I found myself in a cycle, caught somewhere between comfort and the unknown. Somehow, after weeks of no contact we’d find ourselves back to each other, with time ticking to implosion and us, aware of the short circuit yet we’d proceed toward impending doom. Closer together. And then apart.

~

Time passes. Then, my phone, it rings and I know it’s him before I see his name, I feel his energy in my apartment. I see his face, his eyes, his lips seeking me, missing me, needing me, wanting me. I see it all as if I had seen him yesterday, as if no time had passed, as if our hearts weren’t tangled in webs and knots and miscalculations, as if it was the beginning again. I wonder if I should respond. Butterflies swarm from my stomach to the heavens. Hope, I think it’s called. Hope that perhaps he’s recognized the space between where our love ended and where my needs began; hope that he now knows how to fix it, that it will be different this time.

I answer. Our energies meld; dance. How I’ve missed you, they sing. No one has seen me like you see me, understood me like you understand me. Me too.

But then time compresses on us, it forces us to recognize the gap. This is where your love stops, it says, and this is where your needs begin, remember? The gap will stay there unless you both change and adjust. We do not change and adjust. We agree not to communicate. Then, silence. The silence blankets over me like a cloud, where I go through the motions again. I live and I date and I work and I create and yet my mind, my soul drifts back to him.

I go through the motions. I get my energy cleansed; my healer tells me that his energetic cords are tangled deep within me. I sigh. I rid my space of any evidence that he survived; that he is living. That he is out there, under the sun, traveling and living and exploring and not thinking of me. I throw out every love note he’s ever written to me, every picture we took with my camera, every tchotchke that we purchased together or that was given to us; I clear my notebooks of art we’ve drawn together or that he’s made, I donate his clothes, I give away the gifts he’s given to me. I redecorate.

Months later, I wonder if he ever existed, if we ever loved. If he ever loved me. There is no evidence, I think. I realize that the vision of what I’ve built him to be does not match the reality of who he really is, or was, or ever will be. Like the gap in our love and needs, there was a gap in who he presented himself to be and who he was in his essence. I wonder if he’ll ever realize it, too.

What even is closure, I ask my friend. Is it something we attain? Like a stamp on a passport, is it acquired; acknowledged; processed? A sign that you were once somewhere and once did something, maybe loved someone, maybe they loved you too, and it meant something? Or is it something we just surrender to? A cloud that passes and dissipates. Something we hold in our hearts and eventually unleash in our veins, blood processing like a poison, or a medicine, warming our bones. I ask. Does closure really exist?

Closure is something you find within yourself, she responds, it isn’t given to you.

~

Time passes. Then, my phone, it rings and I know it’s him before I see his name, I feel his energy in my apartment. I see his face, his eyes, his lips seeking me, missing me, needing me, wanting me. I see it all as if I had seen him yesterday, as if no time had passed, as if our hearts weren’t tangled in webs and knots and miscalculations, as if it was the beginning again. I wonder if I should respond.

I press ignore. Block.

Hope, I think it’s called.

Three years later, we were again in motion, this time, on a train from Sevilla to Madrid. I turned my body toward him and looked him in the eyes, my breath shallow, my hands holding themselves on my lap. He leaned forward and looked back at me, his eyelids low across his eyes with his dark lashes hugging them, as usual. Except this time, instead of the deep oceans they once were, they reflected back to me like stone. I obviously still love you, or I wouldn’t be here, he mumbled, as if he didn’t want anyone on the train, including himself, to hear it. His eyes radiated something—disdain? Resentment? Misery? Something cold. Something that made the few inches between us feel like miles apart.

It was as if our love existed and then rotted, somehow still dwelling in both of our souls. Decomposing, turning into something different. Why were we there, I wondered within the confines of my mind. It had been over a year since we broke up, and months without talking when we found ourselves communicating again weeks prior. Should we meet in Madrid? I asked. Yes, he replied.

What we didn’t expect was to end up spending the entire week together—sharing a hotel room, sharing a bed, trekking past Madrid to Sevilla and back again, settling into old habits such as holding hands when walking through the streets and kissing each other when we went to sleep at night. Except this time, it was different. Something changed between us both; there was a wall up. His, made with bulletproof plexiglass that could withstand an atomic bomb; mine, made with paper that withered when tampered with.

