I spent a day alone, but not really alone at all.

The train upstate was delayed by thirty-six minutes. But no matter, I wasn’t in a rush. I passed the minutes peering around the platform, marveling (as I often forget to do) at the intricate lives of everyone around me.

A Spanish couple with an audacious three-year-old. A pair of young lovers. A Yankees fan dressed from head to toe in fanfare. A mother and daughter laughing in low whispers.

I got off the train a few towns over and wandered toward the main street. Pulled in by a sign on the street, I peered into a market window. A voice behind me says, “It’s worth it, I promise.” I’m easily frightened, so I jump before we both laugh as he apologizes and holds the door open for me.

There, in the middle of the market, we talk for thirty minutes. First, about how the town has changed. How upstate evolved slowly, then all at once. The good, the bad, the ugly. Then, he starts to tell me about his family, growing up in Brooklyn, what he worries about for his daughters.

He has a striking earnestness about him, and standing in front of the cheese, a stranger becomes a friend. We shake hands. He laughs, then says, you must be a very good shrink. I shake my head. I think I just love talking to people.

I don’t think any of us are immune to the existential crisis that is the rise of AI. Like upstate, it started slowly, then all at once. I don't have a firm stance on the debate: Where will it all go? Will it do more harm than good? It depends on who you ask and what you’re asking about. And I’m not educated enough on the matter to even venture a guess.

But as a therapist, writer, and founder of a community for modern love, I’ve fretted more than once about AI coming not just for my job, but for some of the things that make me feel most alive. Cultivating community. Creating containers for excavation, feeling, unraveling, and witnessing. Writing about the nuances of love, intimacy, and relationships. Being in relationship to others.

But the more time I spend interfacing with AI alongside doing 1:1 therapy, facilitating groups, cultivating community, and just being in the world, the more sure I become that AI isn’t coming for human connection. In fact, it can’t.

Intimacy requires depth; depth requires friction

We’ve all had that connection (romantic or platonic) that never quite made it past the hurdle of intimacy. It felt sweet, but a little artificial. Something about it never quite clicked. And looking back, we often find that we weren’t really ourselves within the relationship. We were toned down, agreeable, sometimes stumbling into the zip code of people-pleasing. Oftentimes, that behavior is subconscious and protective, but it keeps us from closeness.

While it might sound counterintuitive, intimacy requires friction. Depth is built through discourse. When someone says, “Well, that’s not quite it,” we get to respond with, “Ok, tell me more. Help me understand.”

In doing so, we open the door for dialogue. For clarification, deeper understanding, and the unmistakable sense of being known and understood. Discourse makes way for depth. For repairing and rebuilding after a misunderstanding. For pushing someone to be the best version of themselves. For really knowing someone beyond the facade of people-pleasing.

Attunement is a felt sense

AI is safe, but unmistakably hollow. This study shows that AI chatbots agree with us (or affirm our point of view) about 49% more than a human would do in the same conversation. Forty-nine percent!

And it makes sense that we’re reaching for agreeableness. This is a systemic issue, rather than any individual’s fault. We’ve built a society around convenience and isolation, so we can’t be surprised when we reach for the most frictionless form of connection. AI is easy, agreeable, and always there. There’s no vulnerability and therefore no risk of rejection. It’s foolproof “intimacy.”

But AI is like the connection that never quite developed. Just a quick hit of oxytocin (the bonding hormone) that leaves us hungrier than before. We’re longing for attunement, but attunement is the state of being deeply responsive and harmonized with another person’s emotional needs. It’s a felt sense between two nervous systems; something that cannot be replicated by AI. And when we engineer emotional attunement, it’s a brief moment in the sun, but a quick fade. It has no life, so it has no depth.

The risk is the point

All of our most cherished relationships exist because of risk. Because we tolerated vulnerability long enough to see what was on the other side of it.

It’s the moment of approaching someone. Of asking what they’re reading or how their meal is. It’s the deep breath before we say, “I really like spending time with you.” or, “Are you open to seeing where this goes romantically?” The risk is an unavoidable prerequisite to the connection. And vulnerability is a muscle. Yes, the grief compounds, but so does the resilience.

The texture of a relationship is built on mutuality. The degree of vulnerability doesn’t have to be equal, but it does need to be reciprocal. One person’s vulnerability can’t drag the entire unit forward (although we’ve probably all tried). Any connection facilitated by AI is structurally one-sided. It might feel like closeness in the moment, but again, it’s hollow.

Becoming an us

Relationships can make us forget ourselves in the best way possible. Not in that we self-abandon or forget who we are, but for a little while, the lines of me start to blur so that we can become an us.

Whether it’s a romantic relationship, a friendship, or a community, connection makes us feel a part of something. A sense of belonging. A potent feeling that we’ve never been alone.

And while the current of culture is pulsing toward convenience, we actually don't want convenience. We want reciprocity, kinship, and the kind of closeness that asks something of us. We even want friction, to allow ourselves to be shaky and take risks. To open the door to vulnerability, first a crack and then flung wide open, not knowing what we’ll find.

I used to worry that AI would flatten the richness of our complex human relationships, but really, it can’t. It can’t replicate the thirty-minute conversation with a stranger I’ll never see again. Or the glance between two people falling in love for the first time. Or what it feels like to be in a room full of people who will lovingly challenge you to be the best version of yourself.

The truth is, AI could never.

The Love Club —

The Love Club doors are officially open for new members. This season has been sweet & full of depth-oriented conversation, community connection, and integrated learning. Welcoming new members into our little world of love is truly one of my favorite parts of running the community. If it feels aligned, I’d love to have you.

The Love Club

I hit play on a voice memo from S. We’ve been mulling over the relationship between dating and doubt. Is some doubt okay? How much is too much? When does doubt mean something isn’t right? What do we do with it?

Western culture, most specifically the United States, is obsessed with certainty. It’s the shrine we worship. Where we’ll invest our time, resources, and energy. And it makes sense. The illusion of certainty makes us feel safe.

We know exactly what we’re ordering before we sit down for a meal. We know the trip we’ll take next spring. The weather in fourteen days. Down to the minute, what time our groceries will be delivered. We’ve engineered doubt out of almost everything that we touch.

Yet so much of our existence is entangled with uncertainty. Love is, undeniably, predicated on doubt. When we first meet someone, we’re inherently (and protectively) filled with doubt.

Are they who they say they are? Am I attracted to them? Are they actually curious about me? Do we share a sense of humor? Do we have chemistry? Are we getting along? How do they handle conflict? What have their past relationships been like? Do we want the same things?

Doubt serves an important purpose; it encourages discernment. First, it’s protective. Then, it’s inquisitive. After our bodies have decided that we are safe (emotionally & physically), it gives way to curiosity. Uncertainty is what fuels us to keep discovering someone. To keep exploring the textures and curves of a connection.

But sometimes, we take the doubt itself to mean that this must be wrong. That the right person, date, connection would feel completely and totally “right”. Void of even a hint of doubt. We’re so frequently sold the idea of “I just knew when I met them” or “from the moment we decided to be together, I was certain,” but this isn’t typically how intimacy grows. When we’re immediately certain about someone, we’re most likely certain about our projection of them. Sometimes, that’s who they turn out to be. But sometimes it’s not. People are layered, and they unfold over time. We can’t know them all at once. We were never meant to.

And what we’re left with is uncertainty. I don’t know yet. I’m not sure what will happen. I don’t know if they’re the right fit for me. I can’t tell if what’s coming up is an old pattern of mine. I don’t know if I see a future. I just don’t know yet.

This very doubt fuels our curiosity. And curiosity fuels desire. A desire to see someone. To understand their world. To discover their quirks and what they’re afraid of. Doubt facilitates intimacy.

Which isn’t to say that all doubt is something to sit with. I’m not referring to the doubt that makes your nervous system yelp, that makes you feel unsafe, or that carries the residue of past unhealthy dynamics. Instead, I’m talking about the doubt that lacks clarity. That asks you to sit in the discomfort of the liminal space. The not knowing. Discovering. Reaching. Finding clarity. Stepping in or stepping back.

Intimacy is a risk. Love is a leap into the unknown. An embrace of all that uncertainty has to offer us. And you don’t have to know today. You just have to know if you want to keep finding out.

The Love Club doors are officially open for new members. This season has been sweet & full of depth-oriented conversation, community connection, and integrated learning. Welcoming new members into our little world of love is truly one of my favorite parts of running the community. If it feels aligned, I’d love to have you.

join The Love Club <3

I used to be impatient, waiting for a time when I felt completely steady in love and intimacy. I thought that if I worked hard enough, I would reach a kind of relational enlightenment. That I would avoid moments of disconnection and attunement altogether. That I would heal my way to perfection.

And in striving for that, I was missing the point. The point is to be in our relationships. And to be in our relationships, we have to stop performing. To put down the obsessive need to be perfect in exchange for the intimacy we yearn for.

Everything I share below is a reflection of personal learnings from life, work, and running The Love Club. While honoring their anonymity and privacy, I want to thank and credit the wonderful women in The Love Club for the conversations that have informed all of the learnings, but especially the second one.

Before we dive in, sign-ups for the fall season of The Love Club (the membership for millennial women navigating the challenges of modern love who are tired of the false promises of hyper-independence) open to the waitlist next week (August 13th!)

The summer season has been such a sweet one. Full of intentionality, conversation, humor, togetherness, depth, and integration. If you’re depth-oriented, curious about community, and a lover of love, you’ll fit right in.

The Love Club

Trying to be perfect in our relationships only costs us closeness.

There’s a truth I’ve been avoiding for a long time: We will mess up in our relationships.

True intimacy requires us to put down performance. To show up authentically. To allow hypervigilance to slowly fade into the background. And when we do this, we will make mistakes. Little ones, and sometimes, even big ones. We will say the wrong thing. Do the wrong thing. Sidestep our values or act out of character.

And our inner-eldest-daughter-good-girl will threaten to nose-dive into a pool of shame. To throw her hands up and give up on the relationship. To deem it ruined. But if intimacy only survives when we’re perfect, it’s not really intimacy at all.

When we make a mistake in our relationships, we have an opportunity to go deeper. To be accountable. To get curious and ask the hard questions. To tend to our relationship and to ourselves. To expand the capacity of the connection.

And when we make it to the other side of shame, we can see that allowing ourselves to make mistakes (followed by repair) not only deepens the relationship, but instills the belief that our worth isn’t tied to our ability to show up infallibly.

The patriarchy harms all of us.

This month in The Love Club, conversations about the cultural, systemic, and individual impacts of patriarchy have been bubbling to the surface.

Obviously, the patriarchy is a system created by men for men and has done great harm to women (BIPOC women, especially). But perhaps for the first time, we’re realizing that the patriarchy hurts men, too.

The majority of boys are never given the scaffolding or modeling for emotional literacy (self-awareness, ability to recognize and express emotions, emotional accountability, honesty around self-worth/identity/belonging, etc) and therefore become men without core relational skills. This is incredibly nuanced, and it’s tempting to drop into binary thinking. Of course, the patriarchy benefits cisgender, heterosexual men at the expense of women and BIPOC individuals. But a society of men who are unable to emote, express, and engage in healthy relational patterns is a problem for all of us.

This will never have a singular conclusion, but this is where we landed in community: Despite how we’ve been conditioned, relational education isn’t the responsibility of women. We can model emotional literacy and accountability, but it is not our job to make up for the gaps left by patriarchy. Placing women in the role of “emotional educator” and “emotional caretaker” in their relationships puts the responsibility back onto us, perpetuating patriarchal norms.

We can point them in the right direction. We can expect more of them. We can recommend that they find community, mentorship, and support with other men walking the same path. We can suggest they go to therapy and find spaces where they can learn, grow, practice, and heal. They deserve to heal, too, but we are not the healers.

Sometimes love is the quietest thing in the room

We know this, and yet we forget it. Sometimes love doesn’t need to be declared. Or maybe it’s that the volume of the declaration doesn’t represent its depth.

The online world is ripe with social comparison. With blaring declarations of love, intimacy, and connectedness. It reminds me of being young and proudly stating, this is my best friend. And there’s a sweetness to the part of us that wants to make our love known. But how much of it is subconsciously performative? Or conditioning around how we’re supposed to communicate our love?

Some of the sweetest moments of intimacy I’ve ever experienced have been the quietest. Not my wedding, but a moment of breaking out in silent laughter. Exchanging a glance with my best friend, knowing exactly what she’s thinking. Having one meaningful exchange in community. The thing that no one sees except us.

Sometimes love is meant to be felt, not seen.

That’s a wrap on July. See you in August. xx

The Love Club doors are officially open for new members. This season has been sweet & full of depth-oriented conversation, community connection, and integrated learning. Welcoming new members into our little world of love is truly one of my favorite parts of running the community. If it feels aligned, I’d love to have you.

The Love Club

I don’t think we were ever meant to date this way.

But then again, I don’t think we were meant to do most of the things we do in our digital world. We were probably never meant to scroll or spend eight hours a day looking at a screen. Or order our food online. Or ask AI obscure questions rather than pondering them.

But I really don’t think we were meant to consume people in this way. Like they’re a commodity. A mirage of someone, but not quite real. Six photos. Three prompts. Apparently, that’s all a person is.

We were never meant to be swallowed by a screen. Whittled down, dumped into an algorithm, and presented to potential suitors, showing a layer so surface-level it says almost nothing about us.

But let’s go back to the beginning.

In the 90’s, there were only whispers of online dating. It was seen as a bit dystopian. Meeting someone?? on the internet?? Then, You’ve Got Mail came out in 1998 (and for my millennials, let’s not forget Nomad and Princeton Girl), romanticizing the idea of meeting the love of your life in an AOL chat room.

In 1995, Match.com was the first widely recognized online dating platform that allowed you to select preferences (gender, age range, location, hobbies, etc.). E-harmony came along in 2000 with a psychology-based compatibility approach and the introduction of an algorithm for love. Still, people were skeptical.

Until 2012, the year that Tinder changed dating as we knew it. After just two years, Tinder was seeing over one billion swipes a day. Two years later, Bumble followed, opting for female-first messaging (thank you, Bumble!) By 2015, Raya joined the scene. It’s the worst of the lot, but that’s a conversation for another time. Hinge was founded in 2013, but relaunched in 2016 as the dating app designed to be deleted.

Contrary to what you might think, I don’t hate dating apps. As a relationship therapist and founder of a community for single millennial women (The Love Club), I think they’re one of the main avenues for finding a partner in the terrain of modern love. And yes, there are definitely issues with the dating apps themselves. But there are also larger cultural patterns that the dating apps highlight, rather than create.

Ghosting, situationships, an utter lack of accountability, and superficiality, to name a few, all existed pre-online dating (all we need to do is watch SATC to jog our memories). But dating apps exacerbate these patterns, drilling them into our cultural subconscious. Subliminally communicating that there is always someone else. Always someone better. Not realizing that “better” had nothing to do with actual compatibility.

People are meant to be experienced, not consumed

Platforms aside, my main gripe with dating apps is that we were never meant to be consumed. Packaged up into little profiles that say very little about who we are. And it’s convenient, but it’s not working for us.

We’re meant to see the way someone holds a cup. The way our bodies feel when we’re near them. To hear the last song they were playing when we hop in the passenger seat. To notice how their eyes crinkle when they smile or that they look down when they’re nervous.

We’re meant to see how they order, and wonder about their favorite film. We’re meant to know far more than meets the surface. More than what they do on the weekends and their latest backpacking trip.

But not all at once. Modern dating makes us so consumable that we go into a first date knowing five dates’ worth of information. We know their job, where they grew up, where they live, what their hobbies are, their level of education, their religious affiliation, their desire for a family, and so on. And because we have their full names & access to the internet, we can also usually find their social media. AKA their social resume; an online depiction of “who they are”.

And I’m not claiming that these filters aren’t helpful and necessary when we’re looking for long-term partnership, but I can’t help but wonder: Do we know too much for our own good?

