I remember a lot from that day. How it felt to open the sliding glass door and stand on the patio, overlooking the campus lawn. Stocking the kitchen cabinets with plastic cups and plates and utensils. Decorating our dorm room with my best friend—strategically placing our blue and green throw pillows from Pier 1 Imports (may she rest in peace) on our matching duvet covers.

Enrolling in college had felt like a fast-pass into adulthood.

I was so cognizant of the fact that I was living “on my own.” I had my own car and my own schedule, and I would cook my own meals in my own kitchen, or walk to the dining hall and decide for myself when to eat them. Really, it was quasi-adulthood. I had the freedom of living on my own without being totally responsible for myself. I just didn’t realize it back then.

To me, it felt real. To me, there was only one weekend before my life would change, probably, forever. Classes would begin on Monday and a new era would begin. I had this realization, sitting there in my dorm room, unpacking the last brown box: You have absolutely nothing to do right now. There were no bills to pay. No library books to return. No assignments to submit. No tests to take. No plans.

There was, totally and completely, nothing to do.

It was one of those rare moments in life when I felt suspended in time between one version of myself and the next, a breath away from demands that were not yet mine.

And now, in the thick of adulthood, when the weight of the world has felt propped squarely on my shoulders, I have thought back to that weekend many times. And smiled at how, even as an eighteen-year-old, naive and unruly as I was, I somehow understood what a rare gift had been given to me. For one brief weekend, I was totally unburdened. There was nothing that needed to be finished, attended to, or handled.

And that has never really happened since then.

Until, well, now.

I am thirty-nine weeks pregnant, and everything I wanted to do has been done.

The nursery is finished. His tiny clothes have been washed, folded, and put away. The art has been hung. The bookshelf has been built and filled. The birth class taken. The lawn mowed. The house cleaned. My work is finished, and I am officially on maternity leave.

It’s the first time since that brief weekend before college that I have found myself here—weightless and waiting for a new era of life to begin.

In all of my idleness, the impulse to distract myself is ever-present. You should start a new business. Write a book. Teach yourself a dance. Bake a cake. Do this, or that. Fill the time. Fill it! And the part of me that is perpetually ten steps ahead, who wants to be productive and busy and never bored for a single second, is having to do something that does not come naturally to her at all.

Surrender.

Surrender to the fact that, for once, there is nowhere to be but here. There is nothing to do but wait.

When I was twenty-six, I took a roadtrip from Boston to Chicago because I was low on cash and didn’t want to spend the money on a plane ticket.

In hindsight, this was probably not a trip I needed to take, nor was the drive itself particularly worth the trouble.

A day in, somewhere in Pennsylvania, I looked at the GPS and was stunned to realize I still had something like eight hours to go. I remember getting to the point of near desperation—like if there had been some way to physically yank Chicago closer to me, I would have done it. I would have dragged the entire city across Ohio if it meant shaving a few hours off my drive.

But there was nothing to do. Drive faster, maybe. But even that wouldn’t have been enough. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how badly I wanted to will it into existence, the miles would have to pass beneath me. Slowly, as they were.

Eventually, I did reach Chicago. And by the time my black Jeep Patriot pulled into the driveway of my destination, the wanting, the desperation inside of me had already quieted. Somewhere across the Ohio state line I had given up on the idea of getting there any sooner and nestled into my place on the road.

I’m entering my thirty-ninth week of pregnancy somewhere between surrender and anticipation.

There is a peace within me. An awareness that everything is about to change, and that for this brief stretch of time, nothing is being asked of me yet.

And yet, there is also a restlessness. A rattling inside of me that just wants it all to happen now. I want to know what labor will feel like. Will it be hard? Will it hurt? Will I be in pain? I want to know what my baby will look like, and I want to know that we’re both going to be okay. Because giving birth is scary. And scary things grow even scarier the longer you anticipate them.

What I know is that waiting is hard. Whether you’re restless with anticipation or at peace in the interim, there is a tendency, at least in me, to fill the emptiness rather than simply let it be. And I am trying not to. I am trying to be here the same way I was at eighteen. Naive and a little unruly. To notice how strange and rare it is to have nowhere to be and nothing to do.

I know that any day now, I will leave this magical pocket of time and never return. I will never again be Anna without also being someone’s mother. And I know that one day, I will look back on this summer, waiting for my son to arrive and counting the days until life, as I knew it, was never the same.

See you on the other side,
Anna

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When I sat down to work on mine, I honestly felt scattered and a little unsure of what to include. I think what stressed me out the most was watching dozens of videos and carousels of strangers packing perfect, organized bags and wondering how I was ever going to remember all of that. Everyone seemed so organized, thoughtful and put-together. And I have never felt that way in my life!

Logically, I knew that if I needed something neither I nor the hospital had, I could send Trevor down the street to Target and we would be just fine.

But still, I wanted to feel prepared. So even though I was a little overwhelmed by it all, I gave it my best effort. I compiled a list and checked it off slowly through the month of July.

This is what I came up with. (P.S. Don’t miss the printable checklist at the bottom for anyone who wants it!)

If you’re packing your own bag and deciding what to bring, I hope you find this is useful. Because as overwhelmed as I was, I was equally grateful to everyone who shared their tips with me.

If there’s anything you think I should add (or leave at home), tell me. I welcome all of your advice! So much of what’s in this bag is borrowed wisdom from people who went before me, and I’d love for you to add yours.

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For Mom

I went back and forth on buying a new robe because I have accumulated so many over the years. But I went for it, and I am so glad I did! It is so soft and cozy—and so much of what I read said that people basically lived in their robes at the hospital, often skipping pajamas altogether and just wearing a nursing bra and briefs underneath.

If you’re curious:

My favorite tripod (I’ve tried my fair share of them).
A new pajama set from Lake
The coziest, most comfortable robe in blue
Nursing bra
Going home outfit

Toiletries

The other big thing I kept reading was that your first shower after giving birth should feel good. Luxurious, even! So I splurged a little and got all my favorite products in the mini size to save space in my bag. Now I am doing my very best not to open any of them early, so we'll see how that goes ;).

My favorite shampoo and conditioner of all-time
Everyone’s favorite moisturizer
Cutie claw clip
Mini pouch for makeup
(^ Matching ‘On the Go’ pouch and changing pad)

For Baby Boy

I packed two newborn onesies, plus a 0-3 months since he’s measuring a little bigger. I also found the sweetest going-home outfit on Etsy and had a custom name sign made for him (both of which I’ll link below)!

The Hatch Rest Go came highly recommended by so many moms, and we’re also bringing our bigger Hatch for the night light during overnight feedings.

I was SO excited about the receiving blanket I found from Lake. It’s so classic and exactly what I pictured wrapping him in for the first time. We also packed a Halo velcro swaddle. I know the hospital provides them, but I’d heard theirs can feel a little scratchy, and I liked the idea of having one of our own!

NB Onesie
0-3 Onesie
Announcement Sign
Coming Home Outfit
Hatch Go
Hatch Baby
Receiving Blanket
Halo SleepSack® swaddle

Breastfeeding

I want, with every part of me, to make breastfeeding work. But I have heard so many stories about how difficult it can be, and that you really can't know until you're in it. So my goal is to keep an open mind and an open heart, and take it one day at a time. I packed vitamin D drops, because breastfed babies need a daily supplement from the very first days! And even though I've heard the hospital will provide a pump, I wanted to have my own :) I'm also using it to collect colostrum in these last few weeks before he gets here.

Burp Cloths
Manual Breast Pump
Nipple Butter
Silverettes (these were recommended by so many moms!)

For Recovery

For recovery, the internet seems divided between bringing your own supplies and just stocking up on everything the hospital hands you. I've settled somewhere in the middle. I'll bring some of my own, and keep stuff at home, ready for when we get home.

Someone gifted me the Frida Labor and Delivery + Postpartum Kit at my baby shower, and it's so great! It has a hospital gown, grippy socks, and the full postpartum recovery routine, with a product for each step.

Frida Mom Labor & Postpartum Kit
Silverettes
100% Cotton Underwear (so comfortable!)
Adult diapers

And that’s about it! So many people have already added suggestions on Instagram and TikTok, and like I said earlier, I welcome any and all feedback. What would you add to this list? What helped you during labor and postpartum?

I also turned my list into a printable checklist for anyone who wants something to help keep track of it all. Making it was half the reason I finally felt prepared, and I left a few empty slots at the bottom for your own personalized items. Happy packing!

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Until next time,
Anna

At the end of August, my flight would take off from San Francisco, stop over in Zurich, and land in Florence. I could practically taste the gelato. I had two and a half months to save everything I could. So I picked up every shift I could get. I said yes to doubles, yes to closing, yes to covering for anyone who wanted their Saturday night back.

On workdays, I left the house early enough to go through the Starbucks drive-through for an iced caramel macchiato with extra caramel drizzle. I took those first few glorious sips with my hand on the steering wheel, smoking a Marlboro Light, and blasting Learning to Fly by Tom Petty. This was my pre-work anthem. My battle cry. The thing that made working all night bearable, and dare I say, fun.

When my shifts ended, I untied my apron and slid back into the driver's seat of my Jetta, smelling like ranch and fryer grease, counting my tips under the dome light. I loved how it felt to work hard for my money and to know that every table I turned was getting me closer to Italy.