The train hummed. I thought back to the months in-between, post-breakup, pre-this moment, when things seemed somehow simpler, yet flawed. I wrestled with his absence. I found myself in front of a deck of tarot cards with a guru asking me what’s on my mind. Love, she says first, as she pulls the Two of Cups, yes, I say; who was he at his core? I ask, confused at who he truly was verses how I saw him through my eyes. She shuffled the deck. He’s someone who walks away from doing the right thing, she said, and he’s someone who prioritizes logic over love.

The train hummed. Was it love that really brought us here, I wondered, the undercurrent of our being that we can try and push away, but is too powerful for us to swim out of? Our love, this unexpected wave that swept us off our feet years before and now deposited us into a sea with no floating devices. We try swimming, swimming, swimming but eventually our arms give, and then our organs. Do you float when you die, or do you sink?

His eyes looked at me, piercing me like black thorns. I felt a crack in the planet. Maybe the water is draining now and we’ll both wake up like nothing ever happened, our bodies restored, our organs pumping blood, our cheeks rosy and skin sun-kissed. I think about our times together; scenes flash in my mind like debris in a hurricane: knotted in each other, watching the waves crash in Uruguay; dancing on the sidewalks at night, just the two of us, laughing in Buenos Aires; him reading poetry to me on my couch in New York; making out in his father’s guest bedroom in Northern Georgia; can they hear us? I ask, paranoid, no, he chuckles softly. His hands in my hair. His eyes locked in mine. Was any of it real? My body shivers and I’m snapped back to reality by the prick of his vision, his gaze no longer a comfort, but a kill.

My heart pounded in my chest. Can he hear it? I wondered. I know that this is the end.

I summoned words from my mouth: I’ll miss you, I said, wondering what “you” I meant; how we even got here in the first place. I looked down and slipped my sunglasses on as the train glided forward. Hot tears streamed down my cheeks, but I wouldn’t let him see them.

I’ll miss you, too. But I’m going back to my life when I’m back, he said coldly. Flatly. Having conquered the violence of his feelings, perhaps in the confines of his solitude without me, he seemingly had none left.

It was then that it clicked for me. It didn’t matter why we were there; it didn’t even matter what brought us there, be it the deepest love or the strongest attachment. All that mattered was the look in his eyes, the oceans of distance between us, and the realization that no matter which direction I was physically being propelled toward, the one way I would not go in would be toward this, whatever it was.

We arrive in Madrid for our last night, and not long after, the trip ends. Bags are packed, doors are closed, and suitcase wheels scrape across the pavement until the sound fades away. Silence settles. I take a car to the airport where I’m upgraded on my flight back; comfortable, alone.

The plane lands in New York City. It rolls forward until it stops at its destination.

It was the 90s. I’d go to her house and we’d run inside and lock ourselves in her bedroom, where we’d stay for hours. She had a translucent plastic landline phone that would hug your face as you’d pick it up, hello? you’d say to no one as the neon wires poked through the see-through casing and your fingers prodded the coil of the wiring. She had a hot pink plastic blow-up-chair which we’d sit on and talk from, like adults. We’d pretend we were Spice Girls—me, always Scary or Posh, of course, and she, always Baby. We’d chase each other throughout the house and find ourselves in her backyard, in the small patch of greenery encased by wire fencing that held together her yard and the swing set it was nestled on. The ground is lava!!! we’d proclaim as we’d climb across the cool metal poles and slide down to the swing—our finale.

I’d stay up all night at her house and come home, messy-haired, sugar-buzzed. Did you get a good night’s sleep? my mom would ask in which yes, I’d answer as I’d wipe the Sour Patch crumbs off my face. This was during the day of All-Nighters, true All-Nighters—just, two ten-year-olds, high on stashed candy and if we were lucky, a Blockbuster video, perhaps Dude, Where My Car?, and gossiping about crushes and dreams. If we stayed up late enough, maybe even watching MTV’s Undressed (which went way above our heads), or any other infomercial or show that we would, in the light of day, be banned from watching by our parents. As the night crept on, we’d playfully watch the clock tick and then begin to dare each other—can we pull an All-Nighter? A hard-wrought but well-acclaimed victory that would leave us red-eyed and lifeless the next day but my goodness, would we have the keys to the world in our hands the night before.