Some of it has to do with our biology. We’re social creatures. We literally read nervous systems. And no one can read a nervous system based on a profile (no matter how honed our Hinge skills are).

Someone can be app-perfect, but once we’re across from them, something about their voice might not sit right. We can have hilarious online banter only to find that in-person chemistry is sub-zero. And someone can seem like a throw-away date, only to have a sense of humor that almost made you pee your pants at the coffee shop.

We’re meant to be experienced, not consumed.

But as much as we love to hate them, we can’t go backwards. Dating apps aren’t going anywhere. And the third places where we once sourced love are slowly, but very surely, disappearing. So what’s a girl to do?

Navigating the digital terrain of dating

And the fix isn’t just to abandon dating apps. It’s too reductive, and it doesn’t work for everyone. For some people, if not most, dating apps are the most accessible avenue for seeking romantic connection.

So if you’re not in the business of deleting the apps altogether, here’s what I’d do: (Important note: we’re not moving into self-blame or excusing the systems that contribute to the issue, but we are carving out space to reclaim some autonomy with our relationship to the apps)

Going on an info diet

Someone in The Love Club shared that they completely refrained from looking at their dates’ social media platforms prior to a first date. Too much information muddies our perspective. We can’t help but project; it’s so human of us. We either like what we see and expect to experience that version (and are very disappointed if they don’t live up to their social resume). Or we don’t like what we see, and we close the door to really experiencing that person. Either way, we introduce a bias that often shoots us in the foot.

And it’s hard to resist, especially when everything we want to know about a person is a .03-second search away. But we don’t need more information; we need less. Or rather, we need information that comes from in-person interactions. From our body, our intuition, and our moment-to-moment response to that person.

I also understand that social media is often a way to vet safety on dating apps. Have a friend do it for you. Or check out their LinkedIn (which is usually quite dull).

Personalizing our profiles

Use these prompts to get started: If there were no rules, what would I want my dating profile to look like and feel like? If I could make my profile a closer representation of who I am, what would I change?

Basically, how can you make your profile more YOU? How can you defy the unspoken rules of five cute photos and slightly sarcastic, one-sentence responses? Get creative with how you show up. Screenshot your favorite book. Share a list of Substacks you love. Talk about something obscure that you really, really love.

And don’t come for me, but I like the voice memo feature in Hinge. Sure, it’s cringe. But you know what else is cringe? Love.

To stop performing for an app that’s all about performance is risky. It’s vulnerable in a visceral way. But then again, do we really want someone if they only want the shiny version of us? And if anyone thinks you’re totally uncool for being so chalant, then that’s great. They have automatically disqualified themselves from the privilege of loving you.

New apps & new features

Again, I don’t think dating apps are inherently bad. Yes, they’re for-profit companies in a capitalist system. Yes, they care most about their bottom line, but I believe there are a few who actually are oriented toward the mission of facilitating love and relationships.

Hinge just launched a new feature called the Signals Badge that rewards daters who show consistent effort on the app. In response to rampant lack of accountability (and 25 chats on the long road to nowhere), Hinge is rewarding users who show thoughtfulness, which they define as at least three of the following:

• Spending time on profiles before sending a like (points from me on this one)

• Responding with comments instead of likes

• Reviewing incoming likes (this one feels like a non-starter)

• Responding to messages (again feels like a non-starter, but okay)

• And confirming a date

Basically, Hinge is rewarding users who actually use the app as intended. It reflects activity over the last thirty days and refreshes daily based on recent activity. Are there nuances here? Yes, but ultimately it feels like a step in the right direction.

While I’m still in research mode, there seems to be a new wave of “swipeless” dating apps that prioritize in-depth conversation or IRL connection. While we can’t turn back the hands of time, I’m wondering if maybe, just maybe, we can reintegrate practices from a time before dating apps. If there’s a version of modern dating that returns to the experience of a person, rather than the consumption of them.

And I don’t know what will happen. We will just have to see, but something in me wants to feel optimistic. Maybe something in you does, too.

The Love Club

The Love Club doors are officially open for new members, and I’m giddy about it. This season has been sweet & full of depth-oriented conversation, community connection, and integrated learning. Welcoming new members into our little world of love is truly one of my favorite parts of running the community. If it feels aligned, I’d love to have you.

The Love Club <3

I’ve hated seeing myself on camera since I was a child. Maybe everyone does. Something about the sound of my voice. Something about how viscerally you can see yourself, hear yourself, perceive yourself from the outside in. Almost like we were never meant to.

Like many women, I hated being captured for a long time. I have a memory of being eleven, the age of blurry Mac Photobooth. I laughed with my friends, but left wondering, is that really what I look like?”

Then I entered college, where Instagram reigned, and Facetune silently held up the infrastructure. And if you have no idea what Facetune is, I have respect for you. And if you do, I have love for you.

I started shrinking my head. No, you read that right. The shape felt somehow too round. I squinted at the screen as my thumb moved the slider, shrinking my arms. My stomach. The shape of my right thigh. Once, I even made my eyes bigger. No doubt, I looked ridiculous. Hungrily, I pressed post.

Somehow, I grew out of it. I graduated from college. Deleted Instagram. Took a break from perceiving myself through the eyes of others. Started to warm to my Chinese heritage, visible in my every feature. I stopped dying my hair blonde. I stopped trying to look like someone else. Someone white. Accepting, for the first time, that I was just going to look like me.

That was over ten years ago. And while I left Facetune in college, self-criticism followed me around like a hungry, stray dog. It changed tunes, demanding perfection from work, how I show up for my friends, dating — really anything it could get its greedy hands on.

It’s a tired, old wound, scarring over just to bleed again. Most women are self-critical. Because we’ve been conditioned to be. Because we’ve been told to be perfect and admonished for every imperfection. Because we’ve been assigned the role of master regulators: emotion, mood, conflict, in almost every environment we’ve been placed in. So we bend and bend and bend. Then, we break.

And in an effort not to break, we internalize a firm voice. The voice of a caregiver. Or the vague authoritarian voice of societal pressure. You will be perfect, damn it.

And every time we fall short of perfect, a simple command plays on repeat through our minds: I will try harder. And with it, a slew of comments that, if spoken aloud to our friends, would make us suck in our breath before erupting in a blind rage. How dare anyone speak to our friend that way?

But us? Step right up.

It’s 3:14pm and there’s still time.

The sun filters in through slanted windows. I set up a chair and adjust the lighting. I should have blow-dried my hair. I press record, and the first take is seven seconds before I forget what I’m supposed to say.

Should I even be doing this? Maybe I’d rather hide behind my writing, after all. I press on. I film three videos (across countless clips) and exhale. Why did that just feel like the emotional Olympics?

Closing my laptop, I leave behind screens and opt for the weight of real objects: my book. A glass of wine. A thick sweater. I walk out to watch the sunset over the trees; an attempt to tether myself back to the earth. To melt into non-perception.

A few days later, I muster up the resolve to review the footage. In the first few clips, I left the fan on. You can’t hear anything. The next one, I’m completely void of facial expressions. I look like AI. In an attempt to iterate, I’m smiling in the next one. It looks a bit creepy. I’m starting to get exasperated.

But as I keep watching, there’s a slow shift. I take a deep breath, then let it out. Without knowing it, I place a hand on my chest. I whisper quietly to myself, “Let’s just start again.” I slip up for the 38th time and say without realizing, “It’s ok. Keep going.”

Against all odds and a lifetime of self-criticism, I am self-compassionate.

All of my clients roll their eyes when I bring up self-compassion, but it’s the hill I’ll die on. It’s the thing that makes everything else a little brighter, a little less heavy. It’s the proverbial vase of tulips in a dark room. It’s the tiny joy and the trace of beauty.

In Buddhist teachings, there is a concept called the second arrow. The first arrow is the pain: The rejection, the grief, the heartbreak — the unavoidable pain of being alive. The second arrow is the shame we slather like warm butter on sourdough. It’s the internal voice. The mean girl that lives inside your mind. The self-blame. The barrage of insults.

The Buddhist view is that the first arrow is pain, but the second arrow is suffering. Essentially, how we respond to ourselves has a direct correlation with how much we suffer. And while nothing is ever quite that simple, I’ve personally experienced the truth in this teaching. The harder we are on ourselves, the harder it is.

Self-compassion is also one of the hardest things to practice, especially for women. People say, just be kind to yourself! We nod, but wonder how?

Baby, baby steps

Self-compassion isn’t a quick fix. It might actually be the slowest fix there is. I’m ten years in and have a ways to go. Speak kindly to yourself even when it feels inauthentic. Try it on for size. You did your best. I’m proud of you for putting yourself out there. This is what growth feels like. Notice how that lands in your body, and if there’s a hint of softening, no matter how subtle.

Little you is so little

I know this one is cliché, but I think we call it cliché to avoid the work of vulnerability. I know I did. For a long time, I just didn’t want to admit that the younger me was in there. She’s long gone, I told myself. And ignoring that she was listening made me all the more cruel. How wrong I was. Find a picture of her. Fold it up, put it in your wallet. Your journal. Use it as a gentle reminder that she is still here. That she is listening to every backhanded comment you mutter to yourself. And if you knew you were talking to her, what would you change?

Accountability is loving

We are going to be rude to ourselves sometimes. It’s inevitable. But who in your life can check you when you’re bordering on cruel? A best friend? A sibling? Your friend from childhood? Who can firmly, lovingly call you out when the inner asshole has taken the wheel? Who can remind you that you need to get back on course? And not just in a “you need to be nice to yourself” kind of way, but in a, “I’m noticing this pattern, and you’ve voiced you want to work on this. I’m here to remind you that we need to pause.” And then we have to do the work of not getting angry at them for calling us on our shit.

Putting yourself out there will never be easy. It might get easier, but it won’t be easy. We’re essentially guiding people toward our tender spots and saying, here it is! Not knowing if they will be gentle or take their best jab.

It’s a lifelong practice, this business of being nice to ourselves. And when we’re doing great, it’s easy. But I’m more interested in the other bits. When we’re grieving. Rejected. Dejected. When we fail at something or act out of alignment with our values. Because that’s when we really need it.

I press post. This time, I’ve haven’t changed the shape of my arms. My head is the same size as my head in real life. Other than playing around with the lighting, I don’t alter myself. I play it back. I stuttered once, but I’m proud of it. Proud of putting myself out there. It’s not perfect, but it doesn’t have to be.

A few days later, someone comments, “Shut up, this is stupid.” I don’t even hesitate. Ignore that, that’s mean. You did great. And I move on, miraculously. Kindly. No second arrow in sight.

Thank you for being here, and thank you for reading. I was with a friend the other day who reminded me, Remember when you had four Substack followers? And I was genuinely so happy about those four readers. And I’m genuinely still so happy about each of you who choose to spend your precious minutes with me.

My Substack will always remain free, but if you want to support my work, please spread the word about The Love Club: The membership for women navigating the challenges of dating, heartbreak, and new relationships who are tired of the false promises of hyper-independence and the self-sufficiency of singlehood.

The summer season is officially full, but doors reopen in September for a little back-to-school-back-in-love energy. If you’re curious, or just want to learn more about other offers, hop on the waitlist (it automatically adds you to my email list).

Have a happy June out there!!

I prodded at my half-eaten cranberry-specked pastry as we gazed out toward the street. Perched at the window, we chatted idly while watching beachgoers with armfuls of chairs, umbrellas, and bulging tote bags.

Our empty cups sat side by side when she said: I know that the chase isn’t great, but I still want to be pursued.

We know that we don’t want to be chased, or we know we’re not supposed to want to be chased. We know, at the very least, that it’s not the healthiest way to start a relationship. That the game of cat and mouse, while exhilarating, doesn’t land us in the zip code of the safe, reciprocal love that we’re longing for.

But we still want to feel wanted. We still want to feel valuable. We want to feel pursued. But second-wave feminism (which, not to discredit, did do a lot for us!) hit a hard reverse on traditional values. We weren’t supposed to want to feel wanted by a man. That was the patriarchy talking, apparently. We shouldn’t need or want external validation to feel whole, complete, or worthy (I do still agree with this, but only to a certain degree). The permission to want to be wanted was officially rescinded.

But third-wave feminism resissued our permission slip. It stopped telling us exactly what to do, because in doing so, it stripped us of our personal autonomy (which is exactly what it sought to fight in the first place). It encourages us to want what we want, feel what we want, dress how we want, pursue the career we want, love who we want, and act like we want. It tells us that the only rules are our own.

So we’re free to want to be pursued, but what does that actually look like? And is the pursuit really that different from the chase?

The anatomy of the chase

If you’ve chased or been chased, you know the feeling. That intoxicating neurochemical cocktail. The feeling of being wanted, but staying just out of reach. Or of reaching, knowing that they’ll slip away at the last moment, guaranteeing that the game goes on.

It’s modern-day hunter vs. prey, and it’s objectifying by nature. We’re trying to “get” someone, not get to know them. We’re treated (or treat someone else) like a prize to be won. Something to achieve, not someone to be with. And while the rush feels, objectively, amazing, there’s a stark reality on the other side. A loss of interest. A lack of actual connection. The absence of fundamentals for a relationship.

It’s taxing both emotionally and physiologically, sending our nervous system for a loop. And when the chase is over or the attention fades, our attachment system kicks into gear. Consciously or subconsciously, we begin to strategize. To pull away. Become mysterious. Try to evoke jealousy. Clawing our way back, by any means necessary, to that first hit of connection.

It’s a lethal cycle.

The pursuit, on the other hand

While seemingly adjacent, the pursuit is different. Yes, one person is still the primary pursuer (which is normal at the start of most relationships). But the pursuit differs in intention, action, and energy.

It isn’t about “getting” a person, but the communicated desire to spend time getting to know someone. The semantics make all the difference in the world.

The pursuit often names the dynamic (e.g I really enjoyed our time together, and I would love to keep getting to know you). It also honors mutual interest. If you communicate (with words or actions) that you’re not interested, the pursuit ends. The pursuit is steady and will rarely leave you in a state of muddled emotional confusion (e.g analyzing texts and going back through that last date, line by line). Lastly, it’s present-focused. It’s not trying to pull you into the future, when the pursuit is over, and status is achieved.

The summary of differentiators:

• Interest: The pursuit honors mutual interest, while the chase thrives off an uneven playing field

• Sensation: The pursuit is butterflies. The chase is a head rush.

• Communication: The pursuit is communicated, while the chase depends on a lack of communication.

• Pace: The pursuit is steady and consistent, which builds a baseline level of safety. The chase is an erratic sprint.

• Limits: The pursuit honors boundaries. The chase barrels through them and calls it romantic.

• Timeline: The pursuit is present-oriented. The chase is entrenched in the future tense.

And beyond this list, you can feel the difference in your body. If we slow down and really listen, our nervous system will tell us everything we need to know.

Take me to dinner, please

A good friend of mine recently decided that being taken on dates (and pursued in that way) felt enormously healing. After years in a relationship where her needs were all but translucent, the intention of someone planning a date felt reparative.

So she told men straight up, usually after the first date. Something along the lines of, “I’d love for you to plan our second date. I’m up for anything, so you don’t need to ask, but I would love for you to plan the whole thing.” Sometimes she explained why that was important to her. Sometimes she didn’t.

And you know what happened? They planned dates. And, because she’d done the work to reconnect with her needs and remember that she deserves to have them met, she didn’t feel like it was “too much” to ask. Or that she was being high-maintenance. For her, having a date planned felt like being pursued. And that was important.

For my friend, it was about dates. For you, it might be something different. It might be communicating feelings first. Planning the next date. Moving the relationship forward. You get to decide for yourself, and it’s helpful if you communicate that desire.

It’s OK to want to be pursued. It doesn’t make you a bad feminist. Or stuck in the past. It just makes you human. And in a dating culture that leans mindless, flippant, and avoidance, the pursuit is romantic. And there’s nothing wrong with that.