I left in August with a duffel bag nearly the size of my body.

When I landed in Florence on that sunny August afternoon, I caught a cab to my hotel and settled in for the night with two girls who would later become my roommates. We found an apartment in the city center and walked to school together every morning. When class let out at one, we cooked long, elaborate lunches, slept through the afternoons, and went out at night for an aperitivo first, then The Lion's Fountain, the Irish pub where everyone seemed to end up.

We nestled into a beautiful life, and still, we left it constantly. We took a bus that swerved through the cliffs of the Cinque Terre, drank beer at Oktoberfest in Munich, rode a camel through the Sahara Desert, and snowboarded the Swiss Alps. It was the kind of year that contained a whole life's worth of experience. Yet some part of me knew, even while it was happening, that it wouldn't last.

I came home the following July, on the brink of my twenty-first birthday, somewhat dazed and a little bit spellbound. By the men I had fallen for, and the drugs I had tried, and the countries I had crossed, and all the experiences that fed my hungry heart more than any movie or novel ever did. I was determined to go back someday. But at some point after college, I realized it was time to get on with the business of growing up.

There were other adventures. Starting a business. Moving across the country. Falling in love. I fed myself new experiences and kept writing about them. And now, I’ll be thirty-two at the end of July. I live in Massachusetts with my husband and we’re expecting a baby boy this August, twelve years after I boarded that flight to Florence.

Yesterday, as I drove to my OB appointment, Learning to Fly came on the radio.

It took me back to being nineteen again, drinking iced coffee in my all-black uniform and non-slip shoes, mentally preparing myself for the eight-hour shift that lay ahead of me. For whatever reason, I remember my summer at Applebee’s almost as fondly and as vividly as the year I spent abroad. The two experiences couldn’t have been more different. One was eight-hour shifts spent waiting tables in the summer heat. The other was whole afternoons with nothing to do but drink and eat and explore. Yet they hold equal importance in my mind.

There’s a part of me that wants to slip back into that time, even for just a moment. With all of my hopes and dreams and perceptions of the world tucked neatly away in the treasure trove of my young and unbroken heart.

Maybe it's because anticipation is just as powerful an emotion as fulfillment is. That the very best part of something is also how good it feels to work toward it. To know you're standing on the edge of this big, wild, extraordinary part of your life. Even on the hard days, the sore feet and closing shifts, there is the certainty that something beautiful is on its way.

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Last night, I woke up around three thirty in the morning and couldn’t fall back asleep.

Usually when this happens, I start to feel anxious, because I know it means tomorrow will be harder. But this time, something in me surrendered. Instead of tossing and turning, I grabbed my water bottle from the nightstand and went downstairs to sit on the couch for a while. My dog, Laurence, followed closely behind me. I pet him in the dark and scrolled my phone and let the hour pass, and around four thirty, I crawled back into bed.

I’ve gotten used to the waking and the waiting. And it’s hard to imagine not being pregnant anymore. It has become my new normal: the swollen fingers, the trips to the bathroom, the hours I spend on the couch cuddling with my dogs.

Just like the summer before Florence, I had filed this time away as a waiting period. A transition. The interim between my old life and my new one. But maybe we can't be so certain about which parts of our lives will become precious to us. Maybe there is no waiting. There's only living. And this time, as hard as it is, is part of the beauty I will remember one day, too.

Until next time,
Anna

I found a train ticket to Vienna. At the time, I knew exactly three things about Austria: The Sound of Music was filmed there, Mozart was born there, and Billy Joel wrote a song called "Vienna." That was good enough for me. The train left at eight in the evening and arrived just after seven the next morning. Eleven hours through the dark, alone, chasing a feeling from a song. Perfect.

I walked down the aisle of the train with my backpack stuffed to the brim, wearing the green puffer jacket from Zara that had cost me an entire week's budget, hoping and praying I didn’t end up in the middle seat. The compartments were couchettes, three seats facing three, six strangers to a cabin. I had the middle seat.

For the first few hours, all six of us were on our best behavior. Knees angled just so. Legs crossed and recrossed. Apologies exchanged for the smallest brush of a shoulder. Somewhere around 1AM, though, politeness gave way to exhaustion and comfort became the only thing anyone cared about. There were legs stretched across the gaps between seats, heads tipped back, mouths open. Six strangers who had spent the first half of the evening guarding every inch of their space were now sprawled together in the dark, sleeping like a family on a long drive home.

I was twenty when I took that train to Vienna.

At the end of this month I'll be thirty-two, and in my third trimester of pregnancy. And I keep thinking about that night train. About how, twelve years later, I'm riding it again.

In the beginning of pregnancy, I bought new clothes to feel at home in my changing body. I read the books, worked on the nursery, and had the beautiful baby shower. I leaned into all of it. But these last weeks have worn my ambition away. I am more tired than I have ever been, less concerned with how I seem, sprawled on the couch at all hours of the day, waiting to arrive somewhere I have never been. I’m not trying to do this beautifully anymore. I’m just trying to make it through the night.

Maybe the hardest part of any new journey is the simple fact that you've never done it before. You've never been to the place you're going. And so the mind does all sorts of things when it doesn't understand. It plays tricks. It fills in the gaps. It looks for certainty where there is none.

I know I'm not hurtling through the dark toward a foreign city this time. But I am waiting to arrive somewhere I've never been, and some days that feels scary. I look for comfort where I can find it, knowing there is no use in pushing past my own limitations. There is only the riding. And so I am learning to do what everyone on that train eventually did: stop bracing, settle in, and trust that the train is going where it promised to go.

Our train pulled into Vienna just after seven in the morning.

I remember stepping off with my backpack in my green puffer jacket, twenty years old, walking the streets of a strange city all by my lonesome, going anywhere I pleased. Most of all, I remember the secrecy of it. I was harboring this small, glowing secret no one knew: I had gotten myself there. On my own, of my own accord. I had never felt so proud of myself.

Pregnancy is the same, and it’s different. I’ve never been to where I’m going. But I have a feeling that when I arrive, I’ll step off into a whole new world, and it will be every bit as beautiful as Vienna was that early winter morning.

Every night train ride calls for a little comfort.

So that's what this week's Everything is devoted to: a few things I'm bringing with me to the hospital, and a few things that will be waiting for me when we come home.

1. Magnetic Me Matching Pajama Set (1b: the baby onesie)
My best friend Erin had her baby in October and told me to make sure I got the Magnetic Me onesies. They close with magnets instead of snaps, so you can change baby in the middle of the night when it’s dark and you can barely see. Then I saw an ad for the matching mother and baby set, and I’m a sucker for a good ad, so I bought it! I originally planned to pack it in the hospital bag, but a friend mentioned that light colored pants might not be the best idea for postpartum. So I may just wear the top with his newborn-size onesie and get a few photos of us together.

2. Lake Pima Maternity Shorts Set in Hydrangea
I bought my first pair of Lake pajamas last year, and they are the best I have ever owned. They are pricier than what I’d usually spend, but they were worth every penny in my first trimester. And while these are maternity, don’t let that stop you from getting your own jammies from Lake if you’re not currently expecting. They are SO worth it, no matter what season of life you’re in!

3. Kyte Women’s Lounge Robe in Breeze
I looked at a lot of robes, from Amazon to Quince to Petite Plume, and nothing really did it for me. I’m a visual person, so I kept imagining myself walking from the hospital bed to the bathroom, likely in just a nursing bra and shorts, wanting something soft to slip on and off. This one checked all my boxes: soft, blue, and breathable.

4. BagSmart Toiletry Bag
I have never had much luck with toiletry bags. I don’t like the hanging ones, which take up more space than they save. This one has enough pockets and room for all the extras I’m bringing to the hospital.

5. Kyte Living Cross Front Bralette in Breeze
I wanted a nursing bra that folds down easily, without the thick straps most of them have. I chose light blue because I’m having a boy, and I can’t resist shopping to theme. I also have one from Gap that I love, and it's more affordable, I'll link it here.

6. Lake Maternity Dream Modal Kimono Three-Piece Set in Fog
A wrap top with room for the bump, a camisole with clip-down straps for nursing, and wide-leg pants with a drawstring and pockets. It will be fall before we know it, and I wanted something to look forward to wearing as the days get cooler.

That's all for this week. Wherever you are on your own long ride, I hope you're finding your comforts too. Vienna waits for us all.

Until next time,
Anna

Every post promised the same thing: I can show you how I did it. It seemed like there was no ceiling to how much money you could make. At least, that’s what they wanted you to believe.

And I did. After my first year of freelancing, I knew I wanted in.

I studied the coaches I admired. I watched how they ran their courses, built their communities, launched their programs, and priced their offers. The information was endless, and I couldn’t get enough of it.

At the same time, I was building my own brand. I watched my follower count climb from 2,000 to 3,000 to 5,000, and eventually to 10,000. I loved every part of it: choosing a color palette, taking the perfect profile photo, refining my bio, and defining a purpose behind what I was sharing.

