~AB

Lately, I have been afraid to write. You might wonder why. The truth is that sitting down with my thoughts and shaping them into words feels a little too real. As if by pausing long enough to write them, I must also face them.

It is easier, sometimes, to keep moving, to drift through the days without stopping to breathe too deeply, without giving life the chance to hand me back my own reflections in ink. Because once the words are there, I must read them. And some of those words frighten me. The ones that carry doubt. The ones filled with uncertainty.

So I have not written for some time.

Not because the words were gone, but because I did not know how to release what my soul wanted to place on the page, while my mind felt too fragile to receive it.

I wonder if, as writers, we all pass through seasons like this, moments that feel strangely unreal, as though we are looking at life through a glossy lens that softens everything and nothing at once.

And still the question lingers:

How do we write through it?

Not in days or dates, not in numbers or neat beginnings and endings.
Perhaps it’s measured in the moments that linger, the ones that arrive quietly and leave their mark without asking. The joy that catches you off guard, the tears that come without warning, the small seconds that somehow shape an entire lifetime.

A year is not something we measure.
It’s something we move through.

We carry it with us in lessons learned, in risks taken, in the faces we return to and the places that change us. In laughter that spills into the night, in sunsets we pause for, even if only for a breath. Life does not reset when the clock turns to midnight on January 1st. It simply keeps going, asking us to keep up in our own way.

We rarely do a year justice with words, but still, I want to try.
So this is my quiet attempt at what each of the twelve months taught me.

January:
A calm beginning. Less about starting over, more about settling in. A season of warmth and stillness, allowing life to rest before it begins again.

March:
A month of fleeting feelings and passing moments, of deep connections and gentle reminders. The importance of being steady in my hopes and dreams before stepping headfirst into them. A lesson in savoring each day, smiling at the moments we often overlook.

April:
A step into new adventures, two feet placed forward, a little more cautiously than I had imagined. A realization that even big moments can be just small steps in the wider picture of a life still unfolding.

May:
A reminder that nothing has to be permanent. That you can change, reroute, and begin again at any time. Finding comfort in old things and learning to meet yourself with grace and understanding.

June:
There is something about a changing season that brings excitement, of friendships, of plans, of possibilities. Warm nights, dancing sunsets, and that quiet hug you give yourself when you realize you’ve made it through the darker months.

July:
A month of movement. Of busyness and sun-soaked days, perhaps one too many ice creams. A reminder that even as summer slowly shifts, it hasn’t ended yet, and the present moment is still ours to enjoy.

August:
The busiest month of all. Full calendars, long hot days, poolside afternoons, and nights you never want to end. Days when the world feels undeniably alive in every sense.

September:
The month I least expected to bring adventure, yet the one that holds my heart most dearly. Filled with joy, love, laughter, and a deep, genuine peace. Sunsets at the edge of the earth, and long, grounding breaths by the sea.

October:
A season of recalibrating, replanning, relearning, and accepting that life is always in motion. And though winter looms, there is no reason to fear it.

November:
Settling into softness. Evenings spent in quiet, embracing the slow, grounding rhythm of shorter days. Learning to savor each crisp autumn morning as it arrives gently at the door.

December
A month of contrasts. Progress and pause, clarity and uncertainty. A reminder that life moves forward at its own pace, and sometimes the most important thing you can do is stop long enough to remember who you are.

~AB

They say when you travel, you collect pieces of yourself left behind in other lifetimes.

Well, they don’t say that, but I do.

Because I have felt it happen. Pieces of myself are finding me in the most unexpected places. No warning, no reason, just a quiet remembering. A soft click into place. A fleeting, beautiful sense of being whole.

There was England, the first to take my heart, to touch my soul in all the ways I had once dreamed it might. Then Paris, where I learned the art of being youthful, of loving without fear, of living freely and brightly. And then came Australia, the place I never anticipated feeling so alive. Yet there, among the endless hush, the tall whispering trees, and skies painted thick with stars, I stepped into a new self, one shaped by the raw, unfiltered beauty of the earth.