It’s also ok to be the pursuer

Sometimes, we want to take fate into our own hands. I did.

People are often surprised to hear that I was the pursuer in my relationship. And for a long time, so was I (this topic surfaced in The Love Club last week, prompting this post).

At the start of my relationship, I was the pursuer. I can’t tell you exactly why. I just had a good feeling about it. He was someone that I could talk to for hours. He was curious, and we shared a lot of values. I could tell, already, that he was a person of integrity. And I’d spent just enough time with him to know all of this.

So after swallowing my pride, I pursued him. While there was mutual effort and interest, I was driving. And as the relationship settled into reciprocity, I had to work through my narrative that the one who pursues ultimately cares more. And is inherently at some sort of disadvantage in the relationship.

It was the wound of not being chosen, and it had been there long before the relationship. Being the pursuer poked and prodded at that part of me. It was mine to hold and mine to heal. And slowly, I stopped believing that being the pursuer was some sort of weakness. Instead, I embraced it as a strength. As my intuition piercing through, loud and clear.

And to this day, my partner thanks me for pursuing him. I now answer, you’re welcome.

In the end, it really doesn’t matter if we’re pursued or the pursuer. It matters only insofar as it's whichever one you want. And it will change, and evolve. I never imagined myself the pursuer, but it all comes out in the wash.

That’s the thing about love — in the end, who started it doesn’t matter.

The Love Club is the membership for millennial women who are tired of processing their love life in the notes app, white-knuckling their way through modern dating, and carrying the weight of all of it alone.

The Love Club <3

The bone-deep yearning. The gaze across the room only to find them looking at someone else. The sense that if we could just have this one thing, we would never ask for anything else ever again. And it’s an ache that, once experienced, never really leaves you.

It’s 2011, and I flip to the R’s the moment the yearbook lands in my adolescent hands. Starved for connection, I settle for his school picture. I’ve lusted after the same boy for almost a decade. I’m not sure if you can call it love, but it was whatever you can feel at nine, at twelve, and at sixteen.

And yes, it was completely unrequited.

While I’ve been subject to many unrequited crushes and disappointing dating experiences, it was the depth of this childhood infatuation that came to mind after Ethan Hawke’s viral interview at the Oscars.

His interview, a 60-second exchange at most, gave our tired hearts a jolt, reminding us of what it means to love and live well.

Love isn’t coy

Modern love — especially modern dating — is laced with avoidant messaging. Be coy. Polished. Unfeeling, even. Don’t respond right away. Don’t write too much. Don’t say too much. Don’t get attached. Never show your hand. To get what we want, we not only have to play hard to get, but also hard to understand. As if love is a strategy to be won, rather than a state of connection.

But the joke’s on us because love isn’t coy. And the one who loves knows that. Knows that there’s no living in being elusive. No marrow in stifling the very emotions that make us feel alive. Knows that a relationship won through strategy isn’t a relationship worth having at all.

In a culture that rewards indifference, the willingness to love — in all its open-hearted, grief-ridden glory — is a revolution. Choosing to feel, when we’re instructed to numb, is a paradigm shift that we should all consider subscribing to.

Love isn’t a means to an end. It’s the end.

Unrequited love is often accompanied by shame. The dark, ugly, quiet belief: We were not chosen, so we are not good enough. But the truth is, we dared to love, and that itself is good enough.

To Ethan’s point, to feel is to be alive. To experience the richness of connection balanced by the hollowness of loss is the essence of living. A life void of emotional risk is also a life void of emotional elation.

The truth is hard, but simple: We will never be chosen if we don’t allow ourselves the chance to not be chosen. Love without risk isn’t the kind of love we want.

And when I think about the version of reality I’m most afraid of, it’s not endless chapters of grief. It’s feeling nothing. Being indifferent; a vehicle for existence rather than the experiencer of it. I’m not afraid of grief. I’m afraid of looking at my best friend’s baby, staring out into the ocean, holding the pinky finger of my partner, laughing with my parents, running across a wide open space, locking eyes with the barista, and feeling nothing.

Love isn’t the means to an end. It’s the end.

Tending to Unrequited Love

All that said, if you’re living through unrequited love, you are not alone. And you are not destined to this holding pattern of grief. Below are a few invitations to roll out your pattern on the table and take a good, long look.

Giving our hearts on loan

Sometimes there’s a type, not in physicality, but in feeling. The type of person who feels just out of reach. Whose attention, when it lands on you, feels like a hundred sunny days. Who pulls at the part of you longing to be seen. Maybe you’ve handed this person your heart so many times that you've stopped noticing that you’re doing it.

And a pattern of unrequited love doesn’t mean that there's something wrong with you. Rather, it’s an invitation to get curious about the feeling that keeps bringing you back.

Who is safe to give your love to?

Our intimate, non-romantic relationships are our most underutilized compass. The best friend who holds your heart with a tenderness you didn’t think possible. The neighbor who actually sees you when they look at you. The mentor who lovingly but firmly challenges you. The friend you read books with — your nervous system settled enough to just be in silence. The past partner or parent who celebrates your complexities, giving you the freedom to be yourself.

These relationships highlight the outlines of a love that chooses you back.

The echoes of our worth

Who we readily hand our hearts over to (sometimes we even give them a good toss) is a reflection of our self-worth. I can name crush after unrequited crush during my adolescence. In my cloud of teenage naivety, it felt like I would never be chosen. And this feeling is what made me so vulnerable when someone finally did. My answer was a resounding, yes please —no matter how they treated me.

Being chosen felt like relief. Like the deepest breath I’d ever taken. And so I overlooked when things got worse, explaining things away until I was out of explanations. And the love wasn’t unrequited, but I lost myself.

It took me years to understand that I needed to reroute that unrequited love inward. That what I’d built was crumbling, and that the only way back to a solid sense of self was to rebuild. This time, on my own.

You are your center of gravity

When someone else becomes your center of gravity, you lose access to yourself. To your unmet needs and the boundaries you forgot to set. To your preferences and how you take your coffee. To the belief that you deserve to have a reciprocal love.

And sometimes the way back is quieter than you expected. It doesn’t feel so much like a homecoming as it does a silent walk back. Sometimes it’s just a whisper of: This is where I’m supposed to be, even if it hurts.

Start doing thoughtful, romantic gestures for yourself — the ones you normally reserve for everyone else. Buy the tulips and spread them out on the kitchen table. Spend time only with the people who fill your cup. Book a day trip and journal on the train. Find ways, no matter how small, that find you at the center of your world again.

I never did land the crush, but I’ve carried that experience with me. Into my work. My partnership. My friendships. And the way I move through the world.

Our ability to feel deeply, to yearn, to want, and to love is the fabric of who we are. Our vulnerability might seem like an Achilles’ heel, but it’s our greatest source of strength. It’s our proof of life.

And it’s worth its weight in gold.

The Love Club

The Love Club doors are officially open for new members. This season has been sweet & full of depth-oriented conversation, community connection, and integrated learning. Welcoming new members into our little world of love is truly one of my favorite parts of running the community. If it feels aligned, I’d love to have you.

The Love Club <3

She stands across from me, holding up a spatula in her right hand as she thinks. We used to live together as peaceful acquaintances. Niceties in the kitchen. A shared pot of coffee — that sort of thing.

Then COVID hit, and we found ourselves in a bubble of intimacy. I was reeling from heartbreak, she was in a new relationship, and she quickly became my life partner. We did everything together. There was an almost instantaneous sense of ease and comfort.

She’s that rare blend of solid and light-hearted. Sincere, but never takes herself too seriously. Inquisitive, hilarious, and highly attuned to others. And despite the overwhelming uncertainty of the times, our newfound friendship bubble-wrapped my grief with safety. We’ve been close ever since. I imagine our friendship will be forever stained with those never-ending days together. Thank goodness for that.

Another close friend comes bounding in the door. She’s vivacious and indescribable. Every person that I’ve ever introduced her to is enamored. And not just because she’s hilarious. Or kind. Or an amazing conversationalist. But because she’s refreshing. She puts people at ease. She is hilarious, but in a way that feels caring. She is one of the most intuitive people I’ve ever met, and I don’t even think she knows it.

We met at work, bonded by the cliché tech start-up culture that we oscillated between resenting and worshipping. Her heart broke first, then mine. And because of that, our work was laced with friendship. Thank goodness for that. I tapped her arm every so often to look at an email draft (she’s a true wordsmith) or caught her eye when my grief threatened to spill out during a meeting (in the form of ugly tears).

The erosion of vulnerability

When I think of my 20’s, I see these two women. Between them, they used to know basically every detail of my life. Now, we stand in the kitchen catching each other up. Veering this way and that, trying to understand the shape of a life that we once knew so well.

And it’s not that age has carried us away from each other, necessarily. To some degree, it’s normal. For one, we don’t share a living space. We don’t work together. I live in a different city, reducing our visits to 2-4x per year. So there’s a proximity piece here — that type of intimacy requires togetherness.

But it’s also something else. Something a little more subterranean. Something we dug up, as we sat on the living room floor, pausing between bites to listen to one another.

When we get into long-term relationships, the proverbial iron gate comes down. We close the blinds. Sometimes we even shutter the windows. We avoid talking about our relationships the way we used to. Rarely, if ever, do we disclose the recurring fight, the values-misalignment, friction with in-laws, or just the seasonal nature of romantic connection. And when we stop talking about what matters, we lose what’s real.

We don’t want our friends to know, because we don’t want them to judge. To jump to conclusions without the context. To make broad, sweeping statements about the state of our relationship without any of the nuance. To write off our partners or silently judge our actions. And because our long-term partnerships feel more permanent, they feel more fragile. We’re protective of them in a way we never were in our twenties.

And it’s all fair, but what happens to our friendships when we stop talking about what’s real? And what’s the cost to our relationship when we slam the door on the support and perspective from friends that we once needed?

A loss of reciprocity

My friends are currently single. And it’s not that they aren’t open to talking about their dating experiences, but it no longer feels reciprocal. My friend explains that her friends are so well-intentioned. They’re curious about her dating life, asking to swipe on her apps and dropping the occasional “sex life” question.

And she doesn’t mind sharing, but it’s not met with reciprocal vulnerability. When she asks about their relationships, they quip, “They’re fine! Everything is fine.” There’s no exchange, so there’s no intimacy. One-way sharing isn’t conducive to cultivating closeness. If anything, it can feel isolating on both ends.

It widens what seems like an ever-growing divide between those who are partnered vs. single. Divvying us up into categories of who we can still feel close to, and who’s partnered just out of reach. It creates a gap we can’t close, unless we’re willing to be vulnerable regardless of relationship status. Disconnection breeds disconnection.

The caveat

To caveat, I’m not suggesting that the path back to connection is to talk shit about our relationships. Or that you have to disclose the intimate details of your paternship to your friends.

But I guess I’m wondering, what stops you from reaching out for the same type of support that buoyed you through your twenties? What is it about partnership that makes us want to lock the door and toss the keys? And who, in the long run, does that really support? When we stop outsourcing support, do both our friendships and partnerships suffer?

In some cases, privacy is necessary. It’s also a boundary, personal to each relationship dynamic. There are conversations to be had about what is OK to share without rupturing trust. And there’s the question of who we feel comfortable sharing with — the assumption is that we want to share with friends who can meet us with compassion and curiosity, who approach the conversation with a desire to understand and support. And ideally, never to judge.

But hypothetically, if all of these conditions are met, we have so much more to gain than to lose.

I scoop some ice cream from the almost-empty carton and plop back onto the floor, across from two people who know almost all the versions of me.

And sitting there, I pull up the gate and throw the windows open. I tell them about the things in my relationship that have been hard, the things that have been good, and the things that fall somewhere in between. I talk about timing and transitions. They listen, but they also reflect back what I need to hear. They offer fresh perspectives and push back where it’s needed, because they know me.

And I don’t just tell them because I want our relationship to feel reciprocal (I do), or because I want them to feel safe sharing their experiences with me (I do), but because our relationships are about feeling seen. And we’ll never feel seen if we hide.

I don’t know exactly what it looks like, but I know I want to preserve some version of the closeness we once had. The kind that doesn’t make you question the connection. The kind that survives distance and time apart because you can cut straight to the core of it all.

I think I’ll stain my friendships with vulnerability and call it beautiful.

I was hanging a hasty left when she asked:

When do you feel like you knew he was the one, or one of the ones for you?

And her intentions were lovely, but I hate this question. I hate it because it’s a nod to the cultural phenomenon of “when you know, you know.”

It’s this amorphous, vague catch phrase that’s designed to either: 1) Create a sense of superiority that we’ve found the person, or 2) Leave us doubting, spiraling, or ashamed of not knowing, without a shadow of a doubt, that our person is the only person for us.

And in a romance-forward, albeit often unrealistic, culture, we love to talk about the exact moment when someone connected to the deep, intuitive, unshakeable sense that just knew (that this was their person, that they wanted to spend the rest of their life with them, that there was no one else, insert romantic statement here.)

And as a romantic, I totally get it. What could be more swoon-worthy than someone professing their undying, permanent, and exclusive love for you?

Beneath the romance-laced sentiment is something interesting: The notion of certainty. The idea of the absolute. Without a doubt. No questions asked.

And for anyone who struggles with or experiences anxiety (that is to say, most of us), certainty is a slippery concept. On one hand, it makes us feel safe, as if adding bumpers to the lanes of our emotional experience. But on the other hand, it encourages a pursuit of something fundamentally impossible to achieve.

And for some people, there may be a deep, intuitive sense of 98% certainty (as close as we can get) that this is the only person & partnership for them. Maybe they do just know. But for most of us, I don’t think that’s the case.

And not because we haven’t chosen our partner. Or because there’s something wrong with us. Or because there’s something inherently wrong with the relationship, but mostly because long-term commitment is a layered decision, not a one-and-done.

Years ago, I posed the question (that I hate) to a friend and mentor. I was falling in love, and I wanted answers. How did you make the decision? When did you know?

And I’ve never forgotten what she said: I’m not really sure, but there was a moment that stands out. It was after a fight. Things had boiled over. They had screamed at each other. Said hurtful things. She left the apartment, but as she was going down the stairs, she turned around. He opened the door at the exact moment she was reaching for the handle, ready to go after her. And then they did the work of repairing what had been broken.

She’d said, “I knew that there would always be risk, but I knew we could get through hard shit together. It wasn’t just this feeling of love, but of devotion to each other, even in grueling moments.” It was unsexy, but it was real.

It was also the first time that I’d talked to anyone who was married, or in a long-term committed partnership, who openly acknowledged that “forever” wasn’t really a valid promise.

Like everyone else, I’m currently watching Love Story (read: binging it). It’s searing and seductive (CBK 90’s style and all), but it’s also real. Their love story is textured. It’s not a glance across the room, the quick rush of falling in love, and an ecstatic proposal. It’s not “when you know, you know.”

Instead, it’s fights in the park. And navigating family dynamics. It’s Carolyn waffling over the decision of commitment and the life that she wants. There isn’t an “aha” moment when she just knows. She has doubts, rightfully so. And if she left her decision up to intuition (which, for many of us, is tinted by fear), I personally don’t think she would have leapt.

Her doubts aren’t a symbol of an unhealthy dynamic, the wrong partner, or a fated decision gone awry. They’re just a normal part of our human experience. And she pieces through them. They sift. They talk. They negotiatie and they build.

Maybe the question shouldn’t be: How do you know that this person is the one & only person for you?

But rather: Who do you want to ride off into the unknown with? What are the patterns, qualities, dynamics, and values that will steady you through what’s to come?

Because what do we really know when we commit to a long-term partnership? We know that we want to keep trying. That we want to keep choosing this. That we want to show up for our love. But do we know that we will always choose them? Will they always choose us?