To this day, over two decades later, I still have dreams of that house and that time in my life. I wonder, often, how Tina and her family are, and I consider those years on those cement streets to be some of the fondest and most nostalgic memories of my childhood.

Years later, I found myself in bed, talking to him, feet facing each other, my back against the pillows and his against the wall, grandparents-in-the-original-Willy-Wonka-style. He had gone out hours earlier while I stayed home, and when he returned, he initially came in the room to kiss me, and instead found me awake, the lights dim and warm, music on low; I put my book down to hear about his night. I sat up. He cracked a beer.

The moon continued its journey across the sky and hours were sucked into the either, talking of everything and anything. At first, me, groggily, and then, as time passed, vivaciously. At one point, I was laughing so hard I started crying; my stomach hurt. I looked at the clock which reflected back to me an ungodly hour. Can we pull an All-Nighter?

One of my favorite short stories in the history of time is in The New York Times Modern Love column, The Race Grows Sweeter Near Its Final Lap, by Eve Pell (you may have also seen this story in its small-screen adaptation on Amazon Prime). It’s a story about two older people falling in love: they met in her 60s, his 70s, both already having lived long, beautiful, love-imbued lives.

The story discusses finding love late in life: comparing the sweetness of “old love” with that of young. The narrator recalls their courtship: meeting at a run club, arranging a ‘coincidental’ hang out, the anticipation of holding hands for the first time, the “surge of romance” that “one might not expect an old grandmother to feel,” and so on. You feel the giddiness of budding love through her words on the page.

“Sam and I did things younger people do — we ran and raced, we fell in love and traveled and remodeled a house and got married,” the author describes. “Young love, even for old people, can be surprisingly bountiful.”

Some psychologists, like Carl Jung, propose that versions of ourselves from every age still lives within us, and in order for us to be emotionally healthy as adults, we must still seek and nurture said versions of us from the past. This ‘Inner Child’ theory is also prevalent in creative circles to nurture art, in all its forms. Julia Cameron describes in the acclaimed The Artist’s Way that the creative part of human beings is actually an inner child that needs tending to—and her practices, which have spanned millions of copies and multiple decades of readers, have been founded on this theory, inspiring millions to be the best and most creative versions of themselves.

Maybe, at the end of the day, the secret to this weird crazy serendipitous devastating beautiful thing called life, is to seek that feeling of youngness—to explore what it is that makes you feel alive, whether a good conversation, a deep love, a hobby that dissolves time—and meet it in its full whimsy and vivaciousness. Maybe, we’re actually meant to think back to those childhood versions of ourselves, the ones that stayed up all night eating Sour Patch Kids and felt like the world was at their fingertips at 3:00am, and think, who or what brings that feeling of fun to my life, now? And how can I stay close to that?

Shout out to my inner child and enjoy this real journal entry from when I was about 10-year-old.

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A Tree Grows in Brooklyn follows the coming of age of Francie Nolan, and, almost a century later—I, coming of age at the time as well, saw myself in Francie. Staring out her bedroom window, I felt myself in her state of loneliness and growth. Her concrete felt like my concrete; her introspection felt like mine. And, for the first time in a while, I felt seen; connected through time and space. Impacted. Reading this book was the first time I read something and felt fundamentally changed.

Books can transform you. They can make you feel heard or seen—sometimes, for the first time in your life. They can instill empathy in your soul like an IV drip to your veins. The power of storytelling is so impactful that, looking back on the history of time, institutions and governments have even tried to control it—from the Catholic Church’s Index of Forbidden Books in the sixteenth century, to Nazi Germany burning books in the 1930s, to inside the U.S., modern day—with books being banned in schools and libraries. It’s clear that the impact books can have on people, and on society as a whole, has been vastly respected throughout time.

And so, as I think about the power of books, and watch them spark debate in the mainstream media (ahem, Wuthering Heights; Heated Rivalry), and I watch community-driven book clubs and reading meet ups dominate my city (hello, Lit Club; Reading Rhythms), writer meet-ups take over my schedule (Little Nights!), and an influx of book club invitations with the general discourse of people bursting at the seams to discuss their latest reads—what better of a time than now to delve into the classics that have inspired us all—through time, culture, space, and language.