I think everyone should travel the world at least once. To gather the pieces their past lives have scattered. To listen closely to who they are becoming.

Where to next, you might wonder? That remains a secret, but one my heart already knows. I don’t yet understand why I’m drawn there, only that when I finally arrive, I’ll leave with a story written deep into my bones.

Chapter 1: The air feels lighter than I remember on this path. The road to Turin still jolts with every bump, the same as when I was a child, though at twenty-three I’ve only been down it a few times. Life had a way of keeping me elsewhere. I spent most of my teenage years buried in study, convinced, or maybe others were convinced, that I would never leave behind a life of math and science. I suppose I haven’t, not entirely. But for now, I’ve chosen differently: a summer with my aunt, far from Rome. The journey is long, but the views are worth it.

By evening, everything softens. The air smells of oak, the shadows slip and change, and I lean into the window just to feel the breeze on my face. My pearl earrings knock against my shoulder as I tilt my head, and for a second, it feels like freedom. A reminder of why we’re alive - to feel, to breathe, to live.

In Rome, I was the city girl. A reader, a linguist, someone who mingled with clever minds and still managed to sneak into parties. But I never quite believed that was all I was meant for. My father insisted there would be no culture here in the countryside. He’s wrong, of course. If there’s one thing I’m certain of, it’s that something, someone, will find me here.

“Caroline? Is that you?” The voice startled me. We were already at my aunt’s house, the famous tree-lined lane long behind us. What caught my attention instead was the smell: warm ciambellone drifting out into the night. That’s how I knew I was home.

My aunt appeared in her latest linen dress from Milan, arms wide, smiling as though no time had passed. She’s a woman of contradictions: raised among artists and musicians, yet at peace in the quiet hills. She once painted nudes, or so people say, and I half-believe she still keeps a model or two tucked away somewhere. She never had children, so instead she’s made her villa into something alive, a place for art, for stories, for life to gather.

“Caroline, the gardens!” she rushed on. “I have begun keeping bees, and I can’t wait to show you. Thank heavens you’re staying all summer, perhaps longer. We have work to do with the old tapestry collection!” She always speaks like that, a waterfall you can’t stop, and I love her for it.

That night, I lay in a bed that groaned under me, the furniture older, humbler than what I’d left behind. But there’s a charm in that kind of simplicity. The breeze slipped through the open window, pulling me toward the night sky. Stars. Hundreds more than I remembered as a child, glowing like secrets waiting to be told. And then, just faint music. Laughter. A party somewhere beyond the orchard. My heart skipped. Who could it be? Who lives in the villa past the trees?

I like to think that my writing journey is like that. It’s written into my life but only at the moments that feel right to me. Do I ever fully turn away from it? No. But there are times when it feels comforting to set aside the pen for a few weeks, to step into life full plunge and breathe just a little.

If this is you, you are not alone. Rest is a good thing. And I look forward to seeing what you share when the pen decides to dance again.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s the comfort I’m after
the quiet hope that someone else
is out there too,
wandering the metaphorical forest,
brushing past tall grass,
watching, wondering,
Waiting for life to spark into something more.

But maybe that’s the secret:
It’s already alive beneath our feet.
We just haven’t paused long enough
to notice we’re already on the path.

I return to writing when I feel lonely,
because I know you’ll be here
not always the same faces,
but still, humans with hearts.
Souls who might stumble across my words
and find something familiar in them.

I write when I remember what it feels like to belong,
when a quiet part of me
knows there’s joy ahead
warm days, soft light,
and for every cloudy hour,
a gentle invitation to rest,
to reset,
to bloom again in some quiet, unexpected way.

There is still so much to come.
So much still waiting to be written.
The story is only just beginning.

~AB

There’s still time left, time to stretch into the version of yourself you’re becoming. But I keep looking back on these past six months and noticing how each one left something behind. A lesson. A nudge. A little spark I almost missed.

