to avoid an angry rush of energy from my dad when he walks through the door. It doesn’t always work, but trying is better than nothing. And today, as my dad walks in, I’m grateful to be met with more silence. It doesn’t matter that he has no hellos for us today, although those days are the easiest and most pleasant. But anything is better than the rush of anger-fueled insults that spew out of him when he comes home in a mood.

His words are cutting. We are nothing but a bunch of lazy, free-loading slobs, and we know it. We don’t need him to tell us. Again.

At least it’s not one of those days.

Those days are always random. Like the days when my best friend is angry with me. There are no discernible patterns. All I can do is learn how to be sensitive enough to the energy around me so that I can adjust accordingly. With time, I get really good at that.

Sometimes, I wonder if taking more initiative will make my dad happy. If it will earn me the kind of love and affection I want from him. The kind of love and affection he sometimes gives freely. I wish I could figure out how to live with that version of my dad all the time.

I’ve tried cleaning the whole house before — making it as spotless as a lazy, 12-or-13-year-old, free-loading slob can. But he didn’t notice. He didn’t thank me. I’m not sure I even got a hello that day either.

Once my dad has fully arrived in the house — his energy thick like a fog that we’re all practically choking on — we each retire to our rooms. Safe spaces where we can hide and avoid triggering any unnecessary anger or ridicule.

I write in my journal. Detailing out the major points of my day. I don’t write about my feelings though. I don’t really know how to access them when they’re not pouring out of me—like water from a damaged fire hydrant. So I just write what I know, what I saw, what I thought. When I read back through the details, I wonder why it feels like no one cares.

I reread the part where my best friend said “did you guys hear something” in response to anything I’d tried to say that day. No one had come to my defense. No one had challenged her assessment that my voice was like a ghost caught in the wind—blowing by, hardly noticeable. They just accepted it, like it was the truth.

Thinking back on all of this now, as an adult, I wonder where I got the gall to start standing up for myself, gingerly as I do. I wonder how I found the courage to demand the kind of love I deserve, shaky voice and all. I wonder how I’ve kept from closing myself up completely, like a hermit crab who never leaves her shell.

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The millennial generation is next level. This is something we probably don’t hear enough, because as a generation people love to make fun of us and give us a hard time. But really, millennials are freaking amazing.

We have a depth to us that (I think) most people from other generations can’t really understand. We are so intent on making, not just peace, but friends with all aspects of ourselves. And we use the things we learn to make ourselves better AND to help other people make themselves/their lives better too. Whether that means promoting awareness, understanding and acceptance for all types of people from all walks of life, or just awareness, understanding and acceptance for ourselves.

They call some of us snowflakes, but winter as a season is penetrating — cold temps that cut all the way down to a persons core. That’s what we do. We are so good at triggering people (for better or worse).

They like to call us cringe, but our ability to be cringe plants the seeds that give other people permission to fully commit to and accept themselves.

They say we don’t want to work when the reality is — we work so hard. Especially when it comes to the things we care about. We’re just tired of working ourselves senseless for things that don’t matter to us, things that we see is destructive to ourselves and the world around us, and things that build massive wealth for the few while completely neglecting and rejecting the masses.

We are generation that was born into this world to initiate healing and massive change, and for some reason, the Hillary Duff concert made me deeply aware of this.

So, that being said, this month’s list starts with a few things related to Hilary Duff. This list contain content, music, books and other things that have supported my own growth, inspiration and upliftment (not a real word, I guess) over the last month.

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I bought the house for the neighborhood—big beautiful trees, charming old homes, young families, and location, location, location.

I saw the potential, despite the layers of stink that needed tending and the questionable workmanship that needs correcting. And okay, maybe a part of me also chose this house because (for better or for worse) I’m good at loving things that are messy and broken.

So, I bought a stinky old house, and I love it. I’m making it home. But doing so has created friction in the fragile dynamic I have with my dad.

It don’t like to call my dad a narcissist, but… he probably is.

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I’m great at listening to people talk about themselves, their lives, their problems, hopes, dreams, the lot. But talking about myself… makes me uncomfortable, so I don’t do it.

Sometimes, when people ask about me, my head goes completely blank. Or I ramble. Which is boring. And loses people. I don’t want to lose people.

It’s easier to just not talk about myself. To shift the attention away from me. To be endlessly interested in other people while remaining tragically uninteresting myself.

The result. People appreciate me. And generally they like me. But they don’t feel any sort of connection with me.