The below is my recommended cocktail of being utterly charmed, shocked, appalled, delighted, changed—or all of the above—by a few of my current favorite classics.

Buon appetito!

#1: Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson.

I was taking a break from the Rat Race and found myself in Edinburgh, Scotland last year. It was the city of my gothic dreams—all tall buildings stretching from cobbled stones, reeking of medieval apropos, peppered by splotches of greenery in rolling hills nestled with old castles and haunted tunnels. It was breathtaking.

It was also an unexpected surprise to see mentions of the acclaimed writer, Robert Louis Stevenson, seemingly everywhere I went: with a room dedicated to him in the historic Writers’ Museum; a monument of him near St. Guiles’ Cathedral on the Royal Mile; and, of course, sweeping tables of his famous book on display, paramount in every bookstore you enter: the Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. So, I figured, what better time to read such an acclaimed Scottish writer than while in Scotland, among memorials and history celebrating his talent.

And! I could see precisely why and how this book has stood the test of time. A true page turner (and a mere ~100 pages), this book could be demolished within a day with satiated hunger.

The very premise of the book questions good and evil in all its forms, and how us, as humans, can either combat it or give into it. Do we all have a sash of evil seeded deep within our souls, able to sprout with a bit of attention and soil? Or is it the goodness of human nature that’s rooted innately in us? Can love always win, or is there a point-of-no-return within our souls that eventually succumbs to darkness? These are the questions that this book ultimately begets—and the reason why it’s reached such critical and widespread acclaim.

#2, (how could I not): Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë.

I am adding this book to the list for the sole reason of how fun it is to read (or re-read) a classic and then watch an adaptation of it immediately after. Now, I know I come in with a hot take—I loved the Emerald Fennell adaptation! The costume design, the acting, the cinematography, the story reflected in the movie—was everything I thought it would be for a studio promoting a movie that was going to be released on Valentine’s Day that was being marketed as, and I quote, “the greatest love story of all time.”

Which brings me to my next point: Wuthering Heights (the book) is not a love story. It is not! It is a book about spite; about the inability to let go and what happens when one doesn’t. When love rots—when life rots, really. To me, it’s about misery, jealousy, and punishment. It is beautifully and horribly all of these things—but it is not a love story. In fact, Brontë barely touches upon the actual details of Heathcliff and Catherine’s love for another; Nelly, the primary narrator, states their relationship as if listing groceries. Yes, there are beautiful quotes peppered in (i.e., “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same,”) and yes, Catherine and Heathcliff clearly do have a deep love or attachment to another—but is it the whole story (as the movie portrays)?

To me, no. However, this is also part of Brontë’s genius: that she could write such a book nearly 200-years-ago and still spark debate as to the meaning and characters within. Was Nelly biased the entire time? Was Heathcliff as bad as she described; what did he look like? Was she an innocent bystander or did she really have hate in her heart, the whole time, for Catherine?

Although a bit longer in length (~400 pages), now is a great time to read the book, immediately watch it in theatres (go to an iPic—it’s unmatched), and enjoy the discourse!

#3—while on the topic of big screen adaptations: Frankenstein by Mary Shelley.

As with many female-written narratives throughout history, Frankenstein’s true author was not immediately revealed. Similarly to how Wuthering Heights was initially published by “Ellis Bell,” (as the Brontë sisters both used male pen names), Frankenstein was published anonymously in 1818—later to be attributed to Mary Shelley. Once revealed, readers and reviewers of the time were surprised that a woman had written such a dark and philosophical novel.

So, is it worth the hype? To me, absolutely. This is one of my favorite books of all time and I recommend it to anyone looking to reread a truly introspective classic that both details the life and potential death of a monster, while also simultaneously forcing the reader to ask oneself who the monster really was—or is, in the book and in your own life.

It forces one to think about existential life questions—are we born with love? What makes us human, really? How, if at all, does our connection to that of whom or what created us impact our mind, soul, and behavior; and again, can love prevail? Can friendship break curses? Can kindness?

I recommend delving through this book and watching Jacob Elordi do this thing in yet another niche casting of a classic novel rendition on the big screen. It’s well worth it!

#4 - Lastly, Giovanni’s Room, by James Baldwin.