The heart-wrenching truth is that we don’t. And some might say, “How unromantic of you,” but that’s the mystery of life. Nothing is pre-destined. Who we are at 30 or 40 is not who we are at 50 or 70 or 100. Life moves, and it moves us.

And in some ways, it makes that commitment all the more beautiful. Because it is fragile, it is also precious. The commitment is that I will love you, in whatever form that takes. The promise is that I will love you, come what may. Whether it’s holding hands at ninety-two or letting you go, because life asks that of us.

I absentmindedly flipped on my blinker, rattling off a series of key moments to my friend, wondering if, when I said it out loud, it would feel true.

When did I just know that he was the person for me?

The truth is, I never had that one moment. And for a long time, I worried that meant that something was wrong. That the lack of deep, almost mythical intuition meant that we were destined to fail.

But love doesn’t work like that. At least, it didn’t for me. There wasn’t one moment, because the moments build every day, shifting in flavor, texture, and depth through different seasons of life. Layering one over the other, weaving a foundation to hold the weight of the future and the preciousness of love.

I don’t know, without a shadow of a doubt, that we will spend the rest of our lives together. Mostly because I don’t know anything without a shadow of a doubt. I do, however, know that he is the person that I want to plunge into the unknown with.

And maybe that’s the most romantic thing we can do.

xx

Amy

What if I told you that, if you’re lucky, there won’t just be the one, but many?

I know that the concept is inherently contradictory; that it’s almost mind-bending to attempt to disassemble a narrative that’s been co-constructed for a hundred years.

I know that we’ve been fed this idea of the one since we exited the womb, that our subconscious bends at the will of being chosen, but what if that wasn’t the only viable option?

Disclaimer/important note: While this reflection explores the importance of expanding love beyond romantic partnership, it is still written from a lens shaped by monogamous relationship norms. This is not intended to suggest that monogamy is the only or preferred relational structure, nor to overlook the rich and valid ways people experience love and partnership outside of it. Instead, the hope is simply to invite a wider view of love — one that honors friendship, community, family, and self-relationship alongside romance.

Our Western ideals dictate that romantic love should be sweeping, fated, exclusive, and grounded in the idea of the one. We have this cultural tendency to hinge our entire existence on the idea of romantic love. We equate partnership with worthiness — a relationship is our currency for being enough. I don’t have to explain it to you, because you’re living in it.

And while it’s easy to take this definition at face value, it has deep cultural, religious, economic, and political roots. I’m not a sociologist, but intentional discernment invites us to explore our beliefs, which includes where they come from & how they developed.

A teeny history of Western ideals of love:

written by me, but research done with ChatGPT

Western romantic mythology started (or at least was recorded first) in Ancient Greece. However, the Greeks had a more holistic conceptualization of love. They didn’t believe that one person should be able to fulfill all our emotional needs.

They had multiple types of love: Eros (sexual/passionate desire), Philia (friendship/companionate love), Storge (familial love), and Agape (spiritual/unconditional love).

However, Aristophanes (a greek playwrite) showed up one day with a myth that basically changed everything: Humans were originally two beings fused together, God split them in half, and now we spend our lives searching tirelessly for our “missing half”.

Theology isn’t in my wheelhouse, but the rise of Christianity took this narrative and gave it a practical spin. Monogamy was the divine order, and sexual exclusivity was a moral virtue. Marriage became a very convenient vehicle for upholding these ideals.

Then, Medieval love came to the table. This was the birthplace of so much of our modern romantic fantasy (and also probably why we’re so obsessed with Bridgerton). Medieval love was peak yearning. The Wuthering Heights trailer (and questionable promo tour) pretty much encapsulates the beliefs of the era: Love should be overwhelming, involve longing and suffering, feel transformative, and that one’s beloved should be idealized, unattainable, or both. Sexy, but not very healthy.

As we moved through the Romanticism Movement and the Industrial Revolution, partnership evolved into a means for emotional fulfillment, rather than survival. Romanticism glorified passion, intuition, and the idea of fate (furthering the idea of the one).

During the Industrial Revolution, people began to expect their marriage to provide emotional intimacy, friendship, sexual satisfaction, personal growth, social identity, financial partnership, and parenting partnership. At this point, we basically lumped all of our needs onto the back of a singular person.

Which pretty much delivers us to the present day. While we might not explicitly say it, we still subconsciously expect our partner to meet the full gamut of our needs. And that’s not always personal choice, but a result of systems created with this model as the baseline.

And sometimes, our relationships fold under the weight of the compounded pressure — to be the best friend, the co-parent, the confidant, the lover, the mentor, the business partner, the voice of reason, the caretaker, the household caretaker, and the sounding board for all things.

How many roles can one person fulfill? Or better yet, how many roles can one relationship handle? And can our relationships really handle that weight in the long term? Seasons of life will come sweeping in when one person (or both) has less capacity. And then what happens to the needs? And who props up the relationship then?

To be clear, I’m not suggesting that romantic love doesn’t matter. To most of us, it matters very, very much. I’m also not asking us to deprioritize romantic love, but can we decenter it? Can it be a part of the solar system, rather than the sun? Can romantic love coexist with our other relationships without throwing its weight around, flexing to show its superiority in every relational dynamic?

We deem life incomplete until we’ve found the one person who will complete us. But when we say that out loud, doesn’t it seem a little crazy? Isn’t it also a little disheartening to believe that we cannot become whole until we are miraculously discovered by the one?

What if many people complete us? Or better yet, what if we’re whole on our own? Not split in half, as Aristophanes suggested, but two whole individuals joining hands to learn, evolve, and build a life as a team, but not a singular unit?

My partner is the love of my life. My sister is also the love of my life. I have friends who are the love of my life. My family provides me with a sense of belonging. My community lights me up and buoys me through difficult seasons. And because love is not a finite resource, the love I have for others doesn’t take away from the love I have for my partner.

If we’re lucky, love trickles out of our relationships. If we tend to them, we can soak up every last drop. If we show up, we can give that love back, reinforcing a system of reciprocity.

When we decenter romantic love, we don’t have less love — we have more. More connection. More humor. More perspective. More growth. More support. More space. More than just the one.

Instead, we have the many. How lucky are we?

xx

Amy

disclaimer part two: Many collectivist cultures (including numerous African, Indigenous, asian, Middle Eastern, and Latin American traditions) have historically understood love as something that exists within the broader web of community, rather than centered around a singular romantic relationship. This concept is not new — it was invented by a myriad of cultures. In these cultural frameworks, emotional security, love, and belonging were supported by family, elders, friends, spiritual communities, and ancestral connection, making up a distributed model of care. Importantly, collective care and interdependence have always been essential — especially for BIPOC communities. Community has been (and continues to be) a form of resistance and a means of survival. Part of honoring that legacy is resisting the collective urge to repackage community as a trend and instead, honoring ways to sustainably (and accessibly) build that back into our lives and businesses.

The Love Club is officially landing this week. And today’s piece is a good example of exactly the kind of topic we’ll explore, discuss, and pull apart inside The Club. The waitlist will have 24 hours of exclusive access before it opens to the general public so if you’re curious, you know what to do.

JOIN THE WAITLIST

What’s included:

𖦹 Monthly Workshops — Therapist-led monthly themes based on dating trends, heartbreak, and what feels most potent in the community

𖦹 Processing Circles — Sunday breakfast meets group coaching. To process, bounce ideas, feel supported, get feedback, and most importantly, feel seen.

𖦹 Private Community Threads — Discussion, venting, feedback, humor, and everything else with the people who just get it

𖦹 Frameworks & Resources — access to a growing number of resources, including monthly journaling prompts and Notes on Dating: The Notion Workbook. New resources will always be available to members of the community for free.

The need-to-know:

𖦹 Monthly membership is $49 per month (50% off!)

𖦹 6-month commitment required — sorry, no exceptions to this

𖦹 Spots are intentionally limited & doors won’t open again until Summer 2026

𖦹 TLC officially kicks off Tuesday, March 2nd, 2026

If you’re curious or have more questions, hit reply or come on over to my DM’s and let’s chat <3

I just hit send on an audio message to a good friend. She’d met someone. A friend of good friends. They’d hit it off at a dinner party and exchanged numbers to continue the conversation. She said, “It felt like there was an actual connection.”

This friend of mine happens to be extraordinary. Everyone thinks this of their friends, but she really is. The epitome of resilience and the person that everyone gravitates toward in a room. She’s the most sincere person I’ve ever met, and downright hilarious. Needless to say, she’s a catch.

They exchanged flirtatious (but respectful) texts and made plans to see each other. The plans changed. They changed again. But he still expressed his desire to take her out. The mutual friend who introduced them wasn’t convinced. He has things to work through, she said. He probably drinks too much, she said. He’s wonderful, but I don’t know.

Conversations trailed off. She set it down. She’s out of his emotional league.

What is the Emotional League?

First, I want to acknowledge that the origins of the concept of someone’s “league” are based on superiority. That phrase is casually thrown around, usually playfully, but in respect to someone being more attractive, skilled, or desirable in some way. That’s not how we’re using it here.

Yes, it is an indicator of where someone is on the arc of their emotional healing. Yes, we make decisions based on where they are vs. where we are. But no, this is not a hierarchy of superior and inferior.

We’re not pairing it with judgment or shame. We’re not belittling those behind us on the path, but we are choosing how we want to engage and what we have the capacity for.

The model of the emotional league is based on our arc of growth, learning, and becoming. It’s not a competition or a race. We will oscillate through these stages throughout our lives.

We’ll meet a partner or get divorced. We’ll have kids or lose someone. Find a new career or lose our job. Have a falling out with our friends or our parents. Life is a series of unfolding events — each no more predictable than the last.

We don’t reach the end stages and stay there. Ideally, we spend the majority of our time there, but we’ll bounce back to earlier versions of ourselves occasionally. Called back to old patterns and reminded that growth is a state of being, not a destination.

Stage 1 — Early Days:

We’re at the beginning, and maybe, we’re still here because we don’t have the space, time, resources, or support to wade in. Again, this doesn’t make anyone bad, an asshole, or a narcissist. But it does mean that they haven’t started the work yet.

This might show up as:

• Low self-awareness (of patterns, emotions, communication styles, and the emotional impact of past experiences).

• Externalizing blame or self-blame cycles (e.g. “everyone I date is avoidant” or “I’m just broken”).

• Difficulty identifying and expressing emotions

• Unhealthy relational patterns (Fear of commitment/ghosting, inability to follow through, lack of emotional intimacy, avoidant behavior etc.)

• Chronic nervous system dysregulation

• Unconscious protective or numbing behaviors (substance use, excessive phone use, etc)

Stage 2 — Wading In:

While still early on, there’s been a shift. Maybe spurred by the end of a relationship, a behavior/pattern that finally imploded, or just the space/resources to start. This stage is mostly characterized by learning and an increase in self-awareness.

This might show up as:

• Understanding, on a cognitive level, how past experiences impact current relationship dynamics

• Acknowledging unhealthy patterns/behaviors and areas of growth

• Identifying emotions (what they feel like, how to name them, and how they show up in the body)

• Information seeking as a stabilizer (books, podcasts, etc)

• Curiosity and experimentation with self-care/nervous system regulation (movement, nourishment, meditation, community, journaling, reading, etc).

Stage 3 — Sinking In:

Learning becomes practice. The work goes from being solely intrapersonal (between us & ourselves) to interpersonal (between us & others). This is when other people in our lives start to notice the shift

This might show up as:

• Allowing and expressing emotional experiences to others — especially in the realm of dating & relationships i.e “I was excited about our date and I’m happy to see you.” or “When you said XYZ, it made me sad because of XYZ.”

• Tolerating discomfort without acting it out (not over-texting, not shutting down, not people-pleasing).

• Strong communication skills that reflect emotional awareness, expression of needs, and boundaries (including follow-through, expressing ongoing interest/desire to see someone again, and advocating for their needs).

• Capacity for emotional intimacy and closeness — this one feels obvious, but our capacity to be emotionally close to others is entirely dependent on our ability to be with our own emotions.

• Somatic awareness and baseline nervous system regulation skills — Essentially, we know when we feel triggered + we have tools to regulate before coming back into conversation.

Stage 4 — The Thick of It:

This is the stage people often don’t talk about enough. It’s less glamorous and more confronting. Insight alone no longer works — our patterns resurface in real time and often in the relationships we’re trying to build. It’s messy, tender, and non-linear. Progress isn’t measured by how regulated we feel, but by our willingness to stay in relationship while we deconstruct the bones of old patterns.

This might show up as:

• Actively reprocessing past relational trauma — rather than only understanding it (through therapy, somatic work, EMDR, parts work, etc).

• Old patterns surfacing under stress — especially in dating and new relationships (anxious spirals, emotional withdrawal, people-pleasing, anger, shutdown, etc).

• Increased emotional discomfort — we’re in the stage of actually facing our patterns, which is deeply uncomfortable. Also, we’re no longer leaning on avoidance, excessive reassurance seeking, or old numbing behaviors, so everything feels more intense.

• Rupture & Repair — after a rupture in the relationship, we’ll tenderly come back. This means naming the impact of our behavior, taking accountability (without the shame spiral), and staying in the room.

• Grieving past versions of self, past relationships, or the reality that some patterns were protective, but costly.

Stage 5 — Integrated Living

When we’re here, we’re living the work we’ve done. Emotional awareness, regulation, and relational skills start to feel like the baseline. Of course, we get triggered and thrown off center. But more often than not (sometimes after a little stumbling), we find our way back here:

• Consistent emotional availability — including the capacity to give and receive care, express emotions, and drop into emotional attunement.

• Dating sans urgency — allowing connection to unfold without forcing outcomes (even when there’s chemistry).

• Stable nervous system baseline with the capacity to recover from triggers, practice self-compassion, and voice the need for space to regulate.

• Consistency between words and actions — including follow-through, pacing (read: the slow burn), and emotional availability.

• Capacity to tolerate disappointment without collapsing into self-blame, emotional withdrawal, or old stories about not-enoughness.

• Lead with accountability in our relationship, including when we’re sliding back toward previous stages.

• Staying connected to yourself — even in the throes of dating or your relationship. This means staying connected to your community, the things that bring you joy, and the people & practices that ground you.

It deserves repeating: We are never done with this work — it’s nonlinear by nature. If I’m honest, I don’t spend more than 60% of my time in stage five. I’m a WIP. We all are.

The Grief of Misaligned Timing

There’s clarity in realizing that we’re out of someone’s emotional league. There’s validation of the distance we feel and the emotional gaps we can’t seem to close.

But there’s also so much heartbreak.

The heaviness of grief when we realize that they aren’t ready. That they haven’t done the work, or maybe they’re not even ready to start. The visceral sense of loss because we can’t stand by while they do it.

Or maybe it’s the friction of finally acknowledging that it’s us that still has work to do before we can be the partner we want to be. Regardless, it’s the grief of a connection, a partner, and a potential life.

I’ll say to you what I said to my friend:

You’re out of their emotional league. This doesn’t make him bad. And it doesn’t necessarily make you better, but the spark won’t carry the connection. You’ve worked too hard, spent too many hours unraveling your past to go back and walk alongside him. You’ve come too far, and he has too far to go.

The Love Club by The Softening

The community-based membership for women navigating the challenges of heartbreak, dating, and new relationships who are tired of the false promises of hyper-independence and the self-sufficiency of single hood.

Launching mid-February 2026 (to the waitlist first)! To protect the intimacy of the space, spots for the first season will be limited. If you want first dibs or are curious to learn more, hop on the waitlist.

You’ll also get my Notion template, Notes on Dating: The Workbook, when you sign up for the waitlist :)

The Love Club Waitlist

xx

Amy

“Oh, it’s just casual,” falls out of the mouths of millennials everywhere. Maybe it’s always been like this, or maybe we’re just more honest about it now. But I can’t help but wonder if something else is at play, quietly fueling the rise of casual dating.