Unless they take the time to read my words.

To everyone who reads, please know how much I appreciate you and the time you put into connecting with me in this way. I’m still uncomfortable with it. But I’m really glad you’re here.

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Phases

Welcome to Cycle 4 — this is my fourth post-pregnancy menstrual cycle, and I’m happy to say that things really seem to be back to normal. Max is 10.5 months old and I feel like my body really is recovering from the shock of pregnancy and childbirth.

The early part of my cycle wasn’t very interesting. I finished reading through my manuscript and then “shipped” it off to a beta reader for feedback, which make me feel (as my 10-year-old niece would say) nervou-cited (that’s nervous/excited).

Around ovulation, I decided to make some changes to my life. Small ones.

First, I brought back the opportunity for paid subscriptions, and started putting some of my content behind a paywall. It was a tough call, (especially considering everything I said about connection above), but it feels like the right move.

Second, I made a very intentional mindset shift, wherein, every day I expect to receive gifts from the universe. This is bringing a new level of magic to my life and so far, I’m loving it.

I was on vacation with my husbands family during most of my luteal phase, which made for a happier overall experience. That’s not to say I didn’t have my typical emotional waves, but I do think the waters of my mind her calmer overall.

And as always, this phase was punctuated with the desire to just give up on everything. And when I got to that point, I shared this note:

During this Cycle, I shared two essays:

What’s New with Love and Magic

From now on, this is what you can expect from Love and Magic:

Essays — reflective and memoir-style prose from the perspective of a 30-something kid-at-heart who is learning to trust God/The Universe. I’m still writing about my own experimentation with heart-led living, generational healing, and intimacy-fueled self-discovery. Some of my (most personal) essays are available for paid subscribers only.

Cycle Posts — My 28(ish) day round-up, which is less formal than my other work. It’s an opportunity for me to share updates about myself/my life right now and based on the phases of my feminine cycle. This is where I share most of my content/updates/ feelings about motherhood + what I’m currently reading and anything else that feels relevant/worth sharing. Available to all free and paid subscribers.

Lists — I like to create lists that share links to my favorite, supportive pieces of content. I save them as I come across them and then put them together in a monthly list. Theses are available for paid subscribers only.

Here’s what paid subscribers get:

• Access to my monthly lists which feature curated content content to support your own self-study, creative development, spiritual expansion, and more.

• Access to my most personal essays — the things I’ve been too embarrassed to share. Until now.

And if you’re a founding members you can get 65% off an intuitive embodiment session with me. See details below.

Private Intuitive Embodiment Sessions

An intuitive embodiment session is a 60–90 minute transformational yoga, breath work, and reiki-infused immersion to help you recalibrate your nervous system, reconnect to your intuition, unlock your creative flow, build confidence, regulate your emotions, release perfectionism and/or get comfortable with vulnerability.

Books I’m Currently Reading

The Weird Sisters by Eleanor Brown — Picked this one up randomly during a trip to the library. Something about it caught my attention.

Dungeon Crawler Carl By Matt Dinniman — I’m reading this as part of a monthly(ish) book club with my friends. Not something I would have picked out on my own, which is the wonderful thing about book clubs; you get to read outside of your comfort zone (if and when it feels appropriate. I’ve been known to skip out on books that were too far outside of my comfort zone).

A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms by George RR Martin — Also not something I would typically read, but occasionally my husband and I read books together, and we recently decided on this one, which he proclaims, is much more light hearted than the Game of Thrones Books. We’ll see.

Pieces I enjoyed Reading this Month

I loved this (written by the astrologer I’ve been working with for the last few years). It explains exactly the kind of journey that my novel’s main character goes on. It’s not a hero’s journey. It’s a Heroines Journey.

Ashley Tracey

The Heroine's Journey: Reclaiming the Feminine Through Astrology and Life

Let’s go on a heroine’s journey…

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3 months ago · 3 likes · 2 comments · Ashley Tracey

His name was Dustin.

He had soft eyes. Eyes that felt familiar. Eyes that made me wonder about him. They moved inward, like they were taking in the world around him and processing it constantly. Trying to understand.

He was like me. He was one of the first people I ever recognized myself in.

Dustin was the opposite of Justin—the boy who chased me around the playground at recess because he had a crush on me. Justin was very forward. He even gave me a Sonic The Hedgehog valentine on V-day that said: you make my tails spin. Or something like that.

