As I walked back down the jungle path, the excitement from the audition started to fade away.

The villa concealed behind a dense curtain of palms and vines, its grandeur and beauty hidden from the rest of Miami. It was as if it didn’t want to be found, like a secret kept from the rest of the world. My hand instinctively slipped into the pocket of my sundress, my fingers wrapping around the crumpled piece of paper that Dean had torn out for me.

Eight o’clock.

Everything about the day felt surreal.

The mansion. The audition. Dean.

It’s still surprising to me that I ended up being there in the first place.

This role could make all the difference; it’s like the missing link that could alter the course of things entirely.

And honestly?

I wanted my life to change.

I had always loved change. I chased it. I was always searching for the next version of myself, the girl I might become if I just found the right place, the right opportunity, the right moment.

I fantasized about who I would be if I got this part. I fantasized being someone else, playing a character in a totally different life. Most importantly, I didn’t want to play me.

A wave of panic rolled over me.

What if I wasn’t enough?

What if I had been kidding myself?

What if everyone else saw something I couldn’t?

Suddenly, every little thing I’d ever been insecure about felt impossible to ignore.

My teeth weren’t straight enough.

My skin wasn’t perfect enough.

My hair wasn’t the right shade of blonde.

I knew I was pretty.

I did.

But being pretty was different from being the kind of girl who got chosen.

As I stood outside the front gates, waiting for the taxi I had called, I heard the sound of heels clicking on the ground behind me.

“Hey.”

I turned around.

As I watched, a girl came walking towards me, and I realized she was one of the ones I had seen at the audition earlier. Seeing her up close, I was struck by just how pretty she was - even more so than I had initially thought.

She had a delicate build and her skin had a warm, olive glow. Her dark hair fell to her shoulders and curled gently around her face, framing it. Her eyes were a deep green, like emeralds, and they sparkled. She looked a bit like Audrey Hepburn, but in a more relaxed way, you know, less perfect and more natural.

“Are you going back to South Beach?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, so I had to lean in a bit to catch what she was saying. “Would it be okay if we caught a cab together?”

“Of course.”

She smiled, relieved.

“I’m Cleo.”

“Stacy, Stacy Sparrow”

Even her name fit her perfectly. She was like a delicate bird, all graceful movements and soft edges.

As we got into the taxi, we sat down in the back seat, side by side.

She mentioned that she was living in New York with her friend Nico. At the time, she was in Miami for a photo shoot for a fashion magazine, and her agent was setting up auditions for her while she was in town shooting.

“I’ve been here...maybe two weeks,” she said, staring out the window as we left the lush tropical gardens of Coral Cables.

“You like it there?”

She shrugged with a little smile.

“It’s ok.”

Stacy would respond when you asked her something, but she didn’t really offer much extra information on her own. There was nothing fake about her, no attempt to put on a show. She just seemed really laid back and didn’t appear to care about making a big impression on anyone.

I liked that.

We chatted all the way back to South Beach without missing a beat.

After leaving the audition, all I could do was replay everything that had happened and wonder if I had imagined the parts that felt important.

Had Dean actually liked my audition?

Had he actually liked me?

Or was he just Dean the kind of person who made everyone feel like they were standing in the center of his attention?

My mind just couldn’t stop thinking about those questions, it kept going around in circles since I left.

I was really thankful when Stacy started chatting with me in the taxi.

Not because I needed someone to distract me.

Because I needed someone to remind me that I wasn’t completely alone in this strange world.

I didn’t know the scene yet.

Coral Gables was stunning, but I felt like I was peeking into someone else’s world. The streets were super quiet, and all these huge houses were tucked away behind gates, which made me feel like an outsider. It seemed like everyone around me had a sense of direction, except for me, I was just wandering around, trying to get my bearings.

Stacy felt familiar.

She had been in that audition room.

She had a pretty good idea of what this weird little world was all about.

The taxi pulled up in front of a hotel.

“This is me,” Stacy said.

I looked up at the building.

The place had that art deco glamour that Miami is famous for, with its crisp white walls, swaying palm trees.

“Nice,” I said.

She smiled.

“My agency booked it while I’m here.”

Of course.

She belonged in a place like this.