Giovanni’s Room is about a queer relationship between two men in Paris in the 1950s, and delves into the heaviness of forbidden love and self truth (or lack thereof), intricately knit with the weight of acceptance and society.

The cultural significance of this book should entice all to include it on their TBR lists. When published, mainstream visibility for serious literary depictions of same-sex love in the U.S. was uncommon and often marginalized. Then came James Baldwin and this masterpiece. As such, the novel is now regarded as a landmark work in LGBTQIA+ literary history.

Beyond its cultural impact, the prose is absolutely beautiful and sings off of the pages like a sad, melancholy song (full of longing and worry and despair and truth and lies). I recommend reading this book to inhale the brilliance of James Baldwin, while also rooting yourself in a love story that couldn’t last and a future that couldn’t unfold.

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The layoffs have been far and wide, with Matt Murray, The Post’s executive editor, stating that all sections would be affected in some way, and as a result, the publication will be focused even more on national news and politics, as well as business and health, and far less on other areas, according to The New York Times.

Of those impacted, former Ukraine Correspondent Lizzie Johnson received an email that she was laid off while in the middle of a war zone; the publication’s sports section will close (although some reporters will cover the culture of sports); the metro section will shrink, the books section will close, and the “Post Reports” daily news podcast will cease, in addition to other changes, such as international coverage being reduced—with reporters and editors in the Middle East, India, and Australia laid off (among many others—including Amazon Reporter Caroline O’Donovan).

“Democracy dies in darkness,” The Post’s motto prominently displays below its masthead. As such, it’s important for us to not let this slide by; to stand with our journalist friends and stay loud that their journalism, their reporting matters. Also, to hold those in power accountable for their actions. For example, The Post’s billionaire owner, Jeff Bezos—the fifth richest man on the planet, according to Forbes—could cover five years of The Post’s $100m annual losses by dipping into his earnings from a single week, as Peter Baker, the chief White House correspondent stated via X. And, as Bezos—who actively participates in a working relationship with the Trump administration, one that’s been impacting free press unlike that of what we’ve seen in our lifetimes—makes such executive decisions, it makes one wonder about how our free press will continue to be shaped by our government.

So, what can we do? After all, we—if not The People at least The Consumer—do have the power to speak up during times like this, especially with our dollar, if not also with our voices.

As such, see below for ways to help The Post’s layoff situation now, including a list of those post-Posters who’ve moved to Substack, and where to follow them. I will update the list on an ongoing basis as I see more come to the platform. Let’s follow them; let’s continue to share their work—whether here or elsewhere, and to stay loud. To be vocal that reporting matters, journalism matters. Not only is it important to the fabric of our democracy, it’s important for our arts, our culture, and for who we are as Americans and human beings. And that, to me, is something worth fighting for.

Ways to help + who to follow:

• Donate to the Washington Post 2026 layoff fund, created to help those impacted through various forms of assistance, whether through financial aid, job search efforts, or more. This is overseen by Rachel Seigel and fellow members of The Washington Post Guild and 100 percent of the funds will be transferred to laid-off members by Venmo or Zelle.

• There is also a separate fund for the international employees—including correspondents, local researchers, translators, and more, here.

• Ron Charles, 20-year Post veteran and former Book Editor, joined Substack and will continue to write about books, authors, and literary culture. Subscribe to his page here, and read about his experience in the post, I’ve Been Laid Off. I’m Not Done.

• Former tech columnist Geoffrey Fowler has joined Substack, and will continue covering the beat—with his first “post-Post” article going live soon. Follow him here.

• Glenn Kessler, former Washington Post fact checker, is on Substack here and wrote his opinion on what happened to The Post for MS NOW here.

• Also, think about where your dollars are going. Do you really need to purchase that blanket via Amazon and have it delivered to your door right now, or can you go to the corner to the mom & pop shop and buy directly from them? Now is a very important time to think about what and where we’re purchasing our products from—and who and what that product is ultimately supporting.

• Lastly, as Geoffrey Fowler says in his Substack note, “Subscribe to some news today. I don’t care where – but it matters that people are willing to pay for real reporting.”

Perhaps, sometimes, the best thing to do is not to lean into the fear and overall neurological and emotional exhaustion of life and perhaps, find a silver lining. Find a piece of hope. Share it with others, as much as you can, and as small as it may seem. Have you spoken to your neighbors lately—a wave, a smile? Have you given flowers to a friend? Sometimes, a simple act can go a long way.