Dustin was not forward. He would never chase me. He would simply observe me—in the same way I observed him—and perhaps, try to process my existence. Or maybe he would just imagine things about us—like I did. Sitting together at lunch. Or swinging side by side on the playground.

Sometimes, we (our entire class) would have to write sentences over and over—I will not talk when the teacher is talking—because the rest of the class just wouldn’t listen.

I always listened. I was quiet whether the teacher was talking or not. And Dustin was too.

Dustin and I spoke once (that I can remember). We were lining up for lunch or specials or recess maybe. This is what he said to me:

“We’re all brothers and sisters, in God’s way.”

What did that mean? Did it mean he liked me too—enough to think of me as a sister? Or did it mean he didn’t like me? Because sometimes brothers and sisters don’t get along.

Whatever it meant, I was pretty sure brothers and sisters weren’t supposed to like each other. Well, not the way I liked him, anyway.

Was I wrong for having a crush on him? I didn’t know. But I still missed him when he wasn’t in my second grade class. Or third, or fourth, or fifth. I never saw him again actually. And I felt the absence of his soft eyes. His quiet presence. His confidence in the fact that he and I were brothers and sisters in Gods’ way.

I was pretty sure brothers and sisters stayed together, though. Got to see each other every day. Didn’t have to miss each other the way I missed him.

Maybe he was wrong. About God.

Eventually, I forgot about Dustin. I haven’t thought about him in a very long time. But, even as I write this, I can still picture his blond hair, chubby cheeks, and gentle voice. The softness of his presence.

I used to wonder sometimes, what would my life have been like if he’d never disappeared from it? If we’d had the chance to explore what being “bothers and sisters in God’s way” looked like for us — beyond our short time together in Mr. Gould’s first grade class.

If he really was as much like me as I thought, maybe Dustin would have started questioning God too.

If I were a character in a book, one of my fatal flaws would be this:

I always seem to think other people know more than they do—about me, what I’m thinking, and what I mean by things.

What do you mean I have to include details and/or explain things if I don’t want to be misunderstood?

If I feel it or if I know it, then in my mind, other people know it and feel it too.

In that sense, as a character, I would also be a super unreliable narrator.

As a writer, I am contending with this flaw. I am realizing that when I process something partially on the page and partially in my own body, mind, and spirit, but I don’t find a way to convey that, this is what happens:

my writing becomes misleading. It doesn’t serve people the way I want it to. It sort of just looks like I’m having a tantrum through pen and paper; and that’s not a good look. (read: Alex, are you okay?)

Here’s the thing;

Writing through my feelings, for me, transmutes them. Releases them. Gets them out of my system.

Holding them in — not speaking or writing them out loud (either privately or in front of others) keeps them trapped in my body, spiraling like a wind storm that’s out of control.

I write so I can regulate. And my hope is always that my public self-regulation supports other people with their own self-regulation.

It may not always work out like that, but imma keep doin’ it anyway.

And for paying subscribers, I’m getting even more personal.

The following is an emotional rant that, hands shaking, I tapped furiously onto the page when I was angry.

Subject matter: being triggered over something stupid by someone I love.

To be clear, this is something I have since worked through, but I wanted to share the raw emotional process.

Hit me up if you’ve ever felt this way, I know I can’t be the only one.

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And then I’ll share it, and be like, “see, I’m doing the work, but it’s still not getting me anywhere.”

And maybe that’s because I’ve been doing the same thing over and over for more than a decade.

Like creating free spaces to share my writing online (substack, Instagram, beehiiv, medium, wordpress, etc), and burning myself out because I’m working so hard on something that doesn’t give me the kind of energy exchange that I need. Oh, and then getting a new idea and shifting gears—starting all over again.

Or working endlessly on a novel that I feel excited about, until I tucker myself out and decide to shelve it because I still don’t think it’s good enough. And then starting on something new a few years later.

And of course, always falling back into something that feels practical because I don’t want to feel like a total failure. Jobs that I can do, but don’t really want to do.

I’m tired of that pattern. So today, I’m going to break it, and here’s how.

1. draw a dividing line in the sand between my free content (like this substack post), and my paid content (like the one I’m going to share next week).

2. create a timeline for querying my novel, and then write and send out 4-5 query pitches a week through that timeline. If I still don’t have an agent by then, I’ll put the novel on the shelf and get started on the next one (I already have at least three ideas).

3. try not to convince myself that I need to do whatever I decide is more practical for x, y, or z reasons.