That thought popped into my head before I could even try to stop it.

Stacy looked like she belonged everywhere.

She had a certain presence, quiet confidence that commanded attention without being overpowering. It was as if people instinctively gave her space, not because they were intimidated, but because they couldn’t help being drawn to her. Her beauty was the kind that inspired a subtle, unconscious respect, making others naturally yield to her without even realizing they were doing so.

I suddenly became aware of my wrinkled sundress and the fact that I was still carrying around a piece of script paper like it was some kind of secret.

“Have you eaten?” she asked.

I looked back at her.

“What?”

“Lunch.”

I glanced at the time.

I hadn’t even noticed how hungry I was.

“Actually, no.”

“Me neither.”

She smiled.

“Do you want to?”

“Yeah.”

Getting that invitation really made my day, maybe even more than it should have.

Maybe because, standing beside Stacy, I felt like I fit a little more into this world I was trying so hard to enter. I felt more confident, more interesting, like I had stepped a little closer to the version of myself I was always chasing.

It was a strange feeling, realizing how much the people around you could change the way you saw yourself.

We walked to News Café and asked for a table outside, the perfect place for people watching.

“Are you staying in Miami long?”

I shook my head.

“I don’t know.”

That was the truth.

Everything felt uncertain.

I just showed up and pretty much made it up as I went along.

She smiled.

I laughed.

“So...” Stacy said, resting her chin lightly against her hand. “ What did you think?”

“Of the audition?”

She nodded.

I laughed softly.

“I honestly have no idea.”

That was the truth.

I had been trying to figure it out ever since I left the audtion. Every look, every word, every tiny moment with Dean felt like something I needed to decode. Did he kiss every girl he auditioned with like he kissed me?

“I keep going back and forth between thinking I did really well and thinking I completely imagined everything.”

Stacy smiled.

“I know what you mean.”

“You do?”

She nodded.

“I was nervous.”

I looked at her.

“You didn’t seem nervous.”

She laughed quietly.

“I was.”

That made me feel better.

There was something comforting about knowing that even someone like Stacy, someone who looked like she belonged effortlessly in every room could still feel unsure.

“What about the scene with Dean?” I asked.

She looked up.

“The kiss?”

I nodded.

“Yeah.”

She smiled a little.

“It was intense.”

I looked down at my drink.

“Yeah.”

That was exactly the word.

“He really commits to the scene.”

“He does.”

We both laughed knowingly.

It was weird to be sitting across from someone I had just met a few hours before, but it felt like we had a connection. We had both been in the same room, said the same words, and felt this crazy energy that’s hard to explain.

“So...” I said, trying to sound casual. “ Dean actually invited me to the Delano tonight.”

Her eyebrows lifted.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

I looked toward the ocean for a second.

He mentioned that his friend was having a dinner party at the Delano, it is supposed to start around eight.

“Come with us.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

I had Sloane.

And now I had Stacy.

We ended up staying at the table for a while, longer than I thought we would, and decided to go ahead and order another round of drinks. I loved sitting on display at News Cafe letting the afternoon slowly drift away with thoughts of seeing Dean in a just a few hours.

The heavy, unscripted heat of that audition kiss still hung between us. Dean shifted gears instantly, sliding right into my personal space with a restless, intense kinetic energy that caught me completely off guard. He couldn't have been older than twenty-five, but his presence was entirely consuming. His focus was so hyper-fixated on me that it felt almost overwhelming.

"Hey, you okay?" Dean asked, his eyes burning into mine, pressing for an immediate reaction with a relentless, driving curiosity. "That was intense, but you were absolutely incredible. Where are you from? Who represents you? How long have you been in Miami?"

“Thank you,” I managed to say.

Dean had the kind of face people-built advertising campaigns around. Being noticed by someone like him should have felt flattering. Instead, it made me acutely aware of every insecurity I usually kept hidden. For a moment, I felt less like the ambitious actress and more like the uncertain girl who had left Vancouver hoping to become someone else.

“I live in South Beach.”

Dean laughed, a warm, rich expression that seemed to pull the surrounding jungle closer.