It’s strange to say, but we’re already closer to 2026 than we are to the start of this year. That sentence makes me uneasy, if I’m honest. Life is moving fast, faster than I can always hold. So I’m learning to slow it down when I can. To notice the quiet details. To make space for the small, true things.

Here’s what I’ve learned so far, maybe it’s a reminder you needed, too:

January
Branch out into the world. Travel felt like the perfect way to begin, a way to clear the mind and shake off the weight of the year before.

February
Cozy doesn’t mean boring. Sometimes comfort is the most powerful thing, adapting to your surroundings, quietly preparing to bloom before spring.

March
Love sparks when you least expect it, and it has the power to shift your whole world in an instant.

April
Friendship can be the foundation of your peace. The people who truly know you become a mirror to your calm, your joy, your self.

May
Being brave in new places will stretch you, but that doesn’t mean you have to let go of what you love. You can grow and go home.

June
Loving yourself is one of the greatest blessings we’re given. It’s easy to forget who you are in the noise, don’t. Come back to yourself. You are more than the heaviness, more than the doubt.

I hope this reminds you of the precious time we have left, the experiences that are still left to come in the next few months, and a graceful look back on the year so far with ease and appreciation.

What did the past 6 months teach you? I would love to know.

~AB

Sometimes, you find yourself at the destination, face to face with a dream you’ve carried for years.

It’s right there, waiting. And yet, as the wind swirls around you. As you watch all the trees dance in the beauty and chaos. As the ground still feels solid. Sometimes, that leap still feels larger than life.
The next step is impossibly small and impossibly heavy.

Everything floats, the choices, the turns, the versions of you that brought you here.
And then, something shifts.
The longing, the dreaming, the belonging, what once felt like truth no longer fits the way it used to.

Sometimes, it’s the place. Sometimes, it’s the people.
But often, it’s the echo of a past self, the one who believed there was only one road forward.

Maybe now, you’re seeing there are many.
Endless, even.

And life?
It was never meant to be a single path.
It’s okay to stand still for a moment,
To feel the wind howl around you while you whisper, "Is this truly for me?"

The story isn’t pre-written.

It’s still yours to write.

~AB

I never see it coming.
It’s not a plan,
just a quiet unfolding
like the way autumn slips into the trees.

So I wonder:
Why are we tied across time?
Who were we before names?
What story are we still writing?

Sometimes, I think the universe plays its games,
pulling strings in silence.
But other times,
I believe in the truth of a feeling
the way a place can whisper something you’ve never heard,
and still, somehow, you remember.

I speak these thoughts like poetry,
but maybe I’m only trying to name
that strange, soft sense of comfort
of home.

There will always be people and places,
that awaken something deep within us.
Moments that carve themselves into memory,
echoing across time,
lingering like a familiar song through the hush of lifetimes.

And when you stumble upon one of them
you’ll know.

~AB

Waiting for what, I wondered.

“Hello,” I said. “Do you know who I am now?”

She tilted her head, studying me. “Yes,” she replied. “I think I do.”

“What would you like to know?” I asked.

She paused as if wanting to linger in thought, but the weight of her questions pulled her forward.

“Do we have it all? Are we famous? Are we rich? Married, living in a big, beautiful house?”

The list went on, spilling from her like a river too eager to be contained.

She looked at me with those eyes, the eyes of a girl brimming with hope, eyes that believed life should be simple, a straight path laid out before her.

“Are we rich?” I repeated, half-joking, half-wondering myself.

We wake to the golden touch of morning, the world unfurling at our feet. The birds sing their quiet melodies, and a summer breeze stirs the trees in whispered conversation. Autumn drapes the town in gold and brown, leaves crackling beneath our steps. Winter’s crisp breath invites us to gather close, wrapped in warmth and laughter. And then spring arrives, soft and tender, white and yellow blooms reminding us of all that is yet to come.