So when I realized people would actually pay me to help them do the same thing, I doubled down. I created a three-month coaching program called Personal Brand Accelerator, moved to Oakland, signed up for a co-working space at The Wing in downtown San Francisco and built my roster to ten coaching clients a week. For the first time, I was making consistent money doing work I loved. I was thrilled.

I knew the next step was to turn the offer into a group course. That was the model. One-to-one, then one-to-many. I launched the first cohort in the spring of 2020. I remember being so nervous, heart pounding, hands clammy, stumbling over my words. It was the first time I had ever taught my own process to a whole group. But I got through it, and the feedback was wonderful.

By the end of the first round, I knew I wanted to run the cohort again, but with a real, solidified curriculum behind it. So I wrote out my entire process for how to build a personal brand in a Google doc. 100 pages! My mom helped me edit it, and I hired a designer to help me turn the curriculum into a beautiful workbook that people could use throughout the course.

As PBA grew, my own life was changing too.

I had this premonition that it was time to leave the Bay Area. I wanted to find somewhere new to belong, and I had always dreamed of seeing the leaves change color on the East Coast. So I ended my lease, packed up my car, and drove across the country. Somewhere in Chicago, I started thinking about ending my trip in Boston. I remember googling what's it like to live in Boston? And when I finally arrived, I loved it so much I decided to stay.

I documented my road trip and what it was like to start over in a new city. For the first time, I was sharing the more personal parts of my life online. Stories about love and loneliness, my fears, what it felt like to leave one life and drive toward another. Most of it had nothing to do with my business.

What surprised me was that the less I “sold” in a traditional sense, the more my business grew. It was the opposite of everything hustle culture had told me would happen. When I stopped trying to show up as an “authority” and started leveling with people as a peer, more people signed up for PBA than ever before. Pretty soon, I brought on an assistant, Sachiko, to help me manage the behind-the-scenes. At our peak we had thirty-plus people enrolled in a single round of PBA. It was such gratifying work.

And it had little to do with the numbers. People came to PBA to learn how to build their personal brand, but it became so much deeper than that. It became a place where people could learn about themselves and express their heart and share their stories with one another. Above everything else, that was the magic of the program. That's why it worked so well.

By the summer of 2024, I made the decision to change the model of PBA.

Instead of running group cohorts three times a year, it would become a subscription community. I was working on publishing my book Lonely Girl and I knew I needed the extra headspace to focus on the writing. By this point, fewer people were joining PBA, and maybe on some level, I had grown tired of promoting it. The whole launch, enroll, pause, repeat cycle had begun to wear on me. My head was somewhere else. I wanted to focus on my career as a writer, still helping people to share their own stories, but finally making the time to prioritize my own.

I continued to meet with the community, but in the back of my mind I wondered if PBA was something I still wanted to pursue. I wondered if the magic had finally worn off. I could feel myself changing, but my business hadn't quite caught up. And every time I questioned my commitment, there was a voice in my mind that said Just keep going, don't quit. Don't quit.

It didn’t make sense to me. This conundrum I had found myself in.

In my mind, a personal brand coach was supposed to have her business set up exactly the way I had. That’s what all the coaching gurus had taught us: you have your offers, and your podcast, and your this and your that. So a version of my work where I kept helping people with their content, but no longer had PBA to point to felt clunky. I couldn’t quite picture it.

I mulled my conundrum over in therapy, ironing out my conflicting desires. I wanted to be free, but I also wanted to keep going. I wanted to be excited about something again, but I also wanted to be someone who was consistent and diligent and finished what she started. For years, I asked my friends for counsel, telling them, “I just know I could make PBA successful again if I really tried.” To which they would respond, “But haven’t you already?” Maybe I had. Maybe I had already taken it as far as it could go.

It took getting pregnant for me to finally accept something I think I'd known all along.

Not everything is meant to last forever. And ending something is not the same as quitting it. Some things simply run their course, and then it’s time to let them go. My heart had known that for a while. It was the more logical part of me that wanted an explanation that made sense to everyone else. Something I could say out loud without people questioning why.

Eventually, I stopped looking for a logical reason and made the decision to close PBA at the end of July.

I’ll be 32 when PBA ends. I was 25 when it started.

And if there’s one thing these last six years have taught me, it’s that there will always be someone ready to tell you the right way to do something. Someone with a formula, a framework, or a process. After all, I became one of those people.

And I’m not saying to ignore it all. I think there’s a little truth to be found in almost everything. But none of it will ever replace your own wisdom. None of it can substitute for your internal compass. We all have one.

Mine has always pointed me toward the same thing: my business exists to support the life I want to live, not the other way around. There is no one right way to build a business, no formula coming to save you, and no perfect timeline you're supposed to follow. There's only what serves you in this season of your life. And what serves you is allowed to change.

I’m so grateful for PBA. It introduced me to lifelong friends and relationships that changed my life. It taught me how to build a business, how to serve people and really love them, how to navigate conflict, and how to practice courage even when I was terrified. It gave me the opportunity to move to Boston, build a life here, and eventually start a family.

I'm still working with clients one-on-one, and it's the part of my work I love most. While I'm fully booked right now, I'll be opening new spaces after I return from maternity leave. If you'd like to work together, you can learn more here and join the waitlist, and I'll be in touch when applications reopen.

To everyone who ever trusted me with your story, thank you. It has been one of the greatest privileges of my life. And to Sachiko, my partner in building this community, thank you for pouring so much of your heart into it. None of this would have been possible without you. I don’t know exactly what’s next. But I trust that one day I will. And when I do, you’ll hear it from me first.

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Until next time,
Anna

I shared on my TikTok and Instagram that part of me has always felt guilty for leaving California. I spent years believing that moving 3,000 miles away had made me a worse friend. That it cost me something I should have protected: my community, my friendships, and life in California as I knew it.

After all, when you move somewhere far away, you lose the closeness that comes with proximity. You lose inside jokes, and drop-ins just because. You miss birthdays and promotions and trying that new restaurant or thrift store on a Saturday afternoon. You lose the everyday.

But maybe this weekend, all of us together again, showed me something else to be true. That real friendship can withstand the distance. That it doesn’t require proximity, just a whole lot of effort and love. In the end, you may not get the everyday. But maybe you get something better. The chance to love someone into who they’re becoming. Through the changes, and the distance, and the lives we build as the years go on.

I wanted to share a few of the places I took my friends while they were here. If you’re ever in the New England area, these are some of my favorite spots.

The Seafood Shanty. I first heard about it from . She grew up spending her summers on Nantucket, and said that on the drive down, her family would only ever stop here for lobster rolls. The lobster roll is $35.95, which I think is decent for the Cape and the islands, especially since the portions are super generous.

Bourne and Bread. We got paninis and they were so yummy, and the coffee is just as good. There's usually a long line, but if you're visiting the island for the first time or bringing friends, it's worth the wait. It's just a fun spot.

Cisco Brewers. We went on a Friday, so the line wasn’t too bad. But if you don’t feel like waiting, you can skip it and just head across the street to 167 Raw. They have a beautiful garden to sit in, and you can order fish tacos, ceviche, poke, chips and guac. Such a nice spot to bring friends for lunch.

I had a lot of fun choosing my outfits for the weekend!

1. I wore this Hill House dress for my baby shower. When I saw it, the first thing that came to mind was, oh my gosh, I think that's it. I wanted something that felt a little fancy, but I also knew it was going to be a barbecue, so I didn't want it to be too over the top ;) Unfortunately, it's sold out online, so I bought it through Poshmark—I'll link it here. P.S. There are definitely other dresses that look similar, and I think Hill House is such a good option if you're pregnant. A lot of their styles run pretty big, so they work really well throughout the second and third trimester.

2. On Nantucket, I brought along this J.Crew rollneck that I absolutely adore. I've been living in it this summer; it's great for cool summer nights. The craziest thing happened to me while I was wearing it. I actually made a video about it, and it's now almost at 500,000 views on TikTok as of this evening while writing this, so you'll have to watch the video to hear the full story ;) I also brought along this bag from Sézane, which is my favorite summer staple. It's one of my favorite things I own!

3. For a day in Boston, I wore this white Doen dupe skirt, which I've also been living in this summer. It's not maternity. I just sized up two sizes and wear it super low underneath my belly. I paired it with this blue H&M linen-blend button-down, which, again, I probably wear three times a week. It's just been the perfect shirt. It's loose, super comfortable, and fits over the bump really well. Then I wanted to spice it up, so I wore my red jellies. Whenever I wear these, I get so many compliments. They're just fun and a great summer shoe.

Lastly, I ordered this bikini from Gray Bandit. It’s part of Viviane Audi’s collection; she’s actually pregnant right now, and the swimsuits looked so cute on her that I was inspired to get my own. I ordered both the one-piece and the bikini, but ended up wearing the bikini because there’s just something about pregnancy that’s making me feel more confident than usual. PERKS!

Anyway, thanks for reading along. This is the third installment of The Everything, and I’m still trying to figure out how I want to structure this style of newsletter. I’m always open to feedback or suggestions, even if it’s just something you liked or something you’d like to see more of. I would love to hear what you think.

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I have a few ideas for posts in the next couple of months. I’m officially thirty-two weeks pregnant, so we’re getting down to the wire here! It’s been a really exciting time, and I’m looking forward to the rest of summer, just taking it easy and nesting and getting as mentally prepared as I can.