Also, we talk a lot about this topic in The Love Club (and all the nuances that come with modern dating/heartbreak). The summer season starts June 1st. If I’d curious, we’d love to have you.

join the summer season

The Rise of Casual

Spend five minutes talking to anyone actively dating, and you’ll hear the exasperation in their voice. The third-date drop off. The twenty-seven message threads that decay in the app before ever reaching real life. The person who says they don’t know what they want; they’d just love to see where it goes.

People seem more wishy-washy than ever. Indecisive. Content to float in the middle, never choosing a direction.

We can’t deny the cultural influence of dating apps. We love to hate them, yet data suggests that 27% of couples meet on dating apps. Even if we opt out of dating apps, they still have a meta-effect on the culture at large.

Dating apps might encourage too much discernment. And more importantly, the paradox of choice. When we’re led to believe (by an algorithm, no less) that someone more desirable (insert: more aligned, emotionally mature, attractive, successful, etc) is just a swipe away, why would we invest the time, energy, and emotional resources in getting to know the person in front of us? It’s not an individual weakness — it’s psychology.

Amanda Brown unpacks this in her Substack, Love: The New Hot Commodity:

The transactional nature of dating apps also undermines emotional vulnerability. Meaningful relationships require time, patience, and exposure to another person’s flaws — qualities that don’t thrive in a culture obsessed with instant gratification. When people treat dating like shopping, they inadvertently prioritize surface-level traits over deeper compatibility. The important qualities that make someone your most compatible partner are often overlooked because they can’t be skimmed or quickly assessed.

But it’s not only the dating apps.

Casual dating/relationships are on the rise, completely independent of the dating scene. Fewer people are getting married/seeing marriage as an essential milestone (38% of adults are unpartnered as compared to 28% in 1990). Long-term monogamy is no longer the default destination.

As a culture, we’re less trapped in the dichotomy of single vs. partnered, choosing instead to color outside the heteronormative lines and question if our priorities really include a long-term partnership, or whether that’s just the narrative we’ve grown up with.

Note: The remainder of this piece will be dedicated to the impacts of misaligned casual relationships & how to communicate about casual intentions. This isn’t, in any way, intended to push anyone toward monogamy.

A Confused Nervous System

Despite the rise of casual dating culture, our nervous system doesn’t actually speak the language of “Oh, it’s just casual.”

Because intimacy without a label is still intimacy. Our nervous systems evolved to interpret behavior & patterns, not intentions. Our mind can say it’s casual all we want, but our bodies won’t get the message.

When we share our Sunday mornings, our hang-ups with family, our tiny funny moments, our daydreams and fears, our physical bodies and our deepest insecurities — I don’t care how “casual” they say it is, your nervous system will respond.

The song they sent. The sweater you borrowed. The dinner they made for you. These are the subtle, everyday building blocks of intimacy. It’s not “I love you,” but every single gesture says, “I care. I’m here.”

While it would be so much more convenient if our emotions could fit into the confines of whatever we’ve labeled something, if the attachment triggers are there, our emotional system will fire. So no, your body isn’t confused. No, nothing wrong with you. No, you’re not dramatic for feeling something.

You’re just human.

In Defense of the (Ethical) Casual Encounter

There’s a huge caveat here: Casual dating is not inherently bad.

There’s nothing innately harmful about a respectful, casual relationship. In fact, sometimes it’s all we have or want to offer.

Maybe we aren’t ready — still reeling from our past relationship. Maybe we just don’t want a relationship at all, but still want companionship and physical intimacy. Maybe we’re focusing on our career, our children, or healing past wounds. There could be a hundred other reasons we might want to date casually, and the reason honestly isn’t important. We are entitled to define our relational needs.

Casual dating has a terrible reputation, but it’s not the concept itself that’s damaging; it's how we navigate the dynamic. The ethical part of this equation is being crystal clear about our intentions.

Upfront Intentions: This isn’t “Let’s just see where it goes” or “I’m not really looking for anything serious right now.” Clear intentions should not leave room for interpretation. It could sound something like this:

“I’m not looking for a serious, committed partnership right now. While I know things change, I don’t see that changing in the near future. If you’re open to a casual relationship, I’d love to continue spending time together. If not, I understand. Also, we can keep checking in as we spend time together to make sure that this is still feeling good for both of us.”

While intentions feel self-explanatory, their importance can’t be understated. It’s hard to be honest. It can be hurtful. It can take away the possibility of the closeness we’re craving, but lack of clarity begets wounding. Tread lightly.

Also, it’s equally important to communicate how we define a casual relationship. Are we looking for just physical intimacy and companionship? Physical and emotional intimacy? Or something in-between? And does that align with the other person’s definition? Again, if the emotional triggers are there, our attachment system will fire, so if we do want emotional intimacy, what boundaries are we setting to minimize hurt?

If we slap “casual” across a relationship without clarifying what that actually means, we risk blurring the lines. We open up a chasm for misunderstanding and a fast track toward hurting someone (maybe that someone is also ourselves).

Evolving Emotions: And of course, things do change. Sometimes we fall in love unexpectedly, like June rain. Sometimes our healing catches up to us. Sometimes intimacy melts our boundaries like butter.

But more often than not, we don’t. More often than not, one person clings to the possibility of something more, losing themselves along the way, especially when the door is left accidentally ajar.

And because things can (and do) evolve, a single conversation is rarely enough. Sometimes things shift for both people, and sometimes only for one. As the relationship ebbs and flows, we need to keep checking in. Is this still okay? Does this still feel good for both of us? Do we need to make any adjustments?

Casual as a Pathway for Self-Exploration

Maybe you’ve tried a casual relationship. Maybe you haven’t. Maybe you never want to — to each their own. But collectively, can we reframe the casual relationship and acknowledge that, when done ethically, it can actually be a vehicle for self-exploration?

A casual relationship can carve out space for healing, without sacrificing companionship. It can give us a space to practice advocating for our needs or communicating our boundaries. In some cases, it can show us parts of ourselves that we didn’t even know were there.

If you’re curious about an (ethical) casual relationship, here are a few questions to reflect on:

1. What about a casual relationship appeals to me at this point in my life? Do I actually want a casual relationship, or am I worried about losing this person for good?

2. Am I curious about what it would feel like to explore casual intimacy (physical and emotional), or am I falling into an old pattern of people-pleasing, codependency, fawning, etc.?

3. Am I genuinely okay with this never moving beyond casual? Or is there a small part of me that hopes that will change over time?

4. Can I be in frequent conversation with myself as the relationship evolves? Can I notice the sticking points? The instance your stomach dropped unexpectedly, the subtle pulling away, or simply the ongoing feeling that this feels really good right now, for both of you.

Casual doesn’t have to mean not meaningful. A casual relationship can create ripples — stretching, changing, and challenging how we think about relationships, and in turn, ourselves.

The Love Club Summer Season

The membership for women navigating the challenges of heartbreak, dating, and new relationships who are tired of the false promises of hyper-independence and the self-sufficiency of singlehood.

join the summer season

I hear this consistently, and to be fair, it’s not wrong. Therapy is expensive and, therefore, inaccessible to many if not most.

I hear it from my friends, my clients, and random people on airplanes who feel entitled to explain that my profession is overpriced and overvalued. To a certain extent, I agree. Private pay therapy is expensive, but let’s stop framing this as a morality issue and acknowledge the inherent systemic factors at play.

Let’s break it down and, unfortunately for my language-leaning, humanities brain, we can’t do that without sifting through the data.

Let’s chat numbers

An article by Therapy Route (with dependable sources) estimated average self-pay costs for therapy in the U.S by region. Major cities (New York, SF, LA, Boston, and Washington) ranged in averages from $150 to $288. Mid-range markets (Chicago, Seattle, Denver, Austin, and Portland) came in at $130 to $230, and lower-cost markets (Houston, Phoenix, Atlanta, Detroit, and Cleveland) landed at $100 to $173.

No matter where you live, self-pay prices are steep. Considering weekly sessions (which are almost always indicated at the beginning of a season of therapeutic work), that’s anywhere from $400 to $1,152 per month for therapy. Woof.

Let’s chat insurance

Insurance is a beast. And in all honesty, one that I don’t completely understand. Systemically, insurance companies are out to make money. While this might seem obvious, I want to emphasize that insurance was not designed to support clinicians or clients.

Given the insurance crisis (and rising costs of health care) in the U.S, private insurance is unattainable to most of the population; those who do have it typically have access through employment-sponsored healthcare.

Private insurance: If you’re using private insurance (which is already quite expensive), your co-pay for therapy (with an in-network provider) may be anywhere from $25-$58. Hypothetically, that’s pretty good. However, many plans require you to meet your deductible before you can access the co-pay price.

The average national deductible is $2,000, so you’re paying for ten to fiften therapy sessions out of pocket before the insurance rate kicks in. Additionally, insurance typically allows a certain number of sessions per year (on average, 20-30 sessions). Your deductible also resets every year.

Public insurance (Medicare and Medicaid): Anyone who’s ever tried to navigate the public insurance system for mental health will probably tell you not to bother. Therapist supply is extremely limited (and the quality tends not to be great), wait times are extremely long (four to twelve months), and you’re likely to only have single-digit sessions approved by your insurance.

Based on my limited experience, Medicare has the edge over Medicaid. After meeting your deductible (average $257), Medicare allows for 80% coverage of the “approved amount” of care (read: number of sessions approved based on your diagnosis and “medical necessity”) with a Medicare-approved provider.

For Medicaid, the coverage varies significantly by state, and there is a huge supply-demand issue with providers and even stricter service limitations (there is no official national average).

No insurance: If you don’t have insurance, there are low-cost or no-fee community mental health settings that can provide support. Typically, they have extremely long waitlists (6-12+ months), therapists seeing 50+ clients per week, and are limited to an average of six sessions.

Now let’s chat (therapist) morality

You might be thinking, “Ok, so why don’t all therapists just panel with insurance companies to be more accessible?”

Because psychotherapy is a job, we have to talk about income. On average, therapists take a 30-40% pay cut when they work with insurance companies. Paneling with insurance also requires more work from therapists, including, but not limited to: credentialing, authorizations, eligibility checks, compliance documentation, claim edits/denials, justifying ongoing treatment, periodic reviews, and ongoing treatment plan updates based on progress. Conservative estimates would put this at an additional 10 hours of work per week.

TLDR: We are asking therapists to work harder for 30-40% less income. And because therapists have to see more clients to make up for the reduction in income, they are susceptible to compassion fatigue and burnout (with this survey showing that over half of therapists have experienced burnout in the past year). And let’s be honest, burnt-out therapists are not that helpful.

There are a few solutions for what I’m calling The Insurance Trap. You can use a mental health platform (think Alma, Headway, or Grow) that connects you with therapists who accept your (private) insurance. The platform does the majority of the grunt work and takes a cut of reimbursement from the therapist.

From the outside looking in, it’s a great model, especially for consumers with private insurance. And while I don’t think there’s anything inherently wrong with these companies, we have to acknowledge that when a for-profit company offers a solution, there’s something in it for them. And in the long run, there’s always a cost to the providers, given that they’re not the customers; they’re the product.

Side note: there’s a slew of less ethical, borderline predatory online mental health platforms, like BetterHelp, that have been caught selling sensitive consumer mental health data to Facebook for targeted advertising. Yikes.

And digging a little further into morality, we need to admit that we expect therapists to take the financial hit. We want them to. Because it means, somehow, that they care more. That they’re in it for the “right reasons” — that emotional caring isn’t tied to a dollar amount. Subconsciously, we believe that the money somehow negates the care (as portrayed in Ted Lasso in this scene with Dr. Sharon).

In a society built on the bones of patriarchy, it’s worthwhile to mention that (on average) 75.6% of all psychotherapists in the U.S are women. Needless to say, we carry subconscious narratives about the roles women fill in society; they should care. They should be giving. They should be selfless. I wonder if this same rhetoric would exist if psychotherapy were a male-dominated industry. My guess is no.

I’ll address the elephant in the room — I don’t have the answers. I wish that I did. I have mostly questions, but I think, therapist or not, we all need to understand the landscape of healthcare and mental health before we can begin to untangle it, identify the needs, and build systems (based on policy) that are mutually uplifting.

In the meantime, is group work the answer?

No, but it might be an answer. The solution will never be singular. There are seasons when clinical, 1:1 work is truly crucial to our well-being. But in other seasons, group work might not only be more accessible, but potentially more expansive. It reaches beyond self-care toward a model of community care.

Inspired by conversations in The Social Life (by !), I’ve been thinking (incessantly) about how we lean into models of business that center caring, accessibility, and mutual benefit.

For me, group work ticks the boxes. From a financial standpoint, it's more accessible for participants and still supportive as a facilitator. From a care perspective, it carves out space for connection, curiosity, and conversation (which, I would argue, we need now more than ever). It substitutes self-care for community care.

Also, it tosses stigma to the wayside, facilitates a non-individualistic model of learning, acts as a safe container for feedback, creates accountability, and gives us somewhere to commune and belong. Personally, I’ve experienced more growth and unraveling in short stents of group work than longer stretches of 1:1 work (I’m looking at you, ).

And to be clear, group work doesn’t fix the system, but serves as a temporary remedy for accessibility for the right population (read: individuals who do not need acute care, crisis management, or have symptoms that impair daily functioning).

The Softening - A Club for Modern Love <3

I’m building a community for modern love, but it’s still taking form. Rather than creating what I think would be helpful, I’m listening to what people actually want.

So far, it’s a private monthly membership (with a three to six-month commitment) for women navigating modern dating and love. It’s part learning, part processing, part accountability, and a big, healthy dose of community. The goal is — “Came for the content, stayed for the people.”

In the past month, I’ve had the privilege of chatting with so many women about what they want to see in this space. While everyone’s experiences are nuanced, there are definitely some universal themes —

• Recentering ourselves & our desire

• Renegotiating commitment after a series of Situationships

• Holding the grief of heartbreak & the hope of dating (at the same time)

• Managing the space between anxious & avoidant

• Reciprocity in relationships, especially in early dating

• Rejection & Resilience

• Sustainable dating & the balance between vulnerability and boundaries

If any of these resonate & you feel called to hop on the waitlist, you can do so here. I’ll be opening the doors soon, and the waitlist will have access to an exclusive Founding Member’s rate.

It’s important to note that this offering is group coaching, not group therapy. Before joining the group, we’ll have a chat to assess if this is a good fit. If we determine that you need something different, I’ll connect you with alternative resources.

THE MODERN LOVE CLUB

Other Group Resources (clinical and otherwise)

1. Connection-based:

   1. Wilde House Paper Cultivating Conversations Coffee Club (popping up in cities across the world, winter season announcement coming soon!)

2. Movement-based (with a side of connection and a big dose of humanity):

   1. The Range by Kara Duval — equal parts joy & movement

   2. The Daily Rest Studio by Emmie Rae — my sanity, must-have

3. Somatic-based: Homebody, a 6-week embodied movement and nervous system & somatics program by

4. Southern California Specific:

   1. The Intuitive Mother, a free workshop for pregnant and postpartum mamas to tune into their inner wisdom on February 5th, 2025, hosted by Emily Pelky, LMFT

   2. The Art of Building Friendship (OC-based) by Kayla Hawking on December 13th, 2025 & ongoing

   3. Seen Library - books, pop-ups, and community by

If you know of other (local, in-person, or online) group/community offerings, please drop them in the comments and I’ll add them to the list!