“Perfect,” he murmured, a sharp, knowing glint appearing in his eyes as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver pen. He neatly scribbled his number across the margin of his script page, tore the corner off, and pressed the paper directly into my palm.

“My friend is hosting a dinner party at the Delano tonight, and I really want you to be there. Don’t make me wait, Cleo.”

Before I could think of a response, Dean’s gaze dropped briefly to my lips before returning to my eyes. The air between us felt impossibly charged. His hand lingered against mine for a fraction of a second longer than necessary when he released the paper.

“Eight o’clock,” he said quietly.

The sound of approaching footsteps broke the moment.

Dean immediately stepped back, slipping effortlessly into professional mode just as the sharp rustle of ferns announced the casting director’s return.

Behind her was the director.

He didn’t look like the eccentric Hollywood types I had imagined. He was maybe mid-twenties, dressed in a faded baseball cap and a white t-shirt. He carried himself with a fast-talking, high-velocity energy that practically vibrated through the humid garden. When he clapped Dean on the shoulder, a subtle, unspoken shorthand passed between them. There was a shared history in the way they nodded at one another, a casual familiarity, almost like old friends.

The director’s eyes flicked from my Polaroid and comp card on the table straight to me, sizing me up in an instant.

“Alright, let’s see what you got, Cleo,” the director barked, barely acknowledging me as he paced the stone floor. “Run the breakdown from the center of the page and go.”

We ran the scene again, but something had shifted. The dialogue moved faster now, each line landing with a sharper edge than before. Whatever uncertainty I’d walked in with had vanished. I knew exactly who this character was and exactly what she wanted.

When we reached the pivotal moment of the scene, the silence between us seemed to expand. Across from me, Dean held my gaze, never breaking character for a second.

We moved through the scripted kiss under the director’s watchful eye, but this time it wasn’t the action itself that mattered. It was everything surrounding it. The conflict. The longing. The choices neither character was willing to admit out loud.

For the first time that afternoon, I stopped thinking about the audition. I stopped worrying about the role, about whether I belonged there, about whether I was good enough. I committed fully to the moment, letting the character’s emotions drive every beat of the scene.

When we finally broke apart, the garden felt unnaturally still.

The director tilted his head. His sharp eyes narrowed as he studied me.

"Okay, okay," the director muttered, rubbing his chin as he stared at me. He didn't erupt into applause, and he didn't hand me a contract. He just looked at the casting director, then back at me, his face entirely unreadable. "Good energy. Let's see how the tape looks."

He was already talking to a production assistant about lighting setup times as he walked away.

The casting director swept back into the space, her professional, icy mask firmly back in place. "Thank you, Cleo. We have your contact information through Eugene. We'll be in touch if we decide to move forward."

That was it. The audition was over as fast as it had started, leaving me completely suspended in mid-air. There was no instant validation, no definitive answer, and no guarantee that I would ever hear from them again.

I didn't give them the satisfaction of looking disappointed. I simply stood up, stacked my script pages neatly, and turned to leave. Dean was leaning against the pergola column watching me with that same intense, knowing smirk. He was clearly waiting for me to say something or at least offer a lingering look to acknowledge the absolute fire that had just passed between us.

Instead, I completely froze him out. I didn't say goodbye, I didn't give him a parting smile, and I didn't acknowledge him with so much as a nod. I just turned my back and walked away. If he wanted my attention, he was going to have to work for it.

As I walked back down the winding jungle pathway toward the mansion’s long driveway, my hand slipped into my sundress pocket, my fingers brushing against the torn piece of script with Dean’s handwriting.

I had walked onto the estate focused on one thing: landing the role.

Now, all I could think about was eight o’clock.

The Delano.

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There I was, hunched over my laptop, tapping away at a new scene with a matcha by my side, completely lost in a world of my own creation. Suddenly, it hit me. I was literally living my best Carrie Bradshaw life. No, I don't have a walk-in closet spilling over with Manolos (yet), and I'm not writing an anonymous relationship column for a New York newspaper. But I am chasing a big, beautiful literary dream.

That sudden wave of clarity made me realize something important. Writing can be incredibly lonely. Carrie had Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha to bounce ideas off of over brunch. I want to find my crew, too.

I am officially on a mission to find my fiction lovers.