Until next time,
Anna

Does making something for an audience change its true essence? When you plan to sell your art, does it corrupt the intention behind what you're making?

Rick Rubin says:

“The audience comes last. I believe that. I’m not making it for them. I’m making it for me. And it turns out that when you make something truly for yourself, you’re doing the best thing you possibly can for the audience.”

While hearing this for the first time, I felt a jolt of energy course through my body.

That feeling of yes, I’m sensing something true here.

When I wrote Lonely Girl, I wasn’t writing for an audience. I just had something I wanted to say. And I knew that if I didn’t say it, I’d be all clogged up — unable to move forward until this thing, this beast of a project, was finally finished.

I did it for me.

Editing, though, was a whole different story. Editing was meticulous, calculated, and all the things I struggle with about the creative process. And it was during this phase that my editors kept asking me: Who is this story for?

I wondered about this as I stared at the same paragraph for the third hour. There were so many decisions to make about formatting, layout, metaphors, having entire passages to cut. I struggled with wanting things to be a certain way, and my editors pushing back, telling me: You have to consider the reader here. You want it to make sense for people.

As it turned out, my book was not just for me anymore. This story would come alive in someone else’s hands. It would be read by people I’d never meet, in places I’d never been, and I wanted to give them something worth their time. I wanted the sentences to hold. I wanted the logic to hold, too. That was what editing was for, wasn’t it? To make it something more than chicken scratch on a page.

I spent multiple years editing my book. And by the time I finished, it looked so different from what I had initially started with.

I couldn’t decide if that was a good thing. Had I made it truly better, or had I lost something precious along the way?

When something is just yours, it exists in its purest form. It means what it means to you, and that meaning is total and unquestioned. But the moment you try to explain it, you’re no longer alone in the room. You’re inviting people in, handing them a piece of your life and making yourself available to their interpretation, judgment, and speculation.

In memoir especially, that’s the whole point. And yet nothing quite prepares you for how exposed it can make you feel. Something that once felt certain, felt mine, was suddenly subject to scrutiny. By the time I finished, I felt resentful of the whole project. Because it almost felt like I had cheapened my own experiences by trying to make them legible.

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Looking back, I can see why Rubin's words resonated so deeply.

They confirmed something I had always wanted to believe — that if I stayed loyal to myself, the rest would follow. And perhaps, at the beginning, this is true. The first draft of anything has to be selfish. You can’t write toward strangers and hear yourself at the same time.

But a book is not a first draft. A book is a thing you hand to someone. A book is a gift you give to others. And somewhere between the writing and the handing-over, I had to take on new roles. I was no longer just the writer, but the editor and publisher.

Each role asked something different from me. The writer had created something for herself, and then she was asked to step aside so the editor could make it legible, and the publisher could stand behind it in a room full of strangers.

For a long time, I grieved my right to be the only one who decided what my experiences meant.

But that is the cost of handing something so personal to strangers, and it’s exactly what memoir asks of us. It asks us to be honest. It asks us to show the parts we’d rather keep hidden. It asks us to share personally and vulnerably.

Only later could I see that once I was ready to let go, sharing could be a beautiful, self-renewing act of love and generosity. A way of making sense of what had happened to me, and maybe to us. A way of transmuting my experience into something that might even outlast me.

With time, my bitterness has softened into a deeper understanding of what the work requires. And next time, I think I’ll be ready for it.

If you’re creating something personal you intend to share, here are three things to keep in the back of your mind.

The first draft is for you. Don’t let anyone in too early. You can’t write toward strangers and hear yourself at the same time, and the selfish draft is the only one that will ever sound like you.

The work will ask you to change roles. At every stage of the creative process, stop and ask: what is my job right now? Am I honoring what this part needs of me?

And it will cost you something. The grief is real. But it’s the price of making what you love and sharing it with others. P.S. Not everything is meant to be shared, some things are just for you.

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Until next time,
Anna

Before you go — check out my book here ♡

I met Trevor two weeks after my 28th birthday.

On our first date we walked my dog to the Boston Common. It was mid August, the bugs were thrumming, and the trees still green with the last of summer. Trevor told me everything that day. Well, not everything. But the important things.

He told me about his past, and of his mistakes, and of his dreams. And I remember being surprised by how forthcoming he was. Maybe because most men I had dated before hadn't been. Usually there was so much guesswork involved, so much wondering, trying to decode the person standing in front of me. With Trevor, I could tell he wanted me to know who he was. There was no hiding. He wanted to be honest. And I have always had a weakness for honest people.

I went to sleep that night and didn't let myself dream too much. I had liked men before. I had been wrong about them before. I had spent most of my twenties looking for love in the wrong people. I had pried and pushed and plotted, trying to make something out of nothing, forcing situationships into relationships, begging to be chosen by men who were never going to choose me. Does he like me, or doesn't he, is he the one, or isn't he? My mind ran its endless calculations while my body, exhausted, tried to tell me what it already knew.

Eventually, be it growth or merely giving up, I loosened my grip on the idea of finding love.

I had given up the fight. I had made a life for myself that felt whole and fulfilling, and in walked Trevor.

That fall, we took motorcycle rides through open stretches of Rhode Island. And had lunch dates at the King and I on Charles Street. And he took me to fancy dinners at restaurants with menus that were too small.

One night in mid September, Trevor came over to meet my friends.

For hours before his arrival, my stomach had been doing flip flops. I wanted everything to be perfect. I wanted him to like my friends, and I wanted my friends to like him. I wanted no extra friction. I wanted it to be easy. I had this sense that he was going to be important to me, and I wanted the night to be proof of that.

When his text came saying he was outside, I left my lipstick open on the bathroom counter, gave myself one last look in the mirror, and ran down the stairs to open the door. There he was, standing on my stoop in a blue and white checkered flannel. Without saying anything, he pulled me into his arms and gave me a big hug, holding me there for a moment. And I remember feeling safe, and warm.

It was the feeling you get when you know you’re going to be okay — like when you’re eight years old and you’ve just had a bad dream, and someone comes to your room to check on you. I could have stayed there for hours, feeling my body shift from braced to guarded to open. Maybe that’s when I knew he was going to be my person. It wasn’t anything my mind was saying. But it was everything my body was telling me.

I'm in my third trimester of pregnancy now, and I still feel that same way with Trevor.

That same sense of safety, of home — when he walks in the door after a long day. When he makes me breakfast in the morning. When he comes into my office to tell me it's time for lunch. I feel it when we're out with friends and I reach for his hand, the whole table deep in conversation, and even with everything going on around me, I feel grounded just knowing he's there.

I don’t think this is necessarily a lesson in how to choose the right partner, but rather about learning to trust the body as a way of knowing.

For so much of my life I confused anxiety for passion. The decoding, the anxious loops, the wondering does he like me, doesn’t he; will I pass the test or won’t I; will I land the client or lose them. You can put almost anything in that sentence. People disguise turmoil for passion all the time; because both of them run hot, and from the inside it's hard to tell the difference.

I felt passion with Trevor, on our motorcycle rides through Rhode Island, while the bugs thrummed in the Common, in the nervous thrill of waiting for him to meet my friends. The difference was that beneath my excitement was steady ground. A feeling of I can go high because I know I am safe to come down. And that, I’ve learned, is what gives me the most room to expand and spread my winds.

The best parts of me emerge neither in the pursuit of what thrills me nor in the comfort of what feels safe. It’s somewhere in between. It’s when I feel fully alive — passionate, energized, stretching beyond what’s felt possible — without losing myself in the process. Without being overtaken by anxiety. Without collapsing into fear. That is where life feels richest.

In a way, meeting Trevor has taught me this. And in learning this through him, I recognize it elsewhere else in my life, too. Through pregnancy, through the seven years of building a business, through the slow journey into motherhood. It was never more evident than the night I stood on my stoop with my husband. But as it turns out, my body had been keeping that record all along.

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Until next time,
Anna

P.S. Before you go — check out my book here ♡

This may have been the longest, most brutal winter of my life.

Mind you, I grew up in California, so I am not accustomed to just how harsh New England winters can be.

When I moved to Boston, I thought, no way it’s really that bad. It always looked so picturesque to me, like living inside of a snow globe, and I figured if you had the right clothes and prepared properly, winter could be fun. Was fun! The last few have been mild. Turns out the whole snow globe effect is a lot less charming when you're dying of nausea in the first trimester and lose power for days-on-end due to a blizzard. I hardly left the house.

—Warmer weather, hallelujah.

Now that the weather is warmer, I can feel the difference in my mental health. I’m enjoying wearing fun clothes again instead of being bundled up in a wool coat every time I leave the house.

I’ve been wearing this new sun hat non-stop, and it makes me feel chic in the way Diane Keaton looks in Something’s Gotta Give—in her all-white ensemble, walking along the beach in the Hamptons beside Jack Nicholson. I figure I may as well look the part while I waddle along the Cape.

—Pregnancy insomnia!?

For the last two nights, I've woken up around 2AM—wide-eyed and weirdly alert, running on second-wind energy I know isn't real but my mind refuses to believe. I try to soothe myself back to sleep, but my mind races with everything we have to do for the baby shower and the nursery, and then I get excited about making content and writing Substacks. What's a girl to do!?