Ok take real good care,

Amy

s o u r c e s

2025 Medicare Parts A & B premiums and deductibles. CMS.gov. (n.d.). https://www.cms.gov/newsroom/fact-sheets/2025-medicare-parts-b-premiums-and-deductibles?utm_source=chatgpt.com

Brookman-Frazee, L., Haine, R. A., Gabayan, E. N., & Garland, A. F. (2008, May 1). Predicting frequency of treatment visits in community-based youth psychotherapy. Psychological services. https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC2854400/?utm_source=chatgpt.com

How much does headway pay therapists?. Single Aim Health - Collaborating Physicians for NPs and PAs. (n.d.). https://www.singleaimhealth.com/news/how-much-does-headway-pay-therapists?utm_source=chatgpt.com

How much does Therapy Cost in the US in 2025?. Therapyroute.com. (n.d.). https://www.therapyroute.com/article/how-much-does-therapy-cost-in-the-usa-2025-by-therapyroute?utm_source=chatgpt.com

Kffcarenec. (2025, October 22). 2025 Employer Health Benefits Survey. KFF. https://www.kff.org/health-costs/2025-employer-health-benefits-survey/?utm_source=chatgpt.com

Over half of therapists have experienced burnout in the past year. EHR Software for Health & Wellness Professionals. (n.d.). https://www.simplepractice.com/press/2023-state-of-therapist-well-being-report/?utm_source=chatgpt.com

Statistical brief #553. Trends in Health Insurance at Private Employers, 2008-2022. (n.d.). https://meps.ahrq.gov/data_files/publications/st553/stat553.shtml?utm_source=chatgpt.com

Zhu, J. M., & Eisenberg, M. (2024, March 1). Administrative Frictions and the mental health workforce. JAMA health forum. https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC11203202/?utm_source=chatgpt.com

Zhu, J. M., Renfro, S., Watson, K., Deshmukh, A., & McConnell, K. J. (2023, April). Medicaid reimbursement for psychiatric services: Comparisons across states and with Medicare. Health affairs (Project Hope). https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC10125036/?utm_source=chatgpt.com

I never wanted a bachelorette party. The whole wedding industry makes me shudder (a story for another time). But beyond the trope, it felt like too much. Too much to ask. Too much time. Too much money. Too much attention.

But my sister and friends eased me into the idea (read: they threatened to go rogue). So a dreamy Airbnb was booked. Flights were coordinated. The weekend was dubbed the “Non-bachelorette, bachelorette.”

I mostly forgot about it until six weeks before. I texted my friends in a frenzied state: This is too much. Please give me your opinion. Am I putting you out? You just had a baby. This is too hard. Please forget it. Get flight credits.

The idea of my friends interrupting their lives on my behalf (especially with an impending wedding) sent me spiraling. It wasn’t abstract anymore. It was here. They had lives. Jobs. Travel plans. Responsibilities. Babies. Was I really asking them to do this?

Nice Girl Conditioning

When I shared these sentiments on Instagram, my DMs were a confessional. Turns out, we all feel this way. Someone’s wedding. Someone’s grief. Someone’s 40th birthday. Someone’s divorce. Allowing our people to show up for us makes us want to crawl out of our skin.

We don’t have to dig that deep to find the root. It’s hard to take up space in a world that’s always told us we weren’t supposed to. A woman’s job is to be attuned to those around her. Being the center of attention is a social death sentence. Might as well slap on that scarlet later.

Even young girls are conditioned not to center themselves. To want attention is to be desperate. Entitled. Spoiled. Even narcissistic. Society openly scorns that girl —we hate her.

So we bend and twist until we’re the antithesis of her. Humble, considerate, overly kind, boundary-less, and quiet — not to mention we won’t touch a compliment with a ten-foot pole.

Then these big life moments come along, and we’re expected to feel safe in the spotlight? For it to be OK to be cherished? To dismiss shame when heads turn in our direction, and kind gestures come pouring in? Every ounce of our cultural conditioning screams.

The High-Functioning Codependent Girl

Last year, I listened to this podcast on High-Functioning Codependence in women. A new-age, semi-pop-psychology term for someone whose version of codependence is actually a hyperfocus on taking care of others.

It’s anti-traditional codependence. You never rely on others to function, but your self-worth and stability are deeply tied to your role as a caretaker of others. Being needed is your krypotnite — it hurts so good.

But that’s not all. There’s a bone-deep sense of burnout. You overfunction. You define your worth based on how valuable you are to others. You bend under the weight of carrying everyone else’s needs, but you can’t seem to put them down.

While I don’t identify with High-Functioning Codependence, there are flavors of this that resonate for most of the women in my life. We like to be the supporters, not the supported. We want to be the shoulder, not the crier—the needed, not the needy.

It’s hard to let people in — to ask for help is to admit that we need anything but ourselves in the first place. It’s a vulnerable, open wound. Because what happens if they leave? Or develop resentment? Or (god forbid) get tired of us and all of our needs?

Surprise, surprise. My friends stood their ground.

No, we want to do this.

No, this is important.

No, you deserve to be celebrated.

As my friend Laura says to me, You can’t go to therapy for that one, baby. You have to face it. And so I did. Flights landed. Photos were strung across window sills. Vacation days were used. Friends sent me off for a massage. Many hands made a big dinner. Babies were left with partners. Someone doctored the margaritas. Olivia Dean drifted through the speakers and out the windows. Stories drifted across the patio. Glasses were raised. Toasts were given. I didn’t know I could feel joy like that.

And for the first time in a long time, it felt completely safe to receive. No one was thinking that I was conceited or self-obsessed. No one was rolling their eyes, wondering when this would be over. I didn’t try to make myself smaller or immediately redirect their attention. Instead, I stopped pushing against it and let myself be loved.

Taking up space is a practice. Allowing yourself to be centered, to be cherished, to be spoiled — is a practice.

And yes, it’s uncomfortable, but love is passed through a network of receiving. Allow people to show up for you. Allow them to go out of their way. Allow them to make sacrifices for you as you do for them. Even if you cringe. Even if you’re uncomfortable. Even if it’s the scariest thing you’ve done.

If we don’t, we risk the very thing we treasure. Vulnerability is tender, but it makes way for the depth we crave. Our willingness to be loved carves intimacy into the walls of our relationships. Our nice-girl conditioning may keep us safe, but it doesn’t keep us close.

As I watched my friends, sprawled across the floor, pens in hand, I felt something soften. Maybe the quiet shifting of a belief. Maybe the realization that friendship is so much more healing than I ever thought it could be. Maybe finally acknowledging that the sacrifices made couldn’t outweigh the love in the room.

Let your village show up for you, and you’ll find a village around you.

xx

amy

The waitlist is officially open for The Softening: A Club for Modern Love — a monthly membership for shifting how we love.

As much as I love 1:1 work with clients, when it comes to dating + relationships, something is missing. We live in an echo chamber of ourselves, our three single friends, and maybe our therapist. We need something else, and that something is each other.

The Softening is where content meets connection — not just a place to share dating stories (though we do), but to untangle patterns, reclaim self-worth, and get clear on what we actually want.

• Monthly Themes: From attachment anxiety to heartbreak to the art of sustainable dating

• Workshops: Equal parts insight and integration because knowing better isn’t the same as changing our patterns

• Processing Circles: A landing space for what’s coming up — heartbreak, new relationships, dating wins/woes

• Online Community Threads: A group chat, but with depth — no small talk, just real talk

If you’re curious, hop on the waitlist here.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve turned to media when I needed a language for love. I think we all do. The bone-deep ache. The weightlessness of falling in love. The tidal wave of self-doubt. The sting of old wounds. The indescribable pull of connection. We’ve always turned to art to show us ourselves.

Anyone who knows me knows that I can’t resist a good love story. Relationships have a pull on me. My partner and I joke that if something has even a hint of a romantic storyline, I’m glued to the screen. That’s the thing about media — it’s meant to move us.

For years, I’ve kept a running list of shows, movies, and essays on Love. Some I’ve watched once, but others I’ve almost memorized. But if I’m honest, my most-watched list doesn’t exactly showcase healthy & secure love. That doesn’t mean it’s necessarily bad for mental health (I’ll never give up Sex and the City so long as I live), but it does mean we should be mindful about the narratives we’re consuming, and if we’re in a place to consume them.

Instead, I hope The Relational Library is a menu of options; a fluid list of resources that can meet us exactly where we are. Similar to: What You Are Looking For Is in the Library by Michiko Aoyama (highly recommend!), I hope this library can give you what you need, when you need it. Also, please comment! I’ll add suggestions to the list.

The Relational Score

The relational score is based on my subjective assessment of relational health (including elements of attachment, communication, expression of needs, and emotional intimacy). A low score doesn’t mean we should avoid it altogether. Again, some of my favorite shows/books have a very low relational score. However, subconscious messaging matters. We absorb what we take in. And that’s not weakness, it’s just human. If something has a lower relational score, we should be mindful of what we’re showing up with, what we need, and what we’re taking away. It’s mindful consumption.

P.S. Something new is coming...join the waitlist for The Softening: A Club for Modern Love. More details at the end of the lib!

be first in line <3

Modern Films

Worst Person in the World (2021)

Relational Dynamics: It’s the top of the list for a reason. Julie’s relationships aren’t healthy in the traditional, “happily-ever-after” sense. They’re too real for that; too intertwined in her selfhood and the journey of becoming. The Worst Person in the World is a portrait of profound intimacy and romantic impermanence.

Watch for: Coming of age, heart (s) left in pieces, and chasing the shadow of the Self. Post-breakup. The universal discomfort of unraveling who we thought we were, to see who we really are.

Relational score: 10/10

Frances Ha (2012)

Relational Dynamics: While not technically grounded in romance, Frances Ha is so intangibly romantic. Really, it’s about female friendship. It’s our best friend, and the moment we lose her to the love of her life. It’s about what we do after that and what we anchor to as we float through the sea of our twenties.

Watch for: The love affair that is female friendship, retro style, humor, and an indie drama on a rainy, late-summer afternoon.

Relational score: 9/10

Rye Lane (2023)

Relational Dynamics: Rye Lane feels honest because it is. It’s lighter, but still grazes the edges of grief, betrayal, and heartbreak. Sometimes we need a mirror to see our worth. Every so often, that mirror is a stranger.

Watch for: a refreshing take on a rom-com, a day in South London, humor, colorful cinematography, and when you’re craving a sense of hope.

Relational score: 8/10

Past Lives (2023)

Relational Dynamics: I think about rewatching Past Lives weekly. I’ve only seen it once, and it tore something open in me — something I can’t quite articulate. Maybe it’s the weight of how our choices shape our lives. Maybe it’s that some choices can’t be taken back. Some doors remain closed, in this life at least. Maybe it’s the acknowledgment that, on some level, our past lives live within us.

Watch for: profound intimacy, moving poetry, In-yun, and softening into lives past.

Relational score: 10/10

We live in Time ( 2024)

Relational Dynamics: A poetic reminder that life is hard. That relationships are hard, especially when reality comes crashing in. We Live In Time is a sincere love story; one you’ll be thinking about for days. It illuminates the dichotomy of all things: Grief and love. Playfulness and tragedy. Disconnection and immense emotional intimacy. It’s a love letter to life and a can’t-miss.

Watch for: tenderness in many forms, life seeping in, the existentialism of our short time here on earth, and the sacredness of every day together.

Best for: an evening in, your comforter on the couch, a home-cooked meal.

Relational score: 10/10

Columbus (2017)

Relational Dynamics: Columbus doesn’t fall into the traditional tropes of a romance. The connection between Jin Lee and Casey is about seeing and being seen. It’s a quiet, almost silent, type of romance. For anyone who’s had a deep connection with a stranger that shifts the trajectory of your life, this one is for you.

Watch for: Intimacy through conversation, the push-pull between duty & desire, feeling lost, and being on the edge of the next chapter.

Relational score: 7/10

The Materialist (2025)

Relational Dynamics: I was so enamored with the complexities of this experience that I read a whole substack on it — Is Dating Just Math? While I know that there are some qualms with the plotline/ending, it was jarringly honest. If you’re actively dating or just a human that’s alive, this is a must-watch.

Watch for: Thought-provoking narratives on modern dating, cinematography, Dakota Johnson’s outfits, and a good, long look in the proverbial mirror.

Relational score: 9/10

Honorable mentions: All of Us Strangers (2023), After Sun (2022), The Farewell (2019)

Classic Films

When Harry Met Sally (1989)

Relational Dynamics: Even though we know, from the opening credits, how this movie will end, it’s so lovable. Beneath the surface of sharp dialogue and iconic moments, there’s a quiet exploration of the slow burn of love. Of going from strangers to friends to lovers, over the course of a decade. It’s so entertaining, but delivers a sweet antidote to the speed of our modern world: Love isn’t always (or even usually) an overnight sensation. It’s slow, but it’s coming.

Watch for: A traditional/predictable rom-com, friends-to-lovers, an era of dating, and the slow burn of growth.

Relational score: 7/10

The Parent Trap (1998)

Relational Dynamics: A few years ago, I was sunken into the old leather chair in my parents’ living room. My good friend was draped across the too-firm couch. We’d just made grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. I think it was fall. The Parent Trap, with its chance encounters, longing, 90’s flair, and completely unrealistic plot line, is soup for the soul.

Watch for: The girlhood and the hope of it all. From a relational lens, nothing to learn here, but so much to enjoy.

Relational score: 2/10

Runaway Bride (1999)

Relational Dynamics: Maggie is trapped in an anxious-avoidant cycle, one I think more than a few of us can identify with. She finds love, loses herself in it, and runs (often from the altar; per the title). While there are a few questionable scenes, Runaway Bride stands the test of time. Maggie finds herself, and while it’s still a romance, no one comes to save her. Finding authentic intimacy has

Watch for: Navigating anxious/avoidant attachment styles, peak Julia Roberts, healing from co-dependency, and the winding path of not losing ourselves in love.

Relational score: 6/10

Notting Hill (1999)

Relational Dynamics: This made the list because of the screaming parallels with modern-day social comparison. William is a bookstore owner, and Anna is a movie star (why don’t we use this term anymore??) Naturally, he questions his worth. He doubts that he is enough for her. They dance around this dynamic, going between vulnerability and self-protection. While most of us aren’t movie stars or bookstore owners, we can all relate to something here.

Watch for: Social comparison, new relationship, navigating self-doubt, and 90’s London charm.

Relational score: 6/10

13 Going on 30 (2004)

Relational Dynamics: Unlike most rom-coms from this era, 13 Going on 30 delivers a parable about what actually makes for a healthy relationship. It explores timeless themes of performance vs. authenticity, the cost of not being vulnerable, and how to right our wrongs. While I have a few critiques, I think this stands the test of time.

Watch for: The nostalgia, the Jenna-Matty dynamic, self-discovery, and of course, the fashion.

Relational score: 8/10

Honorable mentions: While You Were Sleeping (1995), Sleepless in Seattle (1993), You’ve Got Mail (1998)

Modern Shows

Couples Therapy

Relational Dynamics: Admittedly, I just started the first season of Couples Therapy. As a Dating & Relationships therapist, I’m not sure what took me so long, but I’m hooked. The series is made up of real couples in weekly sessions with renowned psychoanalyst Dr. Orna Guralnik. Like all therapy, it’s about the process of unearthing and unraveling the relational dynamics, not the outcome. I kno

Watch for: Attachment styles in action, generational patterns, the power of slowing down, and moving toward vulnerability.

Relational score: 10/10

The Summer I turned Pretty

Relational dynamics: Ok, ok I know! But I had to! TSITP epitomizes our first love: The torture and elation of it all. The show has captured the (tortured) hearts of the millennial generation, in part because it portrays the impossible-to-articulate sensation of falling in love as a teenager. And beyond an attractive love triangle, there are themes of grief, identity formation, stability vs. intensity, the weight of our decisions, and friendship as an anchor. Relationally, it’s not great. But they’re young! They’re human.

Watch for: Teenage nostalgia, an Asian-American main character, love triangles, and something lighter.