If you are a reader who gets completely lost in a good story, I want you here. If you are a fellow writer hiding away in your own creative corner, I want you here, too. I want to build a little community where we can share the magic of storytelling together.

Here is what you can expect from this Substack moving forward:

• The Behind-the-Scenes Journey: I will be sharing my messy drafts, character breakthroughs, and the honest highs and lows of crafting fiction.

• Your Stories in the Spotlight: I don't want this to be a one-way street. I want to read your work. I want to hear about your projects, your plots, and your creative wins.

• A Space for Fiction Enthusiasts: Expect book discussions, writing prompts, and plenty of chat threads where we can talk about the stories that keep us up at night.

Let’s trade pages, share feedback, and romanticize the writing process together. Grab a seat at the table.

Are you working on a story right now, or do you have a favourite fictional world you love to escape into? Drop a comment below and introduce yourself—I can’t wait to meet you.

Christine Lea

A few months after my dad passed away from a sudden heart attack, I had spent three weeks visiting my friend Sloan Hayashi, in South Beach, and the memory of this place had stayed with me like a vivid dream. The inheritance my father left behind became my passport out of my own skin. The money gave me the financial freedom to pack my bags, disappear into this tropical oasis with Sloane, and reinvent myself entirely in the modeling world.

The phone on the kitchen counter began to ring, its sharp chime cutting through the heavy air. I dragged myself out of bed and picked it up.

“Cleo, grab your book and get moving,” Eugene’s voice boomed down the line from the agency desk. He was entirely oblivious to the chaos of the night before, just operating on pure agent instinct. He knew exactly how to market my type that classic, commercial blend of blonde hair, blue eyes, and the curvy frame of a swimsuit model and he was the type to push me into every single room available. “An American director is in town shooting a gritty indie feature based out of New Orleans, and they’re holding an emergency, private casting out in Coral Gables right now. They had an actress drop out or get fired, and they need to fill this role immediately because they are already shooting on-site. Throw on a sundress, a bikini underneath, and write this address down it's a private home at 4200 Alhambra Circle”.

I hung up. Sloane was leaning against the kitchen counter, a joint tucked casually between her fingers, sending a slow, lazy ribbon of sweet smoke into the warm air. Standing tall and thin, she was effortlessly beautiful. Half-Japanese, half-Canadian, and an absolute enigma to me. We were both a long way from Vancouver, where our roots lay, but our paths had tangled in New York. I had been living in Greenwich Village with her sister, Suki, when I first met Sloane. By then, Sloane was already living her own secret, sun-faded adventure, staying in South Beach illegally and just drifting through the heat. She had fallen for a man named Karim, who owned jewelry boutiques in both Manhattan and Miami. They had eventually broken up, but Sloane never left. She just stayed on, entirely trusted, managing his Ocean Drive shop with a calm, unbothered efficiency.

I knew she thought I was just being a dramatic child for walking away from the film star Christopher Newland at Bar None the night before. To Sloane, Christopher Newland was a total player, everyone knew how the game worked, and she thought I was foolish for taking him so seriously instead of just using him to pull strings for my career. But Sloane didn’t understand the engine driving me. I was going to win it on my own terms. I wanted that blinding, glamorous lifestyle, but I wasn’t about to compromise my own character or lease out my soul to some old Hollywood player to get it. If I was going to conquer this industry, I was going to force the world to look at me because of who I was, keeping total control over my own narrative.

“Eugene booked me a film audition in Coral Gables,” I said with excitement.

Sloane set her coffee down, a huge, genuine smile breaking through her relaxed composure. Her eyes completely lit up for me. “Oh my god, Cleo, that is huge!” she said, her voice full of real excitement. She stepped forward, giving me an encouraging hug. “A real feature film? Go break a leg. Seriously, don’t blow this one this is your shot.”

The cab ride to Coral Gables felt like crossing an international border. Away from the neon grid of South Beach, the roads wound beneath massive canopy trees draped in Spanish moss, eventually delivering me to a private driveway. I smoothed down my sundress and gripped my portfolio book tightly. As I walked down a winding driveway to a breathtaking tropical villa, I was unsure of the exact room I was supposed to find, but the unmistakable hum of a production crew guided my steps toward a garden near the side guest house. The air in Coral Gables felt different than the salty breeze of South Beach, heavier, quieter, and thick with the scent of old money and inland heat.