I’ve literally been living in this pattern since I was 22 (that’s 14 years. Ew).

If you keep doing what you’ve always done, you’ll always get what you always got.

It’s time to do things differently. Because I’m worth it. And I don’t want to be the thing that’s standing in my own way.

These might look like small shifts, but for me, they are big and scary. Asking people to pay to subscribe to my possibly unhelpful rambling, rather than baring my soul on the internet for all to see and just being glad that someone was looking? Woof. Letting strangers read and judge my work instead of just deciding for myself that it’s not good enough. Eeek. And sticking with what I set out to do instead of bouncing back to my safety nets. Ahhh.

But here’s the thing:

If people don’t want to pay to subscribe to my paid posts, that’s okay. At least they had the chance to decide for themselves rather than me deciding for them.

If an agent doesn’t want to represent my book, at least they had the chance to read it and make their own opinion about whether it was good enough or matched what they were looking for.

And if I’m in a place where I need to do something more practical, fine, but at least I’m responding to what’s necessary vs just doing what I think I should be doing for no reason at all.

So. Next week I’ll be publishing my first paid subscriber-only post. It’s deeply personal and it’s the kind of post I probably never would have shared publicly without a paywall.

And maybe things will change. Or maybe they wont. Maybe I’m just a delusional millennial who still believes I can be anything I want to be. But it’s worth a shot.

And the way all of this is rubbing against my nervous system is making me NOT want to press send on THIS post. It’s making me feel like maybe this is the wrong thing to do. Like the Universe is screaming at me— FOR GOD’S SAKE, WOMAN, WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE! (I know it’s not the Universe; just my low self-worth. ha). So I’m doing it anyway.

I’ll see you then.

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My sacred creative space had been holding a lot of pain—some of it my own, some of it an imprint of experiences held by the line of women who came before me.

In one workshop, I chanted with other women—my womb is not a space to hold pain and suffering, my womb is a space to create (full stop) and give birth to life—while we all took turns placing hands on each other’s low bellies. I admitted my fears out loud in a safe space; what if I had children and then resented them for feeling like a burden?

After that, I became more open to the idea of having kids—something I’d been closed off to for a long time.

A year later, I went to another workshop where I learned how to breathe—properly—and my whole system responded. I cried tears that didn’t have names. I nourished myself on a cellular level. I opened up a portal within my own body.

And then a month later, I got pregnant.

And now I have a child who laughs while trying to stick his fingers up my nose as I playfully pull away. I laugh too. And then he tries again. We both laugh.

The sweetness of it is like honey in my heart.

Phases:

I don’t think I ovulated during this cycle, and as a result, it lasted 31 days instead of the standard 28. Not uncommon for me every now and again.

So this month, I just had one long follicular phase, which was kind of nice. It made for a pretty even-keeled cycle.

During this never ending follicular phase, I wrote a short essay about meeting one of my soulmates.

I also shared a piece I wrote a few months ago. It’s about my love of reading and writing despite the early challenges I faced with learning to read.

Books I’m currently reading:

Not Bad for a Girl by Anastasia Ryan

Love Money, Money Loves You by Sarah McCrum

Plus a full read through of my WIP from a reader’s perspective :)

End Note

This cycle round-up took me a little longer to write. The start of my flow came with a deep desire to rest—full on rot in bed, do nothing, and rest. So I honored that. Without guilt.

Until next time ✨

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In Mrs. Kingsley’s 2nd grade class—sitting around a hexagon-shaped brown table with five or six other kids—we took turns reading aloud. I waited for my turn to come—palms sweating, heart pounding, eyes darting around the room. Each of my classmates read their part of the story like they were supposed to, following along as we went. Sounding out words they didn’t know. Demonstrating skills that I severely lacked. And then my turn came.

“Alex, do you want us to skip over you?” Mrs. Kingsley said, her tone calm and patient.

Heart pounding, mouth sealed shut, I nodded. Had she really just given me a free pass?

“Okay. Julian, you read the next paragraph,” she said.

And he did. And that was that.

I was only seven or eight, but I knew my teacher had given me grace because I was a bad reader. She knew it. Everyone knew it.

It was obvious that my reading level was a whole grade below the rest of my class. It was practically on display each time we went to the library to pick our new books. I had to wander over to the first grade shelves all by myself, meanwhile, everyone else perused the second or even the third grade shelves.