Also, I officially can’t sleep on my stomach anymore. Even if I try to sleep at the corner of my stomach and side, baby starts pushing back. He is not having it! So I’ve been exclusively side-sleeping with this pregnancy pillow, which has been amazing. Pair it with this 100% organic cotton pillowcase and you’re golden.

(Can confirm it’s amazing for non-pregnant people too—I bought it before I was even pregnant. ;))

—I'm watching a lot of TV, and loving every minute of it.

Mad Men. The Americans. Imperfect Women. The Testaments. Paradise. I've started and stopped Mad Men on multiple occasions, but this is the first time I've actually made it to season six, and I plan to finish the series this summer.

It might be one of the best-written shows I've ever watched. John Hamm's character is troubled and misguided, mysterious and charming, and watching him sort out the two lives he's stitched together is, somehow, the whole appeal. I want nothing more than to dissect every episode on the Reddit threads after the credits roll.

Each night I curl up under the coziest blanket I splurged on during my first trimester (I got it on sale!) and let myself sink in to the couch. It’s the softest piece of material I have ever laid my hands on. I love it so much. Comfort has been the name of the game.

I know these quiet nights are about to be a thing of the past. That pretty soon, "free time" won't really exist in the same way. So I'm letting myself enjoy them, guilt-free, while I still can.

—I’ve been really into audiobooks lately.

I just finished Project Hail Mary, and while the storyline was heartwarming and the characters were wonderful, I didn’t totally love the genre—it leaned a little too sciencey for me. Still, a fun listen.

I finished Lena Dunham’s memoir, Famesick, and oh my gosh. Lena is so talented. I loved reading about the inception and making of Girls, which, is one of my favorite TV shows to date. Adam Driver. Life in show business. The glitter and grind of LA. Reconciling fame and learning to accept herself one heartbreak, one hookup, one pill, one sober year at a time.

Next up: Yesteryear by caro claire burke.

All in all, this has been a fun part of pregnancy.

Every day, I find something exciting to wake up for. I’m enjoying making content again—filming morning routines, sharing pregnancy updates. Documenting and sharing my life has always a been a creative outlet for me, and I appreciate you following along.

If any of this resonated with you, or if you have your own pregnancy experiences you want to share, I would love to hear them. Leave a comment. It means more than you think.

Until next time,
Anna

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Before you go—

If this resonated, you’ll love my book. Read it here. ♡

And if you want to post with more confidence on Substack or social media, I can help.

Depression is not the same as being in a funk. It is not the same as feeling sad. For me, it felt like being incapacitated. I could see the tasks in front of me. Getting out of bed. Brushing my teeth. Putting on clothes. They were so simple, and yet I could not bring myself to act. I could not move or pull the covers off my body. I was too cold. Too tired. Too something I didn't know how to solve.

I had fantasies of my past self. I imagined her alive and oozing with energy — running errands, vacuuming the rug in our living room, dancing in a sea of wildflowers in a summer dress. She had so much zest for life. And I wondered if I would ever find my way back to her. Where was she? Who had I become in her absence?

I also wondered if my circumstances were really as bad as I was making them out to be. Maybe I was just being dramatic. Maybe this sustained period of grogginess and self-criticism and despair was all in my mind. Was this just adulthood? Was adulthood just sad? Was I simply coming to terms with the monotony of my life?

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I feared that if I stood still any longer, watching my life come undone, it would be harder and harder to find my way back. To wherever back was. I racked my brain for something — anything — to do. And this is what I came up with. These were the five things that saved me (even just slightly) from my depression spiral.

I laid out my clothes the night before.

I couldn’t do much, but I could open the drawer of my bureau and pick out a pair of sweatpants, a t-shirt, and a sweater for the following day. I could pick out my socks and my underwear, lay them on the chair in front of my closet. And in the morning, when the thought of getting out of bed felt too big, too daunting, I knew at least I wouldn’t have to stand in front of my dresser under the weight of deciding what to wear. That much, I could still do. I picked out my clothes.

I walked to the mailbox.

I couldn't walk beyond it. But I didn't have to. Each morning, before I made a cup of coffee, I walked down the long driveway, picked up the mail, and walked it back to the front door. It was 4 minutes in total. I listened to the birds chirp and said what I was grateful for. Some days it was my dogs. Other times, my husband. I tried to envision each thing. Hold it in my mind like I was giving it a hug. I walked to the mailbox.

I listened to the Beach Boys.

There was something so ironic about listening to the Beach Boys and dreaming of a California summer in the dead of a New England winter. I was so desperate to feel something other than low that the Beach Boys felt like the only option. And they worked, they carried me back to the backseat of our family minivan, my dad driving us to Santa Cruz on Sunday mornings after church. Even though I felt so far away from that girl, from that life — for a moment, I was suspended there in time. Somewhere warmer. Somewhere better. I listened to the Beach Boys.

I cuddled my dog.

I remember his light brown eyes looking up at me. I put my hand on his head, rubbed the back of his neck, felt the softness of his fur against my palms. Nothing could fully deliver me out of the fog, but for a moment, he did. He was just there. Present in only the way dogs are, asking nothing of me, expecting nothing from me. I cuddled my dog.

I told someone.

For so long, I had been telling myself that what I was experiencing was just par for the course. That I just needed to push through. Exercise more. Surrender to it. Wait it out. Maybe it wasn’t really that bad. Maybe I was being dramatic.

But when I finally confided in my doctor, it was the simplest thing in the world to get help. To come up with a plan. I feel lucky that she validated what I was feeling, that she took my concerns seriously, that she believed me.

Now, standing on the other side of this — feeling infinitely better — I can see that what I felt was real. That it was scary. That I was disconnected from myself, and that no, I wasn’t making any of it up. I wish I had believed myself sooner. I wish I had told someone sooner.

In the end, what saved me most was choosing to believe my own experience.

Not dismissing what I felt as dramatics, or circumstance, or the resignation of adulthood. But facing it. Honoring it. Choosing to do something about it. That, I’ve realized, is the epitome of strength — not the dismissal of your own pain, but the courage to take it seriously.

From there, help is possible. Help is renewing. Help is healing. Help is ours, if only we have the courage to to ask.

Until next time,
Anna

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Before you go —

• check out my book here ♡

• Want to be proud of what you post on Substack or social media? I can help

Mother’s Day.

I’m becoming a mom this year.

Call my mom.

Text my mom friends and tell them I love them.

Also text my friends missing their moms.

And the friends missing their future babies.

Let them know I’m thinking of them.

I lay there in the quiet, trying to understand what I was feeling. But the thoughts came faster than I could process. Joy and grief, celebration and sorrow, all tangled together. And underneath, the sense that I wasn't just holding my own emotions, but what I imagined everyone else might be feeling, too. I thought about all the babies being held today. And the ones still waited for. And the mothers missed. And the mothers wished for.

I thought about how, at six months pregnant, Mother’s Day holds a whole new meaning this year.

I have only a sliver — a shred — of understanding of what it means to be a mom. I’ve barely scratched the surface, and I have a lifetime ahead of me to learn the rest. But here’s what I’m beginning to understand.

So much of being a mom goes unnoticed. So much of it is invisible. It's in everything you give up. In the burdens you shoulder. In all the ways you strive, and endure, and overcome.

I have deep admiration for the women in my life who have modeled, in their own ways, what it means to be amazing mothers.

So whether this day brings you joy or sorrow — I'm still trying to find the words. But I think that's the essence of it. Motherhood is all of it. Giving and grieving. Hoping and aching. Reaching and resting. The whole gamut, always changing, never stopping.

Once you understand, there’s no going back.

So I got out of bed and started writing.

Until next time,
Anna

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I’m sharing a round-up of my favorite things, what I’ve been trying and enjoying lately, and some stream-of-consciousness thoughts that need somewhere to live.

The name of this Substack is All of Me. You already knew that. But what you might not know is the reason behind the name.

I've shared my life on the internet for over a decade and I've learned a lot.

I've tried many identities on for size. I've been Anna the entrepreneur. Anna the content creator. Anna the writer. Anna the Lonely Girl. I've tried to carve out a space for myself in each one of these personas — curating my content to match a particular aesthetic, an ethos, a set of principles, and a personhood. None of these identities were false, all of them represent a part of me that wants to be expressed. But they never capture the full picture. They can't. Because none of them are all of me.

But I am.

Everything I share, everything I feel moved by, everything I want to create and work on, build and produce is an extension of me. And all of it belongs under this Substack, and really any platform I share my life on.

I explain this to my clients and community all the time — share it all. Be it all. Don’t let what you think your brand needs to be dictate what you’re allowed to express.

Zoom out, though, and it's so much deeper than a “brand.”

We’re constantly building these tiny containers around ourselves; rules about who we are, what we’re allowed to love, what fits the persona and what doesn’t. And when we throw all of that away, what we find is that we are so much more unique and interesting and dimensional than we have ever given ourselves permission to be. The deeper layers of our personality become accessible to us. We expand only by stopping the performance of who we think we’re supposed to be.

That’s the premise, and where the name for this Substack comes from.

So I’ve got to practice what I preach.