The property was pure, unadulterated chaos because this wasn’t just a casting house, it was an active indie film set. I stood in the grand entryway, evaluating the scene, until a woman wearing a headset intercepted me.

“What are you doing here? Who represents you?” she asked, her tone clipped and impatient.

“I have an audition,” I replied, holding my ground despite the sudden wave of intimidation. “Eugene sent me from Wilhelmina.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh. Just sit over there,” she said brusquely, gesturing toward an outdoor living area where other girls were already waiting and sizing each other up with that quiet, clinical detachment unique to models. Before she disappeared, she shoved a few pages of a script into my hands. “Review these sides. You’ll be running them with the lead actor.” It’s a one-night stand, the lead and your character wake up together. It’s early morning. It’s incredibly awkward. You're both sober now, realizing what happened. You share a kiss in the garden, and then your character simply leaves. Show us the tension."

Even with the nerves, a rush of excitement hummed under my skin. This was exactly what I wanted. It felt thrilling, a high I kept chasing, even if a strange, quiet emptiness kept tugging at the edges of my mind whenever the noise died down. But there was no time to think about that now. I frantically started reviewing the script. My eyes raced across the short, stripped-down scene, trying to absorb every word before my name was called.

Finally, the assistant swept back over. “Cleo, come this way,” she commanded.

She led me deeper into the lush estate. The layout was breathtaking, designed so that every room opened entirely to the elements, revealing hidden ponds, stone paths, and vine-covered walls. We stepped into a beautiful outdoor garden, stopping inside a stunning, open-air pavilion situated right beside a massive, natural lagoon. The sound of waterfalls cascading over rock filled the space, lending the entire environment a dreamlike, cinematic quality.

Waiting inside the gazebo was the casting director a woman with incredibly sharp eyes and short pin straight hair along with a man standing near the water’s edge. His name was Dean Aaron, and she introduced him as the lead actor of the film. He was undeniably handsome, radiating an intense, magnetic charisma that instantly took over the room.

“Before we do anything, I need a Polaroid shot,” the casting director said, retrieving a camera from the table. “The director requires full nudity for this particular hotel scene. Take off the sundress.”

The warm, tropical air suddenly felt freezing. I reached down, pulled the sundress over my head and dropped it onto the iron chair beside me, standing in just my bikini.

I stood in the center of that lush jungle garden waiting for the flash. Even with my heart hammering against my ribs, I didn’t cower, slouch, or cross my arms. I forced myself to project a fierce, unshakeable confidence, refusing to view myself as subordinate to anyone in that room. I simply lifted my chin and met her gaze, entirely unfazed by the setting or Dean’s eyes on me.

The casting director snapped the Polaroid. The moment the film whirred out of the camera, I didn’t wait for permission. I immediately retrieved my dress and pulled it over my head. I took the script pages in my hands and turned toward Dean by the gazebo railing.

“We are running the hotel scene from the top,” the casting director said, leaning back in her chair. “And Cleo? Take it all the way to the end of the page. There’s a kiss scripted at the finish.”

I looked at Dean. Under normal audition circumstances, I knew you didn’t actually cross that physical boundary. You cheat the angle, you stop an inch short, or you play the sexual tension with your eyes. But looking at the confident smile on Dean’s face, I got the distinct feeling he wasn’t planning on following the standard playbook. I gave a single, slow nod anyway, refusing to let him see even a flicker of hesitation.

“Fine by me,” I said, stepping directly into the character.

As the casting director called action, a familiar hyper-focus took over. The awkward small talk was easy to tap into; it felt like half the transient mornings in Miami anyway. We traded the quiet, strained lines, letting the heavy pauses do all the heavy lifting.

We went back and forth, our voices echoing cleanly across the water as the dialogue cracked between us like a whip. I refused to play the character as a passive, disposable archetype. I gave her teeth. I give her the exact same unyielding self-worth I carried with me every single day on South Beach. Then suddenly Dean stepped in close, grabbing me by the arms, he firmly and deliberately pulled me straight into him. Before I could even think about throwing up a defense, his mouth slammed onto mine.