Relational score: 4/10 (This score pains me, but let’s be honest, they’re teenagers and it’s young love — we aren’t here to learn)

Conversations with Friends

Relational Dynamics: For better or worse, I love Sally Rooney. Her lessons on love aren’t tidy, but then again, love rarely is. This one-season series follows four (you guessed it!) friends to the tune of blurred lines. Themes include the complexity of identity, intimacy, class/privilege, polygamous/open relationships, and the fine line between falling in love & codependency.

Watch for: Non-monogamy, the nuances of identity, and the things we don’t say.

Relational score: 5/10 (missing communication and codependent relationship patterns, but ongoing emotional growth and conversations about non-monogamy)

Normal People

Relational Dynamics: As much as I wanted to leave this off the list, I couldn’t. It’s a profound love story and a car crash you can’t look away from. From the start, it’s a symphony of catastrophic miscommunication, anxious/avoidant attachment, status/class, a seemingly endless cycle of rupture & repair, and the power of shame. It’s beautifully made, but it will rock you.

Watch for: Intense feeling/peak emotional experience; however, trigger warning for domestic violence, suicide, and unhealthy relational dynamics.

Relational Score: 3/10 — It’s trauma bonding with a side of codependency. We all know it. However, points for the ending of the show and growth toward security, emotional expression, and independence.

Sex Education

Relational Dynamics: Sex Education is a mural of young love, connection, and intimacy. It’s the teenage experience I wish I’d had. The main character, Otis, plays the role of “sex therapist” to his peers. I like to think of this show as the hero’s journey for Gen Z; they face shame, step into who they are, find love & lose it, and show up with undying support for one another. People say Gen Z has so many problems, but I’m not buying it. Watch this and I think you’ll agree.

Watch for: The superiority of Gen Z, LGBTQ+, growing toward secure love, and the honesty of true growth.

Relational Score: 10/10; I have no notes.

Honorable mentions: Survival of the Thickest (top of my watch list!), Feel Good (2020)

Classic Shows

Sex & the City

Relational Dynamics: I won’t pretend this isn’t on in the background more days than not. As a dating & relationships therapist, the irony is not lost on me. Between Samantha’s advice and Carrie’s patterns, there’s not a lot to learn here. But there are moments — glimmers of growth, secure attachment, vulnerability, and choosing themselves. More than that, I remind myself that Sex and the City was extremely progressive when it was released. Women were talking about sex!! Women were shown having sex on TV!!

Watch for: Commiseration, the fashion, the humor, but not for the relationships (with the exception of Harry & Charlotte, there’s not a lot of healthy dynamics to grab onto in this one)

Relational Score: 4/10 — Outside of Harry & Charlotte, everyone kind of fails. Steve and Miranda are a sweet pair, but have some work to do. Carrie & Big —do not even get me started. Sam, do you.

Friends

Relational Dynamics: I’m almost done watching Friends for the first time. I never felt the pull in my twenties, but honestly, I’m glad I waited. It’s been a perfect fit for this season of life. It’s light, sweet, and sometimes frustrating (but in a sit-com kind of way). What I love most about Friends is the nuance of friendship over time. If you’re watching in your 20s or 30s, you may see similar seasons reflected back at you: dating, heartbreak, career changes, identity shifts, our friends falling in love, us falling in love, losing your roommates, kids, weddings — it’s all there.

Watch for: Navigating your 20s/30s, jokes (Joey forever), and the passing of time.

Relational score: 3/10 — it’s a comedy, so I’ll cut them some slack, but c’mon Ross & Rachel. Get your shit together. I am team Monica and Chandler & I appreciate Phoebe’s stance on relationships and marriage. From a friendship perspective, though, 10/10.

Books & Essays

Exit Lane by Erika Veurnik — releases on September 16th!

All about Love by Bell Hooks — non-fiction

Normal People & Conversations with Friends by Sally Rooney (Same ratings as show notes, but still a good read)

Sunburn by Chloe Michelle Howarth

Reconcilable Differences: Rebuild Your Relationship by Rediscovering the Partner You Love--without Losing Yourself by Andrew Christensen — non-fiction

Such a Fun Age by Kiley Rei

How to Date in the 21st Century by (Substack)

There are seasons for everything by (Substack)

You can’t say the wrong thing to the right person by (Substack)

What does grief need? by Brianna Attard (Substack)

Art is meant to move us. Check in with yourself, see what you need, and let yourself be swept up, if even for an hour.

xx

Amy

Something new is coming…

For most of my life, I’ve been obsessed with love. Who we love, why we fall, what patterns we inevitably sink into, how we pull ourselves out — the list truly goes on and on. It’s almost laughable that I ended up a dating & relationships therapist.

But as much as I love 1:1 work, when it comes to dating & relationships, something’s missing. That something is community — it’s each other. I've witnessed (and experienced!) more growth and unraveling in short stints of group work than long stretches of 1:1 work.

While groups exist for so many things, there are no online spaces for community and support around love — finding it, losing it, keeping it. So let's build it together.

The waitlist is officially open for The Softening: A Club for Modern Love — a monthly membership where learning and actually shifting our patterns meet community, real conversations, and each other. See you there xx.

hop on the waitlist

It’s honest and layered, digging into the complicated roots of love and the human condition. Ultimately, The Materialists is a push-pull between emotional safety & resource safety —connection and stability. Love and strategy. And the age-old debate — which is more important?

Is Dating Just Math?

No, but modern dating just might be. Song delivers a searing rendition of today’s dating landscape. Lucy (Dakota Johnson) is a professional matchmaker — the person people go to when they are tired of Hinge, and in some ways, trying to skirt the effort of finding love.

She rolls out every cliché in the book: A forty-eight-year-old man who won’t date a woman a day over twenty-seven. A woman who will only date a white male. A man who won’t date a woman with a BMI over 20. A woman who refuses to meet someone shorter than 6” & making less than 200K. A lesbian looking for a Christian, Conservative, cat-hating woman who must be from Manhattan.

And while it’s intentionally satirical, we all know there’s some truth here. How many of us have swiped on dating apps, looking for a very particular combination of characteristics? Whittling a person down to five pictures and three witty comments — a decision in thirty seconds or less. As if people were nothing, if not a list of attributes and possessions.

Can we just blame biology? After all, thousands of years ago, relationships were a survival-based exchange. I’ll bring the children; you bring the food and protection. A marriage was a merger because it had to be. And yes, we’ve evolved, but just how much?

The same rules no longer apply. If your partner makes 80K, your survival isn’t on the line, but your lifestyle may be. Biologically, we may still feel the pull. It’s not necessarily food and protection, but it’s a similar set of questions. Will I be safe with you? Will you provide for me and a potential family? Do you have the drive, determination, and resilience to make it work? (Note: this is mostly tied to gender, but as the wage gap closes, this is changing.)

In more recent history (the past several hundred years), marriage has shifted toward political and social gain. The motivation for partnership was status, alliances, and the merging of families (assets) for a future of prosperity. Relationships weren’t about love; they were about power. And while this might seem outdated, it’s just changed shape.

Our modern-day edition, which the film captures so clearly, is the same shit, different millennia. Dating someone who meets or surpasses our expectations makes us feel valuable—not seen. Not loved. Not understood. Valued. And in our society, isn’t value power?

Historically speaking, value is set by the market; a kind of subjective social agreement of what’s desirable based on demand, scarcity, and cultural norms. Our modern dating market has very select attributes that are considered covetable (wealth, education, height, body mass index, age, beauty, social media following, etc).

And if your partner is “ideal” (i.e, Harry’s income, height, appearance, profession, style, charm, and lack of vices), it insinuates that you, too, are the ideal. Your partner is a reflection of your value — it’s a status game. Harry and Lucy’s relationship is a merger, down to the very language.

I don’t want to date you for your material assets, though I think you’re underselling them by a significant margin. Material assets are cheap. They don’t last. I want to be with you for your intangible assets. They are good investments. They don’t degrade, they only get sharper…I see a lot of potential here. I think you and I could make great partners, and I hope you can agree.

She accepts, citing that she doesn’t like him because he’s rich, but because he makes her feel valuable. This almost subconscious, dopamine-induced social comparison is a game we’ll never win. At best, we find companionship. At worst, we walk right into the arms of a poor match.

Are our standards completely unrealistic?

It’s not that our standards are too high; it’s that they’re wrong. Modern dating’s criteria are entirely based on the person, with little consideration for the actual relationship. What the market has deemed desirable has little, if anything, to do with a healthy, lasting relationship.

We won’t date someone under 5’8, but will excuse our 6’2 date for being thirty minutes late. A potential match has to be college-educated, with good style and a rigid fitness regimen, but we never ask how they are in conflict. We insist on a particular income bracket, but turn a blind eye to a lack of emotional intimacy. The hill we’re dying on is the wrong hill.

But our culture perpetuates the issue, and dating apps don’t help. We tell people to be open-minded, but how can we be open-minded with such limited information? We’re presented with information that only pertains to resource safety. Someone’s job (read: income), their height, how they would look standing next to us, and what we do on the weekends. Subconsciously, we start to see potential matches through the lens of how other people would see them. But no one is hot at ninety. And anyone can lose their job. The boxes that someone checked can topple at any given moment.

I’m not making the case for settling or dating the next person that comes along. But I am nudging us all to pause and consider: What really matters? What makes a partner valuable to me? If I take off my social comparison goggles, do I really want what I think I want?

To be clear, many people are already optimizing for connection and emotional intimacy over personal attributes. The hill they are dying on is a hill of their own making, and they stand by it. But doing so doesn’t make dating easy — not even close. Dating is objectively grueling.

Per Lucy, “Dating takes a lot of effort. A lot of trial & error. A ton of vulnerability and a lot of risk & pain.” But when we do so, we increase our chances for success. That is, if success means emotional intimacy, lasting connection, companionship, and a love that ages.

Does love (emotional intimacy) really conquer all? Is love easy?

It seems like Song is trying to tell us that yes, yes, it does. But I’m not so sure. The reality is, we need both. Emotional intimacy sits on the foundation of safety, which inevitably includes some level of financial stability.

But we don’t have to rest on traditional gender roles. Lucy might take the promotion, support her and John, and co-create a new dynamic in the relationship, but that’s not what’s insinuated in the final scene. I have a hard time believing that they ride off into the sunset, with all of their old issues still in the trunk. They can work, but it’ll take work.

I can appreciate that Lucy chose emotional safety, knowing that it’s easier to build resources than intimacy. For Lucy, John is her safe haven — the place she goes when things fall apart. At the end of the day, John is her version of valuable, despite his material assets. Her relationship with Harry is sweet, but it lacks emotional depth and vulnerability. It lacks love.

While it’s not portrayed in the film, choosing our version of valuable isn’t usually received well. When we question our perfect-on-paper relationship or partner (our proverbial Harry), there’s pushback. Why would you leave? It will be so hard to start over. You won’t be able to find someone better. But who’s “better” are we optimizing for?

Only we can decide what’s truly valuable to us. Only we can question the collection of standards we’ve been assigned. Only we can untangle what we want and what we need. It’s our choice to make, and ours alone.

Final offer.

xx

Amy

Speaking of dating & heartbreak…

Petals in the Mud, our six-week, three-part container for the somatics of heartbreak, starts September 1st. It’s a space for those tired of hearing “time will heal.” Because time doesn’t always heal. Sometimes we need more — more support. More embodiment. More soft structure to hold the bones of loss.

and I met in Japan. We started talking about heartbreak, our heartbreak to be precise. We talked about losing ourselves to someone and then losing ourselves to loss. We talked about how we don’t talk about it enough — the somatics of heartbreak. The legacy it leaves in our bodies. The invisible, bone-deep ache that we carry around with us. So we decided to start.

INCLUSIONS:
꩜ Three 90-minute live calls held over six weeks — to sit in the mud, find your roots, and bloom again. A place to practice, process, and commune.
꩜ Open Q&A space with Bri & Amy — bring your tender questions and curiosities
꩜ A gentle framework for learning and unfolding, with room to hold whatever arises
꩜ Additional nourishment — guided somatic practices, a curated playlist, and our Relational Library: books, films, and media that won’t wreck your nervous system.
꩜ Six-month access to the recordings to return to soft structure, reinforce learnings, and find your way back to embodied experience

Note: this is for recent or long-standing heartbreak — the body does not know time.

see you in the mud

Amid the scarcity of time, there’s also romance — quietly present in many shapes and sizes. Not the romance that’s purchased or the once-in-a-lifetime grand gesture. Not summer on the Italian Riviera. But quiet romance — the luxury that only reveals itself when we’re fully present to the right-nowness of every passing second.

If I follow the thread, it strings together something of a poem: the curves of my favorite mug, a dancing pod of dolphins, the dress I’d been waiting to wear and finally just wore to the office, a bag of handwritten letters in my closet, the punch of a chilled red, my partner cooking on a humid evening, jazz drifting out into the yard.

Romance Expands Time

These tiny, seemingly insignificant moments imprint a stamp on the flow of time. They slow things down. Micro-moments of pleasure, of romance, pull us from our monotonous trance, planting us in the moment by saying, ‘Look! Look at your beautiful life!’ Romance isn’t an action. It’s an intention — a commitment not just to look, but to see.

Time Compression, the phenomenon where time feels like it speeds up as we get older, has been trailing me. Maybe it’s turning thirty, or maybe it’s just my algorithm, but the messaging is relentless: Make the most of your time! Fill your life with novel experiences! Get out of your routine!

The logic lands (new experiences give our brain more to process, which shapes how we perceive time), but the message carries privilege. For most of us, life is largely a routine — made up of meeting basic needs, tending to relationships, and, if we’re lucky, space for adventure and travel along the way. The constant depiction that life should be a constant, thrilling conveyor belt of new experiences only intensifies the bone-deep fear that we’re not living as we should.

Romance is a remedy, because while it exists on the Italian Riviera, it’s everywhere else, too. Around unassuming corners and hiding in the crevices of our routine — a quiet, cool afternoon at the library, an empty bodega, a glass of lemonade, pillow talk, crisp sheets, maraschino cherries. Given that our basic needs are met (a big if), life can be pulled apart, bookmarked by instances of romance, and in turn, slowed almost to a halt.

Romance as a Rebellious Inconvenience

Capitalist Romance is grounded in consumption, but our version of romance is rooted in resistance. Not only the resistance to acquire more, but to do more, be more, and achieve more. When we take the long way home, choose to handwrite our notes, make the dough from scratch, amble along the coast to nowhere, and whisper with our partner deep into the night, we swim upstream — against the current of ‘not enough’.

In an era of frictionless ease, same-day delivery, and the sugar rush of instant gratification, romance is anything but convenient. But it’s actually the inconvenience that makes it meaningful. One of my favorite authors,, illustrates this beautifully.

Wherever she goes, my mom sends me a postcard. She could be doing a hundred other things, but instead, there she is at the post office. Her mom wrote her handwritten letters for decades. I can remember sitting at the kitchen table, trying to decipher her cursive, and wondering why they didn’t just talk on the phone. Romance is inconvenient, but that’s what makes it romantic.

Romance as a Personal Practice

When life starts to pick up speed, and time seems to fold into itself, romance is a practice of returning — to the moment, to ourselves, to each other. It’s an invitation to come back into connection with time.

And the practice isn’t prescriptive. You don’t need to buy a candle or start baking pastries from scratch. You don’t have to live by the coast or wear white linens. Our projections of romance only limit what romance might look like. It doesn’t have to be aesthetic, it just has to be yours.

And when you touch into that space, that moment of poetry, remember that it’s fleeting. That time will move you forward, and the hands of the clock won’t stop. The finite nature of our life and the lives of those we love is terrifying, and yet, nothing pulls us more sharply into the present. The handwritten letters don’t come forever. The late-night pillow talk won’t exist in perpetuity.

So do the inconvenient, effortful thing. Commit not just to looking, but to seeing. Find romance wherever you find yourself — even and especially if it’s not Italy. Tug at your routine until it softens enough to show you the romance wrapped in the packaging of your daily life.