I’ve thought about sharing posts like this for a while, but I kept talking myself out of it. I didn’t want to bombard you with recommendations you didn’t want. I told myself I had to stick to writing stories, because that’s what most of you originally subscribed for. But I have to challenge that. Because I want to bring all of me into this — the recommendations and the obsessions and the half-formed thoughts, right alongside the stories and personal essays.

So here we are. Without further ado, welcome to The Everything.

Nothing fits anymore—

It’s one of the hardest parts of pregnancy. My body is changing rapidly, and I don’t want that to stop me from feeling good in my clothes this summer.

Finding clothes that fit just right has been a challenge, and there's a big debate around maternity vs. non-maternity. What’s better!? A lot of people say maternity clothes make them feel "frumpy dumpy," but I've found the opposite to be true. The right maternity pieces have made me feel snug and comfortable, cute and put-together.

Honestly, it doesn't matter which camp the clothes come from, as long as you feel good in them. It's taken some experimenting and a LOT of returns, but I think I'm starting to figure it out. I recently bought these pieces I love from Old Navy and Gap.

Old Navy Finds

1. Maternity Square Neck Tank Top

2. Maternity Drop-Waist Fit & Flare Dress

3. Maternity Rollover Waist Linen-Blend Wide-Leg Pants

4. Maternity Rollover-Waist Crinkle Gauze Barrel Leg Ankle Pants | Maternity Crinkle Gauze Tank Top

5. Sleeveless Seaside Cotton Crochet Tank Top

Gap Finds

1. Maternity Under Belly Twill Pants

2. Maternity Modern Tank Top

3. Maternity Split-Hem Modal Maxi Dress

4. Maternity Modern Apron-Neck Tank Top

Our Baby Registry—

This task felt so daunting at first, but once we got into it, it actually became a lot of fun putting it together.

One thing I’ve noticed about myself is that I have a hard time imagining what I’ll need, or what’s going to work for me, if it doesn’t feel urgent or immediate yet. (Is this an ADHD thing?!)

Maybe that’s why planning my wedding felt so hard! It seemed so far away for so long... until it wasn’t, and I was scrambling in the last six weeks, trying to pull all the moving pieces together. Anyway, we have a few items on our registry that I’m really excited about. But let me know: what would you add to the registry if you could go back and do it all over again?

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Baby Registry

1. Round Water Hyacinth Basket

2. Nursing Pillow With Luxe Fabric Cover

3. HALO - SuperSoft Bamboo Swaddle

4. Peanut Wipeable Changing Pad

5. The Monarch Baby Carrier

6. MINABAIE - Kinney Backpack

Nursery on my mind—

We started working on it last weekend; putting up the beadboard, looking at wallpaper samples, and choosing a paint color. I'm trying to remember that this should be a fun process!

It's hard to resist the urge to obsess — for it to look immaculate, to be magazine-worthy, and for me to make every perfect decision. But the more pressure I put on myself, the more it taints the process with stress and worry, and that takes all the fun out of it. So I'm just trying to roll with it!

1. Rattan Lamp from Target

2. Elsie Convertible Cot

3. Esmé Glider Chair from Six Penny

4. Rattan Semi Flush Mount Ceiling Light

5. JONATHAN Y Pata Hand Woven Jute Area Rug

6. Wallpaper from Sandberg

Thank you for reading the first installment of The Everything.

I’ll keep experimenting in this little corner of my Substack. If there’s anything you want to see more of, or something you’ve been curious about, please tell me.

This summer, I want to share more of our adventures on the Cape and the Islands and around New England, and I’ll keep letting you in on the evolution of becoming a mother — sharing all things pregnancy, nesting and the countdown to August when our baby boy arrives!

Thank you for being here. If anything in this post resonated with you, I’d love it if you left a comment. Every single one means more than you’d think.

Until next time,
Anna

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Before you go—

If this resonated, you’ll love my book. Read it here. ♡

And if you want to post with more confidence on Substack or social media, I can help.

Everything I had prepared to say went blank. I could feel him beside me, waiting. But I didn’t want to sound too eager. I didn’t want him to know I had been hoping for this exact moment, that I had practically willed it into existence. I don’t remember exactly what I said. Something along the lines of, “Well, that’s an idea.”

I suddenly felt terrified.

Move in with a man? Leave my precious apartment in—what I considered to be—the best part of the city, for the SUBURBS? I didn’t give him an answer that night. I told him I would think about it. And think about it I did.

Trevor and I had met four months earlier.

The day before our first date at the Boston Common, I had been scammed out of a sizable amount of money. I won't get into all the details now, but it was enough that it made it difficult for me to pay my bills, make rent, and keep my business afloat for a few months.

Before the scam, I had been doing really well. I was proud of what I'd built, proud of the money I'd tucked into savings, proud of how financially responsible I had become over the years. And then suddenly, it felt like the rug got pulled out from underneath me, and that all of my hard work had been for nothing.

My closest friends and family lived 3,000 miles away, and I felt truly alone. So the question of whether I would move in with Trevor came at a time when I desperately craved psychological safety and refuge. While I loved my independence — it felt synonymous with my namesake, with how I viewed myself, I also felt so tired of not having a partner in life to lean on.

Even though I had only known Trevor for a short while, I knew I was going to marry him. I loved him. I felt it in my gut, in my soul, that he was my person. Maybe four months was too soon. My parents would likely disapprove as we weren’t married. I knew I was taking a risk. But it also felt inevitable. Why sign another year-long lease when I already had my answer?

Eventually, I told him, “Yes.”

I was ecstatic and over-joyed, but there was a bit of a grieving period. I had decided to move out of the city, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to miss it.

I would miss my daily walks to the Boston Common with my dog Laurence, stopping by the dry cleaners on my way home from work, Sunday morning coffee and writing sessions at Tatte. I would miss all of it. But more accurately, I would miss the version of myself who experienced these things as part of her daily life.

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The night before I moved out, I was carrying a box of things down to my car when I ran into my neighbor in the foyer. She asked me where I was moving to, and when I told her that I moving in with my boyfriend, she looked me dead in the eyes and said, “Don’t ever leave the city.” She said that this was the time for me to be where things were happening, to double down, to be in front of the right people, to harness the energy that only a city can give you.

I resented her for it. I knew she was probably projecting. But it also seemed like a strange thing to say to someone the night before they were moving. My boxes were packed, most of my furniture was already gone, there was nothing left but a couple of suitcases, my dog, and me.

That night, lying on the floor of an empty apartment, her words lingered. Was I making a mistake? I thought about everything I was giving up. Moving to Boston had helped me build my business. The city had become the backdrop for my content, and I had built my brand around living there. Would leaving impact my career? Was I less of a feminist, less independent, because I was moving in with a man? Even then, I realized I was worrying more about how others would perceive my decision rather than whether it was actually right for me.

The next morning, before I got in the car to leave, I gave myself a few minutes. I walked through the apartment, completely empty now, every footstep echoed against the bare walls. And I said thank you. Thank you for keeping me safe. Thank you to Boston for embracing me, and for giving me a home away from home. Then, I got in my car and drove to Trevor’s—equal parts glowing and terrified. Gleaming with anticipation for the life I was running toward. And yet grieving the life I was losing as a result.

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In the end, the decision to leave changed the trajectory of my life.

Trevor and I got married. We bought our first home together. We’re expecting our first child in August. Life is even better than I could have imagined. And if there’s anything I could tell my younger self — the one who was petrified to leave, to trust herself — it’s that it was never one life or the other. It was never this or that. It was never independence or partnership, city or suburbs, the slow life or the fast one. You don’t lose what’s always been yours.

I didn’t lose those years in Boston. Just like I didn’t lose all of the hard work I had put into my finances before the scam. I may have lost the money. I may have left the city. But those experiences are still mine. They will always be mine. You take all of what you’ve learned, experienced, and witnessed into the next phase of your life. And you keep growing. And you keep building. And you keep creating. And nothing is ever lost.

Until next time,
Anna

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A few days later, I found out I was pregnant.

My husband, Trevor, and I had always said it would be fun to wait to find out the sex of the baby. “It's one of life's greatest surprises,” someone had told me once on a plane ride from Boston to San Diego. She told me about her whole motherhood journey: about how she had a boy, they waited to find out, and how beautiful the whole experience was.

In theory, waiting sounded great — being totally surprised the day of delivery. How special!

Of course, I did have some reservations about how I was going to decorate the nursery, or what the baby would wear coming home from the hospital, but I tucked those concerns in the back of my mind, too excited to be pregnant at all.

It was decided: we were going to wait.

Then I hit the 5.5-week mark, my morning sickness got progressively worse. I talk about this in another post, but it was SO brutal that it became almost debilitating. From about December to March, I experienced the worst perinatal depression. It scared me how much I didn’t recognize myself, how my relation to life and work and all the things that normally brought me joy just fell flat.

During my first trimester, I struggled to make the connection between my morning sickness and the baby growing inside of me. It just felt like I was hungover 24/7. There was a ton of blind faith involved. And I had to remind myself that something good was coming at the end of the long and (sorry, but) miserable road.

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Finally, I told Trevor, “Sorry babe, I just gotta know if it’s a boy or a girl.” I gave him two reasons why.