“We wake up every day to the beauty of life unfolding around us,” I said. “Are we rich? Yes… in more ways than we could ever imagine.”

“Wealth is not always measured in money,” I told her. “It is measured in moments, and in memories.”

She smiled, and I smiled back. A breath, light and unburdened, escaped between us. One of hope, of excitement for the road ahead. One of relief, of quiet contentment.

And as we sat there for a few more moments watching the mid-afternoon sun begin to shift behind the trees, I realized I had become the person I had always hoped to be, even if I never knew it until now. Still, with my hopes and dreams, ones I know will come, but pausing to fully experience every moment of life along the way.

~AB

Torn. Torn between the life I have always known and the vast, unfolding unknown before me. A blank page, waiting, trembling in its emptiness.

I stare. Just stare at the off-white sheet in front of me. Tiny flecks hidden within the paper’s grain, ones you can almost feel if you brush your fingertips just the right way. A single drop of ink lands in the emptiness, a whisper of something new. But just a drop. The unknown still stretches beyond, without a beginning, without an end.

How does one step into a new chapter? How do you push yourself forward into the great blur of what’s to come, always glancing over your shoulder, making sure the past still lingers, hoping it will walk beside you, and never leave you behind? A gentle hand, a soft nudge, whispering, Go on now. You can do it.

But it’s not there. It’s just silence.

Just the silence and my own breath to be heard.

What now?

I am torn. Torn between the fragile hope of a dream that has long whispered to me—through sleepless valleys, carried by the soft hoot of owls in the night. A dream that waits on the other side of the morning, where sunlight pours through a tiny window and sighs, Finally, I’m here. Exactly where I’ve always longed to be.

After years of wishing and waiting, now that dream stands before me, real and alive. But all the arrows point right, while my heart still points left. Back to familiar faces, old places, and the quiet love of home. Back to the streets I’ve walked a thousand times, the walls that hold my laughter, the echoes of everything I have ever been. I feel as though I am rediscovering a love for a place I thought had faded.

Looking to a person, to someone who has slightly begun to capture my heart. Someone who, unintentionally has turned the familiar into something worth rediscovering.

I stand here now, peeking through open doors, tracing the outlines of what I might leave behind. Yet now glows with a quiet insistence.

I am torn. Torn between the version of me who has grown, the one who has fought for this moment, the one who has never stopped believing it was possible. She was always ready, ready to leap, to spread her arms wide and embrace the unknown.

And yet, the day has arrived, and I stand here, feet planted, unable to take flight just yet.

What will I be leaving behind? What love might still bloom if I stay? What if my everything isn’t out there in the great wide world—but right here, in the city I call home?

What if it’s a place, a feeling, a person?

A love story in the making.

A moment I am not yet ready to let go of. But, what if it’s all still out there, across the world still waiting to be discovered?

What now?

If you’re new here—whether you’ve just stepped into the wonderful (and slightly bewildering) world of Substack or have been finding your footing for a little while—welcome!

I wanted to share this post as a way to bridge the gap between the seasoned writers who have long called this platform home and the newcomers who may have wandered over from other apps (cough cough, Meta). Substack is a blend of many things, but at its heart, I like to think of it as a space for coffee shop conversations—the kind of real, meaningful talks you’d have with a friend, a brilliant artist, or even an economic genius. The things that shape our lives, big and small.

Whether you’re here to tuck yourself into a cozy, cottage-core corner, where poetry flows as freely as the tea, or you’re looking to dive into writing, recipes, deep thoughts, and everything in between—this is a place for everyone.

So, You’ve Started Your Substack… Now What?

You’ve crafted your blog, picked a name, and now… post! I know, easier said than done. That little voice might creep in: What do I even write? Will people find it interesting? The answer? Yes.

Substack is vast—over 2 million people are here, and that means your community is out there. Don’t stress about writing what you think people want to read—write for yourself. Show up for you. The right people will find you, and even better, you’ll find them too.