He actually kissed me.

His soft lips completely devoured mine. It wasn’t an audition placeholder; it was real, sudden, and entirely consuming. The collision of his lips against mine struck a match right inside my chest. A rush of pure fire went straight to my core, completely catching me off guard.

For a split second, my brain short-circuited. Oh my god, my mind spun in a dizzying loop of pure adrenaline. You are so hot. I absolutely loved the kiss, drunk on the intense, dizzying validation of having this handsome actor commit to me so completely. The heat of his mouth felt like a sudden spotlight, a frantic confirmation that my face, my body, and my energy possessed the exact power I was chasing. It was a rush of absolute control, an intoxicating proof that I could command a room and command him just by standing there. For a girl surviving on the surface, that physical demand felt like the ultimate victory.

But right beneath the thrill, a cold tremor of panic set in. This wasn’t standard industry protocol. This wasn’t what I had agreed to. His fingers were digging into the skin of my arms, anchoring me to a script I hadn’t written. Even as the heat of him consumed me, I could feel my boundaries being quietly, steadily eroded, the lines of control slipping away in the humid air. But in that moment, I didn’t care, I wanted him to kiss me again and again.

I forced myself to anchor my feet, dragging my focus back through the fog just as he finally broke away.

Dean looked down at me, his smooth expression completely gone. He was completely hyper-focused on me, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that felt heavy and absolute. He wasn’t looking at a script or an audition partner anymore; he was looking directly at me, his gaze pinning me to the floor. The thick air between us made it obvious. He could feel the shift, too.

Letting the raw, unfiltered shock in my eyes read as character discomfort, I turned on my heel and walked straight out of the camera’s frame.

The casting director slowly leaned forward, snatching the Polaroid off the glass table.

“Hold on a second,” she muttered, her sharp eyes scanning the print before looking back up at me.

“Let me go get the director.”

This is an installment of an ongoing fictional series tracking Cleo, a model drifting through the beautiful, chaotic illusions of 1990s South Beach. Up-close character breakdowns for the whole cast are coming next week—stay tuned!

My morning begins with a simple, grounding rhythm. I walk through my mid-century modern townhouse, tucked right in the heart of Kitsilano, opening the curtains and pushing back the windows. I let the crisp, salty coastal air drift inside. The morning chorus is already waiting; the birds call my name against the backdrop of the faint, distant hum of the ocean.

In the past, this was the exact moment I would ache for that familiar coffee feeling. You know the one. I would rush toward the kitchen to brew a pot of drip coffee, heavy with almond creamer, chasing a sense of comfort.

Truthfully, I absolutely loved my morning coffee. I adored the rich aroma, the warmth in my hands, and the comforting familiarity of the routine; I never thought I could live a single day without it. For so long, I attached so much meaning to that cup it felt like a warm hug, a companion, a necessary part of who I was. I used to think I wouldn’t be as fun or life would not be as exciting if I didn’t have it.

Looking back, I see that the “meaning” I felt was actually me running away from myself. The frantic energy of that morning cup was a way to blur the edges of my internal world, hiding underneath the safety of that artificial warmth. Coffee allowed me to outrun my own thoughts.

Worse, it was keeping my body in a state of constant, exhausting friction. For years, I struggled with a body that felt completely out of alignment. I was bloated all the time, not just in the mornings—my stomach was so extended that I looked pregnant. I spent months actively working on my diet, changing absolutely everything to find a solution. I cut out bread. I cut out sugar. I did gentle yoga and worked out mindfully, yet the stubborn swelling simply wouldn’t leave. It felt incredibly unfair.

Right in the middle of modifying everything I ate, I realized the only single constant left in my life was my morning coffee. Deep down, I knew I had to test it. I had to see if swapping it out would be the ultimate game-changer. I didn’t realize how much the high acidity of drip coffee was irritating my stomach lining and disrupting my sensitive digestion before my day even began.