My cheeks burned and my stomach twisted when the other kids asked why I was looking at the first grade books, or when they asked what I was reading. I was stuck sounding out early reader copies of Amelia Bedelia and picture books like Clifford the Big Red Dog, while my friends got to read real chapter books written by authors like Judy Blume or even Beverly Cleary.

By the time I’d reached 4th grade, my ability to read had improved, but comprehension was a big problem. I couldn’t stay focused on the words in front of me. Most of the time, a sentence—or even just one word—would send my mind off to other places.

In the 5th grade, I developed a reward system to encourage my reading. A piece of candy when I finished a chapter. Or a cookie. Or juice. To this day, when I finish reading a chapter in any book, I crave treats. And I indulge.

Now, as an adult, I have a romanticized relationship with books. I love walking into a bookstore and running my fingers along the spines, picking out random novels and reading the covers, and taking deep breaths followed by slow sips of coffee. Maybe it’s because of my sullen start with reading. Or maybe it’s just a quirk.

Because the thing is, I never got into the habit of reading a ton. I’m definitely better at it, but my mind still wanders, and I have to rein myself in every couple of pages.

Most writers (as far as I know) are avid readers. They love books and stories just as much as I love the idea of them. The difference is, they have a real relationship with books, not a romanticized one. And I often think to myself, that’s why I’ll never be a real writer.

So when I decided that I wanted to write fiction, (when I was in the 6th grade, I think. Or maybe 7th) I didn’t want anyone to know, because what would they think? How could the girl who could barely read ever even dream of writing something worthy of publication?

And I still like the idea of writing in secret—behind an internet identity or a pen name—because that fear still lives in my body. Most people don’t know that I’m dyslexic or that I’ve had such a difficult relationship with reading. But what if they found out. Would that destroy my credibility? Or maybe it’s already painfully obvious to everyone except me.

Maybe there’s a part of me who believes that pretending to be someone else will make me more worthy of being a real writer.

I am a better reader now, maybe because I had to work so hard at it just to keep up. Or because I started writing, and somehow that helped me develop my understanding of sentence structure and syntax. It might also have something to do with my meditation practice, which helps immensely with my ability to focus. I’ve even been told that I’m a good writer by others—not that I believed them.

Still, I keep working at it. I keep putting myself out there. I keep looking for ways to improve and digging deep for meaningful things to say. I give myself permission to keep reading books that interest or inspire me, and put down the ones that don’t. And over the years, I’ve allowed more and more people to see me through my words.

In most cases, I still don’t read more than 10 books a year. I move through books slowly. And I don’t dedicate big chunks of time to reading. Just a few chapters here and there. But these days, when I read, I’m able to enjoy it—treats and all. Once I accepted where I am with my reading abilities, and stopped comparing myself to others, the frustration left me. And now, all that’s left is a girl who loves to read and write at her own pace.

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I write (mostly) self-reflective pieces about heart-led living, soul-level romance, generational healing, self-love, and what intimacy reveals about who we really are. If that sounds interesting, subscribe for more.

Most people make me feel the complete opposite. Untethered. Scattered into a million little pieces and split between all of those pieces all at once. On edge.

But not him.

He wasn’t my type. His blond hair and freckles threw me for a loop; as did his casual, carefree look, his use of slang, and his bad-boy air, juxtaposed with his straight-edge way of life. An anomaly.

And yet, I looked into his eyes and I recognized something in them. Behind them. Beyond them! He was a warm, weighted blanket. Sunlight reflecting on the full-bodied moon. A summer breeze kissing my skin.

He was home.

I didn’t have words for it. Or the capacity to understand what was moving between us in the brief seconds that ticked by—before I came to, before I was prompted to keep moving, before the magic moment had passed.

I knew him. But I didn’t know him. We had never met. Not in this lifetime.

But I would come to know him. Intimately. On the deepest levels. He would awaken me to myself as a woman. He would show me what a safe relationship looks and feels like. He would become exactly what I knew he was. My home.

But not forever.

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This is a true story. And it’s not the only time I’ve recognized someone beyond their physical form, or knew that they would become a meaningful part of my life before they ever did.

Soul-level romance is a theme I find myself weaving into my fiction—probably because it’s been a huge part of my life. But I don’t write romance.

Romantic love and connection are like a heartbeat that keeps my writing alive. But first and foremost, my stories are about women who decide to see what it’s like to follow their hearts.

Please like and/or share this post if that’s the kind of thing you’d like to read.