Finding Your People

One of the most wonderful things about Substack is its sense of community. The people who will cheer you on, who will love your words, who will inspire you to keep going—they’re here.

A little trick I’ve learned? Use the Notes feature—it’s like a mini version of what Twitter used to be: short, sweet, and full of life. Post something exciting. Share a welcome note. Engage with others in your niche. I promise, your people are out there—you just have to reach out.

Don’t Get Discouraged

This part is important. You’ve started writing, and you’re figuring things out… but maybe you only have five subscribers. That’s okay.

Remember why you’re here. You’re not chasing numbers. You’re here to write, to share, to connect. If five people walked past you in real life and stopped to say, I love what you’ve written, wouldn’t that be incredible? Substack isn’t Instagram. It isn’t TikTok. It’s not about the stats—it’s about the joy of creating and the connections you make along the way.

Be Friendly, Start Conversations

Engage. Say hi. Think of Substack like a neighborhood farmers market—wander around, introduce yourself, and get to know the people around you. Start a thread in Notes:
"Hey, I’m new here and would love to connect with ___!"
Or use the Chat feature in your publication—start a weekly book club, a recipe exchange, or a space for like-minded thinkers to gather.

The more you interact, the more people will find you. Even with 700 subscribers, I feel like I’ve only begun to scratch the surface of what’s possible here. So, I encourage you—be kind, be curious, support one another, and explore what this platform has to offer.

Welcome to Substack—I hope you find your own little joyous corner of the world here.

xx
~AB

We took the train up from London, a long journey with stops in countless little towns along the way. Were we tired? Absolutely. But life’s an adventure, and you have to be ready for it.

Our friends kept asking, “Why York..? And in February, no less?” Who in their right mind goes north in winter? Well, apparently, we do. And here’s why.

York is famous, but I’m not here to give you a TripAdvisor-style rundown of its top attractions. No, I want to give you a glimpse through my eyes—a mini postcard, if you will. A window into my way of traveling.

Not long after our train arrived, the rain began to fall. The sound of hurried footsteps splashing through puddles brought the city to life in a way I had only read about but rarely experienced. York is old—very old. There’s no public transport in the city center; it’s built like a market town, full of winding streets and hidden paths. After tugging our luggage half a mile through the typical English winter drizzle, we finally reached our destination—a cozy little flat inside an old house. Modern but filled with squeaky floorboards. Just the way I like it.

You see, I don’t travel for luxury. I travel to immerse myself in a place, to feel its rhythm, to live its reality. And if that means spending a rainy evening curled up on a worn-out sofa, watching the downpour from a fogged-up window, then so be it.

The next morning, we were ready for adventure—wellies on, scarves layered, spirits high. As we descended into town, the rain cleared, which meant one thing: the tourists were coming. Dozens of visitors searching for the perfect Harry Potter-esque snapshot. But we had a different mission—boozy hot chocolate.

Cocoa Joe’s it was. The little bell above the door chimed as we stepped inside, joining other cold and hungry wanderers. But we weren’t in a rush. We were too busy sampling chocolates, perfecting our custom hot cocoa before stepping back into the brisk air.

I’d be lying if I said York didn’t have its indulgences. Sweet treats, pies, rich coffees—you name it. Imagine a farmers’ market stretched into an entire city. Little cobblestone alleys, pop-up stalls, tiny bakeries tucked into hidden corners. The kind of place that doesn’t just feel magical but is magical.

We spent three days in York—one of them on a side trip to Knaresborough (which I’ll write about later). Three whole days that felt like stepping through time, not just into a historic city but into another realm entirely. It’s easy to lose yourself in York, to forget the stress of the modern world. To simply sit and listen—to footsteps on wet stone, to quiet conversations in cozy cafés, to the gentle swoosh of the river beneath the bridge.