Looking back now, I realize my morning could have been a cup of anything. The magic was never hidden inside the coffee bean; it was already alive in the room. It was woven into the soft golden light, the quiet of the townhouse, and the crisp ocean air drifting through the window. Those beautiful pieces belonged to me all along. I just had to stop running away long enough to finally sit still, clear the canvas, and welcome them in.

The Turning Point: Entering the World of Matcha

So, I replaced my coffee with matcha, and that is when the true magic began. Where coffee was me running away, matcha became a slow, tender practice of finally being with myself.

Now, the ritual looks entirely different.

I set the water to boil. I gently heat the almond milk on the stove. I scoop the vibrant, emerald-green matcha powder into my favourite bowl, pouring the hot water over it, and begin to whisk. The bamboo whisk moves in a rhythmic, comforting pattern until a delicate, frothy foam forms on top. I finish it with a slow drizzle of raw honey.

Before taking my first sip, I transition to my living room to complete the ritual. I strike a match and light a stick of incense, watching the thin ribbon of smoke dance and dissolve into the ocean breeze. I bring my warm ceramic bowl over to my feng shui corner—the space I have intentionally curated to anchor love and partnership—and sit down. Gazing out the window in deep, silent meditation, I let my hands absorb the warmth of the clay.

In his beautiful 1906 text, The Book of Tea, Kakuzō Okakura wrote that “Teaism is a cult founded on the adoration of the beautiful among the sordid facts of everyday existence... It is essentially a worship of the Imperfect, as it is a tender attempt to accomplish something possible in this impossible thing we know as life”.

Sitting in my love corner, watching the Kitsilano sky brighten, I finally understood what he meant. The ritual isn’t about looking to a drink to save me or change me—because the morning magic belongs to me already. It is simply about the self-realization and the peace. But where coffee used to pull me outward into a frantic state of doing, matcha gently leaves space for the soul. It doesn’t force me out into the world; its steady, quiet presence simply sits with me as I welcome myself back home.

A Rested Nervous System

As a naturally soft and sensitive person, my nervous system absorbs everything. Yet, the truth is, I never actually knew my nervous system was so completely out of whack until I finally quit coffee. I thought my baseline of low-level panic was just who I was.

It has been four months now since I took my last sip of coffee, and looking back is eye-opening. With my morning drip coffee, my energy felt like a loan with high interest. It left me feeling completely empty yet deeply wired. A brittle, fragile kind of focus followed by a racing heart, shallow breathing, and an inevitable afternoon crash.

Matcha changed the entire landscape of my days. Because matcha contains L-theanine, an amino acid that promotes relaxation without drowsiness. The caffeine is released slowly into the bloodstream. Instead of jittery anxiety, I now experience a state of calm alertness. My sensitive system feels profoundly rested, anchored, and safe, allowing me to move through my morning rather than rush through it.

A Flat Stomach and True Relief

The physical transformation was just as profound. Within just a few weeks of making the switch and letting the highly alkaline, catechin-rich antioxidants soothe the inflammation in my digestive tract, the constant bloat finally vanished. I now wake up and move through my day with a flat, comfortable stomach, feeling physically light, soft, and energized from the inside out.

A Softer Mind

Perhaps the most beautiful shift has been the softening of my mental space. Coffee used to give me a rigid, hyper-fixated focus that easily tipped over into frustration if my day didn’t go exactly as planned. Matcha brings a gentle clarity.

My thoughts feel spacious. I can focus deeply on my writing and my work, but with a sense of ease and flexibility. It is a softer, kinder way of thinking that mirrors the gentle waves just a short walk away.

Now, my ritual doesn’t end in my kitchen. I pour my warm, frothy creation into a travel tumbler and walk down to Kitsilano Beach. Strolling along the shoreline, feeling the cool sand under my feet while sipping clean energy, has become my ultimate daily reset. The ocean breeze reminds me that life doesn’t need to be rushed to be productive, and that my sensitivity is a gift, not a burden.

Trading my morning coffee wasn’t just a change in diet; it was a return to myself. It aligned my mind, body, and soul with the natural rhythm of the beautiful coastal world I live in.

I want to hear from your beautiful souls. What does your current morning ritual look like? Have you ever realized your morning cup was helping you run away rather than helping you be present? Drop a comment below and let’s chat about our routines!