I hope you find it, or whatever it is you’re looking for.

xx

Amy

Romance lately, a list:

• ’s Substack & Journaling Courses — Megan is not only a profound writer, but she creates space for honest, raw reflection. The courses have been a sweet nudge towards romance & pulling myself from the flow of time.

• Always, The Range by — when we’re in Oaxaca, we live in tight quarters. A few times a week, I’ll head to the roof before the heat picks up. It drops me right into my body, which is one of the most romantic things I can think of.

• Coming back to Oaxaca, where we fell in love five years ago to plan our wedding — there’s something here about cycles & synchronicities that I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s intangibly sweet.

• Getting our car stuck in a river & then laughing the whole way home.

• Also always, The Daily Rest Studio

• Creating with my friends, and the luxurious feeling of getting film back.

• Abandoning my laptop to plan, ideate, and create in my notebook (an ode to !)

I look down at my socks. They’re worn around the toes. Out of the corner of my eye, three daffodils lift lazily from the ground. I wonder if what I just said was okay. I’m not sure. I’m never sure. I can’t hear anything over the fluttering wings. Am I not yet healed?

It seems like we should remember how to be with one another. That our innate connection and codependence would keep us from forgetting. Although it seems I’ve forgotten.

I live with eight women for four days. We’re tucked into the folds of the Japanese Alps. My past lives greet me at the door. Comparison takes my coat. Envy pats my back. Fear shows me to a seat. Horrified, I recoil. Had I not already healed these parts of me? Wings flutter.

Groups make me dizzy. They bring about social vertigo — a sudden onset of amnesia resulting in a slippery sense of self. I forgot who I am and who I’m not. Quick to shapeshift and eager to please, I can fold myself into any group, emerging as a version destined for approval but not quite me. The winner does not take all.

Psychology’s ‘social anxiety’ is an incomplete characterization of such nuanced discomfort. A fear of judgment only grazes the surface. In reality, it dips into our primal need for acceptance and connection as a vehicle for survival. Every micro-interaction can be laced with narratives of not enough. Our bone-deep fear of abandonment keeps us quiet. Our fear of the final confirmation that we are not good — that we are not lovable — keeps us alone.

My early twenties saw me tossing my sense of self in the blender every season. Fishing myself out. Starting over. Finding my way back existed only in solitude and intimate relationships. Groups were no-man’s land.

The spirit of forgetting how to be in the company of others doesn’t belong to me. It seems we are a generation who, given an exit route, would prefer to be alone. Insecurities multiply before our eyes, magnified by the perception of others’ perceptions. How safe it can feel to be known.

Spring hasn’t yet broken. Daffodils shoot up from the ground, not quite ready to bloom. Morning sun drapes over the porch, but there’s still a bite to the air.

We sip coffee and learn about color theory (with the lovely Keito Hirakawa). As we do so, Sakura (cherry blossoms) threatens to bloom at altitude. Pink is the most violent color, she says. Sakura is unmistakably beautiful. People flock. Drink. Celebrate Hanami and a fresh start. But it’s dizzying. Overwhelming at times. So much energy, so suddenly.

We yearn for the same in our healing. To feel the burst and a decisive new beginning. To see the manifestation of our work in one final, foul swoop. And who can blame us? Our growth can be grueling — to go to the edge of ourselves is exhausting. There’s an allure to the finality of progress.

I’m nearly thirty, and exasperated. Am I not yet done? The universe laughs as it shakes its head.

No.

If you don’t feel good in spring, best to look how you spent your winter. So we learn from an acupuncturist and healer. I suppose to feel comfortable in a group, you must spend time in a group.

Laughter bubbles out of the onsen. You can’t go to therapy for that one, baby. You have to face it. And so I face it. And I don’t face it alone. I pull myself into the moment. I stay with the part of me that’s afraid — the part that wants to lie awake analyzing every word. I come back to my body. I reach for connection. My doubt slowly, quietly slips into the soil.

A protective layer starts to erode. The mind pulls, then it softens. The way two trees lean against each other just beyond my window. The way we do our dishes each night — standing, drying, laughing. The way hands are held. The way knowing looks shoot across the room. The way spring shoots are now everywhere, determined to be here. The edges of my fear begin to fray — connective tissue takes all.

Come out and feel this. Sinking our toes into moss, we giggle like we’re six. I didn’t know the earth could feel like this. I didn’t know that I could be with others, as still be myself.

Our growth is often, if not always, quieter than we want it to be. Healing is not just weeding out that which we don’t want, but rooting into that which we do. To stay, settle into the discomfort of the season, choosing not to run even when the pull is strong.

Our last day — I learn that everyone else has hummingbirds, too. That this burning desire to belong is universal. That I was never alone with the sound of wings. Oh to be together in our fear.

Sakura petals adorn the ground. The burst has come and gone. But we’re still here. Still growing, quiet as the daffodil, connected as the moss.

The rest will come in time.

From the women who held me:

TDR Tokyo by the luminous

Song of a Woman (Menstrual Education & so much more) with Keito Hirakawa

subliminal shift by the one & only (personal brand diaries is a must)

Sunbathing. by Laura (because the world needs to know)

Sweet Home with knockout Brianna Attard

Tremella Botanicals by the fairy that is Bek Lee + Clay Dance Studio !!

INNOCENT RHYTHMS by Rachel, who has my heart.

I’m not sure if any of us are, really. But I was an envious child. I was a brown, half-Chinese girl in a culturally homogenous community. It was never lost on me. Envy was my shadow, a part that was never welcome yet always there. Why did I have to be in the Asian basketball league? Would I ever be like everyone else? Difference gnawed away at my sense of self.

I would love to tell you that I’ve grown out of it. Just a relic of childhood, I would shrug. But this part of me lives on, her legacy piercing the fourth wall of the present.

Our aversion to envy, a deadly sin with evolutionary roots, runs deep. Biologically, it earned its place, allowing us to strive and survive. But organic or not, it registers as insidious. We clock envy as sinful, shameful, and evil. Three adjectives that we’ll avoid at all costs.

Societally, we’ve subbed envy for jealousy — a more palatable twist on this sticky emotion. I’m so jealous of you! It’s innocent, almost sweet. I’m envious of you is harder to swallow. Darker and malicious somehow. But according to Brene Brown’s Atlas of the Heart, we’ve got it all wrong.

Jealousy is the fear of losing something or someone to another person; it’s a three-person dynamic. Envy removes the third: Just you and the person with what you want. You want what they have. Maybe you even long for it.

Maybe envy wasn’t always dressed as evil and folded in with shame, but today it’s hard to untangle the two. Two birds of a feather born from various generations-old religious, cultural, and societal expectations. Almost inseparable. Almost.

Elise Loehnen’s On Our Best Behavior nods toward the shame of female desire. We are conditioned not to want. To want is to be desperate. To want it to be ungrateful. To want it to be utterly naive and unrealistic. What better way to keep the paradigm of power than to shame women from ever reaching for more?

This dance isn’t personal — it’s systemic. When young girls learn that it’s selfish to desire, boastful to strive, and naive to reach, there’s no margin for this emotion. When envy bubbles up, what choice do we have but to put it in chains? Dangerous little thing.

“I thought about how shameful it is for women to express desire, in all parts of our lives —and how many of us would rather clip the bud of our ambition than experience the humiliation of being exposed for thinking we’re worthy of adding something to the world.”

Odd Girl Out, Rachel Simmon’s 2002 bestseller, teases out the ways that women are allowed to be envious, but still be good: “Jealousy and competition do not disappear but instead morph into ‘acceptable’ forms…To remain steadfastly ‘good’ and ‘nice,’ girls must report to hidden codes. They learn, in other words, to express competition and jealousy indirectly.” That passive-aggressive bullshit? We built it, laying the framework with every back-handed comment and “Ok, don’t think I’m an asshole but…”

We’re reprimanded for our envy, yet exist in a culture of constant comparison. Back-handed comments come from longings and reactions to the metrics measuring our likeability, feeding us data on everything we’ve not yet accomplished, seen, worn, bought, or embodied. Jamie Varon once argued that social media was engineered to sell envy. I can’t say I disagree.

When we compare ourselves to our friends, colleagues, neighbors, and strangers on the internet (as we’re so apt to do), envy oozes from the cracks. I’ll never be like them. Why couldn’t I have gotten that promotion? Her body is perfect. She is so successful. They only dated for a year before getting married. Shame shows up to stop the moral bleeding. Why are you being so mean? You should be happy for them. This feeling isn’t normal. You’re a monster.

Permeated by shame, we shut down — our nervous systems dipping into freeze. Not only do we not take action, but we miss an opportunity to push back against the systems that put us there. Shame shoots the messenger. Per Loehnen, “We haven’t taught ourselves to pause, to feel, to diagnose,” but it’s never too late to learn.

Envy is also our ticket, our power, our lighted path through the dark.

Our subjective experience of envy is laced with desire. It shows us our appetite for life, revealing the where, what, and how of what we truly want but are afraid to reach for. Productive envy is a reclamation of our desire. It’s a crevice for curiosity and exploration: What is our envy signaling? Is this something we actually want? What part of it calls to us? Is it something we’ve been avoiding or suppressing out of fear? If we let it be, envy can be our truth serum.

Furthermore, is our envy literal or more thematic? Is it a house we’re after or a sense of safety and belonging? A curated wardrobe or a craving for self-esteem? A promotion or a sense of pride? More friends or simply more connection? It can be both. It can be all of the above —but we only know when we ask. Envy urges us to excavate our values — shedding light on the forgotten corners of what matters.

And sometimes, envy is just envy. It doesn’t require action. We can experience a thought without it becoming our whole personality. Wanting what someone else has is OK. It doesn’t make you naive, ungrateful, or desperate. It just makes you human.

Overheard from my therapist: “I’ve noticed that you’re very critical of what goes on inside your head.”

A lifetime of cultural conditioning has left its mark — I want to be ‘good.’ Part of my work is rounding the edges of envy. Only when I see envy as a window into insight, rather than a marker of immorality, can it be expansive. Only then can envy foster freedom. Only then can I pause, feel, diagnose.

When I can frame envy as a nudge toward clarity, something lifts. Stagnancy dissolves, carving out room for action — the tiny steps that move us in the direction of alignment.

What if we could own our desire, refusing to shame that which is innate to the human experience? What if we dared to push back, calling out when we’re mistaking a character flaw for cultural conditioning? What if we didn’t see envy as that dangerous little thing? What if, what if, what if.

Wilder things have happened.

xx amy

offerings — resources

If you live in California & are looking for a integrative keeps-it-real therapist, I currently have two open spots on my caseload — let’s chat

1:1 active breathwork for somatic release & emotional stagnancy

If you’ll only read one book for the rest of your life, read On Our Best Behavior: The Price Women Pay to be Good by Elise Loehnen

The Open Journal Club with

The-softening.com

The same stretch of days since I’ve written anything. A similar span since I’ve maintained any kind of regular practice. And while creation and reflection come in seasons, I can’t help but wonder if this one has been self-inflicted.

I’ve been opting for easier. Giving way to cheap dopamine. Justifying guilty pleasures to compensate for the sharp corners of life. But even I know that my equation is all wrong. And more so, that the equation isn’t my fault.

The stool next to my bed is stacked with books on dopamine and the scarcity loop. I’ve been yearning for an answer to the question — how do I find enough? What I found is nuanced, yet strikingly simple.

Our borderline-compulsive obsession with quick hits and cheap dopamine isn’t our fault. Without behaviors that lean toward hoarding, binging, and succeeding, we wouldn’t be here. Absent our insatiable desire for more, humans would have kicked rocks a long time ago. Our drive for dopamine isn’t a character flaw, but rather a deeply rooted biological imperative. Despite what oppressive institutions say about self-control (obesity, addiction, etc.) when the rubber hits the road, it’s not on us.

Ideally, our systems would protect us. After all, governments were born to instill order, foster safety, and “promote general welfare.” In the current political climate, this feels deeply ironic. It’s clear that, in their current state, our systems aren’t coming to save us. Not from the mechanisms that hijack dopamine nor the forces that make us more susceptible. Neuroscientists have found that those who grow up in resource-poor environments and are primed with mortality cues are more likely to value immediate rewards over delayed rewards compared to those who are similarly primed and grow up in resource-rich environments (Dopamine Nation, Anne Lembke M.D.)

And yet passing the buck doesn’t necessarily serve us. We can be excused from shame without being pardoned from responsibility. We can hold it all in the balance — our brains, our systems, and our individual agency. There is still room for choice here.

In Scarcity Brain, (a little bro-forward, but a good read), author Michael Easter travels to Our Lady of Guadalupe Benedictine Monastery in New Mexico to do as the monks do. It’s a hybrid form of Monkhood — remote and committed, but they can visit with their families and take vacations offsite. Exceptions aside, their day-to-day is divinely orchestrated. Starting at 3:45am, they pray seven times a day. They do four hours of daily manual labor, renounce worldly possessions, and consume food in moderation. They refuse the cheap, quick hits and they’re richer for it. They’re present and fulfilled — the lifeblood of well-being.

And we know this, right? Intuitively, we know that the next purchase, meal, trip, drink, or taste of success won’t bring us what we’re longing for. We’re chasing a sense of permanence that will never be more than a fleeting moment. Therein lies the human conundrum: the space between knowing what’s good for us and doing what’s good for us.

I know, with absolute certainty, that I’ll never be a Benedictine Monk (Or a nun— women can’t be Benedictine monks). I’m also not likely to live within a system that is so narrowly regimented. And yet, I still have agency to support the leap from knowing what’s good for me and actually doing it.

Life becomes less scarce when we savor, slowing down to grab hold of the dopamine that exists in the right now and release the fixation on what’s next. Scarcity loses its allure when we pause long enough to notice when we’ve been swept away in a river of dopamine and subsequently fish ourselves out. As we begin to recognize the scarcity cues coded into our environment (ahem, marketing), we recapture our attention. To slow down in a world that capitalizes on hurrying us along is to choose agency.

Our systems may not catch us, but we don’t have to do this work alone. This goes beyond what’s good for me and stretches toward what’s good for us. This might be building community grounded in collective accountability, removing ourselves (whenever possible) from scarcity-cue-ridden spaces along the way. Other options include long-form dopamine activities: book clubs, hiking groups, volunteering, or bird watching (per Jenny Odell.) We can make like the monks and do some manual labor. What exactly we do isn’t as important as how we set out to do it — present and together. In a society that hinges on the individual, it’s nice to get by with a little help from our friends.

I finally finished a piece of writing — this one. I opted for something less laced with immediate gratification and no doubt, feel better for it. It wasn’t monastic, but it was closer. It certainly wasn’t free of dopamine and distraction, but it was softer. And I didn’t do it alone — a dear friend sat quietly next to me as I wrote. My partner swooped in with a gentle nudge at 8:30pm to put it away.

Maybe I won’t write again until the next rain, but I’ll practice choosing agency. No need for the cheap thrills here. We’re saving up for the top-shelf, good stuff.

take good care xx

amy

Active Breathwork has landed —

I’m quietly launching this offering, mostly because I don’t know how to launch anything loudly. Unlike therapy, breathwork isn’t tied to a geographic location, so it’s open to everyone.

1:1 Active Breathwork might be a good fit for you if:

• You're navigating a season of transition and Big change

• You sense there is an emotional blockage that’s holding you back

• You need a dose of clarity to accompany a decision

• Your nervous system is calling out for a reset

• You’re looking for a non-traditional container for emotional exploration

Cost & value:

• The 75-minute experience: We’ll start with an intention setting and a gentle exploration before settling into breath. We’ll move through 30-40 minutes of active breathwork, staying with whatever arises. We’ll finish the practice with 15 minutes of re-integration, followed by 10 minutes of optional processing.

• The investment: $125 for individual sessions. $500 for five sessions (best for moving through a specific emotional theme/space)

If you’re curious or intrigued, let’s chat.

the-softening.com