The north of England has a way of feeling removed from the rest of the world—not for lack of anything (there are plenty of Marks & Spencers, I assure you), but because of its attentiveness to the present moment. Not everything needs to be new. Not everything needs to be advertised. Sometimes, the best things about a place are the ones you discover for yourself—through sight, sound, taste, and feeling.

York left a mark on me—not because it was grand or flashy, but because it was tucked away and still thriving, hundreds of years later.

If you ever get the chance to go, take it. York isn’t the kind of place you can plan down to the last detail. It’s the kind you have to explore, letting it reveal its hidden gems along the way.

~AB

The soft February light still lingers, breaking through the heavy clouds in places. I hear it first a quiet trickle, trickle, raindrops landing lightly on the gravel path outside. I glance up. To my surprise, the rain has picked up, steady and unhurried, with a breeze shifting through the olive tree outside my window, its branches full of leaves.

I stand to get a better view. The hills in the distance are hazy now, softened by mist and rain sweeping across the little valley. The world feels quieter, blurred at the edges. I settle back into my chair but keep looking up at the sky.

The rain moves in waves, slow and steady, carried by the clouds overhead. The contrast shifts—light to dark, then light again. There are two kinds of rain: rain and RAIN. This is the first kind, gentle and rhythmic, the kind that lulls rather than drenches, washing over the countryside like a painter adding soft strokes to a canvas.

The more I watch, the more I notice the shifting light, the way the colors around me change, warm gold fading into cooler blues. It’s almost twilight now, but I’ve seen every shade of green, heard every breath of wind, and listened to each raindrop as it soaks into the earth, preparing it for spring.

It feels like something from a film, the kind of scene that lingers. Maybe the rain-drenched moment from Sense and Sensibility (1995), or the misty landscapes of Persuasion (2022). The kind of cinematography that captures the weight of a quiet moment.

It’s moments like this that remind me how beautiful winter can be, and how quickly small, fleeting wonders pass us by. What if I hadn’t heard that first raindrop? What if I hadn’t looked up? Would I have missed it all?

~AB

I find myself in a space I hadn’t envisioned for this stage of my life. It’s funny (though not really) how plans you thought were rock-solid can unravel. Ones you believed were untouchable, tethered tightly to your vision. And yet, here I am, sitting in the garden on a mild early January afternoon in San Francisco, overlooking hills that have just turned green again, pondering the moments that makeup life.

The past year led me to start writing—a gift I’m deeply grateful for, but it also put me on what feels like an endless path of self-discovery. Perhaps it’s the beginning of my Saturn return. They say you’re never the same person coming out of it as you were going in. Maybe this is my “character development” chapter, the kind you’d find in the middle of a movie.

Looking back on January last year feels like peering into a different lifetime. In 2024, I traveled, lived briefly in another country, loved and lost, and completely uprooted my lifestyle, one I sometimes still long for.

This is my note to say goodbye to a hard year. A year of sadness, pain, unexpected changes, and personal dilemmas. But it’s also my note to welcome 2025. A year I hope, with all my heart, will bring new friendships, relationships, travels, and adventures I can only dream of. I hope it brings love and kindness, the kind that fills you with joy so deep it spills out through your smile.

I’ll look back on 2024 as a year of learning who I can be under the best and worst circumstances. And I hope 2025 brings out a new side of me: someone ready to follow her dreams, take on the world, and care for herself and her soul in all the right ways.

Time is growth, and with each day, we become a little bit more ourselves.

Welcome, 2025. I truly hope it’s the best year yet, for all of us.

Is it because I’m drowning in holiday busyness, events, expectations, and the endless race to keep up with life as it tumbles downhill picking up speed toward the end of the year? That looming pressure to get everything sorted just right before 2025 arrives?

Or is it the constant feeling of having not yet found my writer’s voice, the one that jumps off the page, grabs attention, and compels people to listen to anything and everything you have to say.?