First, I was SO sick that I needed something to hang onto. I needed to imagine him or her, and use that image to help forge a stronger mind-body connection. I told him, “You know, I really wish I was one of those cool, unbothered girls who can just wait to find out with zero anxiety—but that ain’t me!” Anxiety says no.

Second was the vision. I had that vision of a boy before I even KNEW I was pregnant, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. What if I was wrong? Can you imagine… this whole time I’m thinking it’s a boy… and then a GIRL comes out? I would feel absolutely terrible, and to be honest, slightly thrown off. I couldn’t bear the thought of that.

Trevor said, “Okay, babe, whatever you want to do is fine with me. This is your choice.”

Cue the NIPT test.

We went on a Monday to the testing facility, and for the rest of the week, I checked my results non-stop. Nothing.

Then finally, on Saturday morning, Trevor and I were sitting on the couch drinking coffee and I checked again. There it was.

Previously, we had thrown around a few ideas for a gender reveal. We talked about having our dogs, Laurence and Maggie, be a part of it — or even doing something with blue or pink paint in the future nursery. But the moment the results landed in my portal, I knew I could not wait another second.

I gave my phone to Trevor, heart pounding, and told him to open the results.

I still felt in my gut that it was a boy, but of course, I couldn’t be sure. I was almost afraid to be wrong, because then what? My intuition was shot to hell? —Kidding. But really, it felt that serious in the moment.

He opened the results, and there it was, that little Y chromosome. “Consistent with male fetus,” it said.

I started jumping up and down, I was so excited!

In the end, I am so glad we decided to find out early. And I am so relieved to know that my vision was right, and that the mind-body connection I had been searching for was there all along. I just had to trust it.

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Until next time,
Anna
xx

Before you go —

• check out my book here ♡

• Want to post with confidence on Substack or social media? I can help

Not much later, I started feeling really emotional. Stormy. Crying in the car for no reason. Picking fights with my husband. Getting stuck in thought loops. The cramps I felt were strange, too. Different from period cramps, and persistent. And yet every pregnancy test I took came back negative. I thought I was going crazy.

Then, finally, one morning, my test came back positive.

I started jumping up and down, careful not to be too loud because my husband, Trevor, was still asleep in our bedroom. I’ll never forget that moment standing at the window sill. Pregnancy test in hand. Pure bliss. Excitement. Possibility. An adventure to come.

In the months (actually years) leading up to that moment I had thought a lot about whether I wanted to be a mom. I took a good, hard look at my life. Had I done all the things I wanted to do? Did I actually want to have children, or did I want them simply because I thought I was supposed to have them? People had warned me I would never feel truly ready. But I wasn’t sure if I believed them.

I reflected on my twenties. How I had explored all over Europe and the United States. I relocated to Boston when I was 26. I started a business, published a book, fell in love and got married. I had lived, accumulated experiences, accomplished everything I set out to do. Now, I was standing on the other side of these milestones, realizing that I did want what came next. Emotionally, I felt ready for the idea of motherhood. Just not for any of the things that were actually coming.

I was so sick during my first trimester I could hardly function.

I woke up in the mornings yearning to go back to sleep because then that would mean the day would be over. I struggled to take showers, to brush my teeth, to get dressed. I felt trapped inside my own body, claustrophobic, unable to find any relief from the nausea and discomfort.

What once felt easy — sitting down to work, unloading the dishwasher, taking the dogs for a walk — suddenly felt insurmountable. I stared at the pile of laundry in the hamper, the dirty sheets bunched at the foot of the bed, and felt a mixture of grief and rage. Grief because I didn’t recognize who I had become. And rage because it felt like my life was falling apart and I didn’t know how to stop it from happening.

When you’re pregnant, you’re limited to what you can do to help yourself. There is no easy solution for morning sickness. It’s advised not to guzzle copious amounts of caffeine to help with fatigue. And the darkness is so total that you can’t help but wonder if it will always feel this way. Will there ever be a way out? Will I ever feel normal again?

As difficult as it’s been, there have been wonderful moments, too.

Every OB appointment, every flutter, every conversation with my husband about what our baby will look like, their personality, who they’ll become — have given me so much joy. I hang on to these moments on the harder days. When I can’t imagine moving forward, I imagine holding my baby instead. Reading to them. Watching them sleep. Holding their hand in mine. The grief feels worth it then, even when I can’t see how yet.

I feel embarrassed now, looking back, because I thought pregnancy would be easy. I thought I would love being pregnant. When my friends got pregnant for the first time, I empathized with what they were going through, but I had only a shred of understanding for what they were really going through. Doesn’t that just sum up the experience of being a woman?

So much of what we endure can only be understood through the body. Words have a way of coming up short. And so we move through a world that can’t be fully translated, and the men in our lives just have to take our word for it.

Being pregnant has humbled me in a lot of ways.

It’s made me feel small in the face of how much I still have left to learn. It’s opened me up to an entirely new world of experience. And despite the depression, the nausea, the days I couldn’t see past my own fog, I am so excited to meet this person growing inside of me. I am enlivened by the hope of who they are, and what will become of my life.

Everyone said I’d never feel totally ready for motherhood, and I didn’t believe them. I thought readiness was a threshold you could cross if you prepared enough, lived enough, or reflected enough. And in some ways, maybe that’s partly true. I had done those things — I had made space in my life and heart. But in the end, it seems that readiness isn’t a door you can walk through and stay on the other side of. The door just keeps moving. You walk through it by living.

So here I am. Half-ready, half-terrified. Brave-faced and wide-eyed. Trusting that I’m right where I’m supposed to be. Maybe that’s what ready actually looks like.

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Until next time,
Anna
xx

Before you go —

• check out my book here ♡

• Want to post with confidence on Substack or social media? I can help you

It’s how I make meaning from things that don’t always make sense in the moment.

Clarity feels comforting, you know?

This year, when it came time to write my post, I thought about everything that happened: my husband and I buying our first home. All of the holidays we hosted. Publishing my book. My childhood friend getting married. Other friends having babies.

And still, alongside all of that goodness, I felt somber. No matter what I did, or how many tricks I tried, or how much I pushed my way through it, there was an ache in my heart, and it never really went away.

My body, I think, knew something before I did.

Perhaps the last two years asked more of me than I fully understood at the time.

I chose to put my work, my heart, and myself out into the world — pushing relentlessly to get my book into print, grow my business, and move life forward. I don’t regret those choices. But I felt the cost in my body and nervous system.

Afterward, I met a version of myself I didn’t recognize, one who struggled to write anything substantive, to keep regular hours, to wake up as early as I once had.

I had reached the bottom of my jar, and for the first time, there was nothing left to scrape.

When I think about this year, I think of:

Wanting to share, and having nothing to say.
Wanting consistency, and resenting its chokehold on me.
Wanting to be better, without the energy to try.
Wanting freedom, and being too tired to fight for it.
Wanting openness, and respecting my limits.

Now, as we cross into 2026, I don’t have a neat understanding of how any of this resolves.

I notice I’m more careful with my time now. More honest about what it costs me to keep going. I’m less interested in proving myself, and less convinced that everything is worth the fight.

And I’m still learning how to live inside that change without hardening. Without mistaking my exhaustion for apathy, or my caution for a lack of ambition.

Yesterday, as I was tidying the bathroom, wiping down the counters, returning stray bottles to their places, I thought again about clarity. About how good it feels. About how much I rely on it as a coping mechanism. How it makes the hard stuff easier to live with.

And I wondered what we do when it doesn’t come.

When the tension lingers.

When “normal,” as we used to know it, feels light-years away.

Clarity has always been a source of relief. But maybe this year, relief comes another way — in accepting what doesn’t resolve. In allowing the tension to exist without trying to soothe it.

For now, that’s where I stand. In the liminal space between waiting and knowing. Seeking and finding. Grasping and being set free.

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Reading with other people has pushed me to pick up books I never would’ve chosen on my own. I’ve been reading more fiction and less of my usual nonfiction — self-help, the Enneagram, all the things. Of course, I still love the genre, I can’t help myself. But reading fiction with others has given me a much needed break from the constant pull toward self-improvement. It’s brought me into lives and inner worlds I wouldn’t have found on my own.

I’ve felt deeply moved by these stories. And really, that’s what good art does. It changes you.

Here are the books that have changed me.

If you’ve read any of these, or have others I should add, leave a comment. I always love hearing what others are reading.

1. I Who Have Never Known Men — Jacqueline Harpman

I finished this book in two days. I usually don’t read books that quickly, or in long, unbroken stretches. But this book really did something for me.

The story is set in a post-apocalyptic world where forty women are imprisoned in an underground bunker for more than a decade. One day, after a strange moment of chaos, the women escape, and what they find outside is haunting.

Safe to say, I couldn’t look away. It left me wondering: what defines us when all context is gone? Where do we find meaning when there’s nothing left? And what’s it all for anyway?

2. Pachinko — Min Jin Lee

The story begins with a young girl who falls in love with a handsome, wealthy man and becomes pregnant by him — only to discover that he won’t marry her. She is crushed. Instead, she accepts an offer of marriage from a gentle, sickly minister passing through on his way to Japan. From there the book follows the unfolding of her family’s life across generations.