Honestly, who knows? Most days, I think it’s a mix of both. I try to keep up with some writing, partly to avoid letting this app turn into yet another forgotten corner of the internet cluttered with my unfinished projects. But also because I genuinely love writing for whoever’s out there reading it. Still, finding that perfect meld of inspiration and content worth sharing often feels like a gap a mile wide. And yes, I’m aware of the irony, given my “How to Start Writing” post a few weeks back.

The truth is, writers have blocks, and not the fun Jenga kind, though that does sound tempting right now.

Writers have moments of confusion, overwhelm, and self-doubt, and I’d like to think I’m not alone in this. As 2024 wraps up, I hope to find fresh perspectives on creating content, ways to feel inspired again, and ready to take on new challenges. Ways to combat and battle the feeling of pressure put on myself to be doing things. Maybe it’s just the chaos of these two whirlwind weeks, where time feels like a blur, you don’t know what day it is, and you just keep eating cheese.

Is this relatable to anyone else? If so, let me know. Let’s make a club! We just need a good title.

I’ve always loved Christmas. My childhood was filled with fond memories of family traditions, beloved holiday movies, and the way life seemed to revolve around the season. But somehow, Christmas doesn’t feel quite the same anymore. The years rush by too quickly; December is halfway through before I even manage to hang a single decoration. Time moves differently now, slipping away in ways it never did before.

Still, I am determined to rediscover the magic in the small, quiet moments. To craft my own traditions—ones I can look forward to year after year. To find ways to celebrate all winter long, not just for a fleeting few weeks. Life gets busy, and it’s easy to feel like you’re falling short, but we must give ourselves grace. The best we can do is enough, and that’s okay.

I find myself reminiscing about moments that spark joy, like watching Little Women (1994), with its opening scenes of Christmas warmth and wonder. Those feelings come rushing back—the coziness, the nostalgia, the sense of feeling like I have been transported into their beautiful Christmas.

So I pause. I sit in the moment and let myself feel the crisp winter air settling in as if it’s whispering, “Hello! Remember me? I’m back again.” I notice the birds fluffed in their holiday best, their feathers rich and warm against the cold. The smell of pine wreaths and red velvet ribbon along the lanterns of the snowy driveway and hedgerows. These simple joys remind me that magic still lingers.

I look ahead with hope, ready to embrace whatever new moments this Christmas brings—a deeper appreciation for the season, fresh traditions to build upon, and ways to make each year more meaningful than the last.

If you find yourself on this same journey, I’d love to hear what you’re doing to savor these next two weeks. What festive touches have you brought into your season? Let’s inspire each other to keep the magic alive.

Not long ago, I had the idea to ask you all to share the sayings and quotes that inspire you most. In a world that can always use a little more light, I wanted to create a small pocket of joy—something to brighten the day, even in the simplest of ways.

I gathered your suggestions, each one a reflection of what moves you, and here they are. You might recognize one or two if you were among the kind souls who contributed.

So, let me share with you a week of noteworthy words to live by—a gentle reminder of the beauty we create when we come together to inspire one another.

1. "Bravery isn’t the absence of fear—it’s baring your messy, vulnerable self and standing tall anyway." - unknown

2. "Success is not the key to happiness. Happiness is the key to success. If you love what you're doing, you will be successful." - Albert Schweitzer.

3. "A graveyard of trials or birthplace of triumphs. Do it or don't do it. Time will pass anyway." - Unknown

4. “You do not have to be fire for every mountain blocking you. You could be water and softly slip past, every raging thing quietly becoming nothing.” – Rupi Kaur

5. “Never underestimate the power of a girl with a book.“ - RBG

6. “Sometimes the most important thing in a whole day is the rest we take between two deep breaths.” – Etty Hillesum

7. “The birds they sang at the break of day, start again, I heard them say. Don't dwell on what has passed away or what is yet to be.” – Leonard Cohen

I am so curious to know, which one is your favorite? and just because I loved this quote so much I thought I would toss it in for a little bonus.. “Instructions for living a life: Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.” – Mary Oliver