I felt so connected to the characters throughout this book. They’re rich and complex. And on one hand, you root for them, and on the other, you’re shaking the book at them. Min Jin Lee does an exceptional job capturing the full range of human complexity and emotion. I never wanted this story to end. I was in TEARS when it did.

3. East of Eden — John Steinbeck

East of Eden follows two families across generations in the Salinas Valley in California and explores themes of good and evil, inheritance, choice, and free will. At its core, it’s a story about whether we’re bound by where we come from, or whether we have the power to choose differently.

This book had been on my list for a really long time, and I actually listened to it on Audible during the summer. It took me almost two months to finish because it’s so long, and I had to chew on it slowly. But even now, months later, I still think about the end of this book. For as devastating as it was at times, it also gave me a lot of hope for my life — hope in knowing that change is possible, that you can choose your life, and who you want to be in it.

4. Educated — Tara Westover

Educated is a memoir about a woman who grows up in a deeply isolated, survivalist family and goes on to educate herself, eventually earning a PhD from Cambridge. It’s a story about family, loyalty, knowledge, and what it means to leave the world you came from in order to understand who you are.

After I finished this book, I went down the rabbit hole of watching Tara Westover’s interviews on YouTube. Hearing her speak about her family, her childhood, and the way she understands herself now added another dimension to the book for me.

It made me think about how much we simply don’t know. How easily we live on the surface of our own lives. And how real depth doesn’t just appear. You have to search for it. You have to want to know yourself, your life, and the culture around you more deeply.

I loved reading this book in the moment, but I don’t think I realized its impact on me until months later.

Honorable Mention: Lonely Girl — Anna Vatuone

I couldn’t write a list of the books that changed me without including the one I wrote!

Lonely Girl is the story of my road trip from California to Massachusetts, but really it’s the story of longing to be chosen, of chasing love in all the wrong places, and then realizing it had probably been with me all along.

Writing it forced me to let go of the identity of being a lonely girl. To imagine a version of myself who could be partnered, rooted, and connected in the world.

Sharing it with you — chapter by chapter, week after week right here on Substack — made the print version possible this year. Thank you for your support. I have loved sharing my life with you.

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Until next time,
Anna

I loved when my parents hosted holidays at our house. It was the kind of house made for having people over, especially in the colder months. The ruby red dining room. The big, open living room with its tall, arched ceilings. The kitchen painted a dark, almost burnt yellow, one side of it lined with brick. I loved watching my dad pull the turkey from the oven while my mom set up the buffet table.

My parents gave my brothers and me each a list of tasks to complete, and mine was always setting the table. I loved it far more than cleaning the windows, or clearing out the fridge, or peeling potatoes — which I often did but tried to pass off to my brothers whenever I could.

With my hands busy, I felt as though I was part of everything without actually being in charge of anything.

And when the evening was over, and the food was put away, and the counters were dewy and clean from their wipe-down, I would curl up in a blanket on the couch, full and happy, half-asleep in the leftover haze of the night.

This year, it was our turn. My husband and I hosted Thanksgiving at our house.

(Watch the video!)

The day before, I was running around like a wild banshee, cleaning every inch of our house, mopping the floors, wiping windows, clearing out the crevices of the guest room, because God forbid someone peek in there.

When Trevor got home, we extended our table. He pulled from the left and I from the right. With that familiar wooden groan, the table came apart, and Trevor retrieved the leaves from the basement.

The morning our people arrived, I made my first pie. Trevor, the chef that he is, did most of the cooking. And when our friends and family filled the house, I felt the familiar rosiness of hosting — now a darker shade than in my adolescence, mixed with a deep reverence for my parents and all the work they had put in over the years.

Only now do I realize that this is what they really gave me. It was never just about the holidays, but the anticipation of them. It was in the getting ready for them. The planning and preparing and cooking and cleaning. And even when it’s drab, and the crash-outs are plentiful, what a gift it is to remember that this is the goodness of life. And today I am living it.

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I kept thinking: wow, the joy of beginning something new. Of trying something you’ve always wanted to try, and of having that be such a positive experience. Watching him, I couldn’t help but miss the early days of my own creating journey, and of that same enthusiasm I felt after posting a video and having it take off. There was an explosion of views, and of excitement, and of this feeling like anything could happen, that I was standing on the ledge of the next phase of my life, suspended between who I was and who I might become.

It’s a story many of us end up living.

We start making things because we love it. Because it wakes us up inside. We’d do it for free, we say. We’d lose hours to it without even noticing. And if we’re lucky, that thing we love becomes the thing that helps sustain us. Even partially. And what a gift that is, to be supported by exercising our passions.

We get up day in and day out, and we write, or create, or post, or paint, or film. And after we do this for long enough, something happens. The work begins to lose its luster. It stops giving. We blame it when things go wrong. When the opportunities cease to come. When the validation fades. When the success dries up. We think, I don’t even want to do this stupid thing anymore. I don’t want to play this game.

And this is the trouble with turning the thing you love into your vocation. What was once pure passion becomes the thing you must do, no matter how sour you feel about it along the way. It’s your livelihood, after all. And because it sustains you, it gets mixed in with the have-tos of life instead of the want-tos. And suddenly, you find yourself longing for the days when it all felt light and full of possibility.

So what do you do when the thing you love begins to feel like labor?

If you’re anything like me, you’ve overthought this to exhaustion, turning it over in your mind until you can’t even tell what’s right anymore. The only thing I have found to be semi–comforting is to keep going. Because to not create would feel infinitely worse than stopping altogether.

I show up to the page, to the editing app, to the phone, to the camera, to the tools that give me a voice. And I have gratitude for my work, and for the act of self-expression. And every once in a while, I let myself complain about how hard it feels, because sometimes complaining frees me of my own pressure.

Then I keep going.

For the ones who couldn’t before me. For the ones who will after me. For the ones sitting beside me now. I smile with a little more hope and a little more optimism, grateful for the people who remind me of how it felt when I first started. I hang onto that feeling and hope every person who wants to create, creates. That they share. That they try. Because we must. Because we can.

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I start my familiar mental-gymnastics routine.

I ask myself, Do I actually need to post today? I have nothing prepared, and although I’ve managed to post daily for the last few weeks, the rational answer is still no. I know my foundation is solid, and that the algorithm is not some fragile creature waiting to punish me if I happen to skip a day.

So why, I wonder, does skipping a day feel like I’m losing something?

I’ve noticed I attach a lot of moral weight to consistency.

I talk about staying devoted to something like it’s a sign of goodness — I’m committed, I’m disciplined, I sacrifice, I show up no matter what. And it all starts to feel noble after a while, as though my devotion to my work is proof of my unwavering character.

But how do I, or anyone, arrive here to begin with?

In my work with my clients, many people come in to content creation with outcomes in mind. They want to publish a book, build a coaching practice, grow a platform, get a deal, become known for something. And those reasons are valid and good and worthy of pursuing. But along the way, something else happens while you’re busy chasing those dreams.

The more you do the thing — post the content, publish on Substack, create anything at all — the more it becomes part of your routine. And thus, your identity. Suddenly, you realize you aren’t actually doing the work because you’re making some grand sacrifice or because you need it to provide a specific outcome. You keep doing it because it gives your days shape and meaning and structure. It gives you that feeling of being connected to yourself.

I can sit down, work on a video, edit it to the bone, and hit publish. And the act of publishing, of following through on something that matters to me, has a culminating, strengthening effect on my spirit.

Share All of Me by Anna Vatuone

And so I have to wonder if consistency is really just the natural impulse to return to what feels good, the outcome of reaching for something that nourishes us. No forcing required.

We don’t write or create or film content because the work needs us, or because it demands our loyalty. We do it because we need to. Because the craft serves us.

So I am sitting here at my desk, itching to get up and go outside, knowing full well I don’t have to draft this video, but also knowing that I’m going to anyway. No one has to coax me into it. I can get up and leave if I want to. I choose to stay not because I’m romantically devoted to my work or because it needs tending, but because I feel stronger and more connected to myself when I do. And there’s a gratitude that comes from that place — a feeling of I get to rather than I have to. A knowing that the work is here for me, and that whatever comes after is almost beside the point; what matters is what happens while I’m doing it, for the sake of doing it.

The real devotion isn’t to the craft, it’s to yourself.

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If this piece resonates with you…

I think you’ll love a workshop I’m hosting called How to Share Your Life Online (Without Losing Yourself in the Process).

So many of us start creating because we want to share our lives, our thoughts, our stories. We want to express ourselves. We want to build something meaningful. And sharing content can be such a beautiful way of doing that.

But somewhere along the way, the algorithms, the trends, the pressure to “keep up,” the desire to get our work seen, can pull us away from ourselves. We start bending to what we think we should post, rather than what feels true.

This workshop is designed to help you re-engage your creative instincts. To help you reconnect with the reason you started creating in the first place. To strengthen your internal compass so posting feels grounded, honest, and aligned again.

I’m hosting it inside my community, and it’s free for all members. If you’re not in yet, you can join with a free trial (no strings attached) and come to the workshop, or watch the replay anytime in your member portal.

I’d really love to have you there.

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Thank you for reading, for being here, and for supporting this work. It means more than I can say.