As such, see below for a few feel-good moments we can collectively celebrate as a late. Because I think we all use a bit of a palate cleanse, right?

In terms of forthcoming Pizza Break stories—oh, have I been cooking! Expect drops coming soon on female friendships, relationships past (could you have guessed?), and what it’s like to give up on Botox and Instagram simultaneously (a ~true~ cleanse).

Buon appetito.

First of all, let’s give it up for Benito. Not just for winning multiple Grammys over the weekend, including for “Debí Tirar Más Fotos”—the first all-Spanish-language album to win Album of the Year, but also for his heartfelt speech on love winning over hate.

“We are humans and we are Americans…” he said as he accepted his award for Best Música Urbana Album, “The only thing that is more powerful than hate is love. So please, we need to be different. If we fight, we have to do it with love...we don’t hate them. We love our people, we love our family and that’s the way to do it; with love.”

In case you haven’t seen it yet, watch his moving speech here.

In Texas, Senate District 9, located in the Fort Worth area, flipped from red to blue in a dramatic shift from the 2024 election. Democrat Taylor Rehmet won with 57.2% of the vote—this seat was held by Republicans for over 30-years and previously favored Trump by 17 points in 2024.

Per NBC News, “The result raises questions about whether Republicans’ new congressional map, which was designed to help the party net five additional House seats, can actually deliver victories in seats that weren’t as red in 2024 as the one Rehmet flipped.”

Optimistically speaking, perhaps this is a taste of the blue wave that is coming during midterms? The only way to know is to stay out and stay loud.

Still looking for a Valentine? Volunteer with New York Cares. On February 12^th & 13^th, the largest volunteer organization in New York City is promoting several opportunities focused on reducing social isolation—from a Valentine’s Day Dance for older adults, to upcycling flowers, bingo, and more. Learn more and sign up here!

Lastly, I was searching for a photo deep in the cut of my phone when I came across this half-written paragraph I sent to a friend a few months ago, working on a piece that I never published. It gave me joy. Here, I share it with you (about my dog; you feel me?):

Stay strong and keep alchemizing the dark into light.

Xo,

Christina

This caught my eye. In a culture obsessed with personal branding, in a childhood where adults constantly ask, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” and you’re expected to have one definitive answer, and in a phase of my life where I hold so many interests, passions, and hobbies—Emma and Glynnis reminded me that it’s not just okay, but maybe even essential to be multidimensional. To pursue creative adventures that speak to you, even when they fall outside your “personal brand” (read Emma’s full essay on the topic here!).

And so, it inspired me to push my writing beyond my typical memoir/essay approach and more into a space that will spark conversation and creative thinking for fellow marketers. So, see below for a spark of inspiration I had on trendsetting, pop business news, and creative partnerships—this issue, specifically for PR and marketing executives, journalists looking for new story ideas, and creatives seeking inspiration.

And don’t worry, Feminist Pizza Club will stay devoted to memoir and informative essays for those seeking stories for the soul.

Thanks for reading along. Buon appetito!

What’s honestly, trending —

• How analog are we going? A new wave of people may go entirely offline. I’ve been following Jessie Pagliari Tiernan’s journey of giving up her smart phone (follow her here!) and I am equally shocked and inspired. She talks of things like writing drafts by hand, watercolor painting with her husband, and baking cookies for neighbors instead of Doomscrolling. Swoon! Apparently, she’s been able to reach this level of a digital detox partially through her Nothing phone. Have you heard of this!? Ranging from $379-$799, the brand was created to “re-imagine how we interact with tech” (as stated by CEO Carl Pei), “allowing you to spend less time on your screen” (per the website). This includes: a simple interface, minimalist aesthetic, and the potential to personally configure the phone without apps & social media.

  This is just one example of, in a world where technology is advancing rapidly and people are more connected than ever, some consumers opting out and choosing to be less connected.

  My prediction: more brands and experiences will arise that further lean into the offline (or, dare I say: real world).

• Are ‘sound studios’ in luxury becoming a thing? Aimé Leon Dore, first of all, has sound studios in its New York and London flagship stores. And, I’m not talking about a DJ in the corner of the room, I’m talking about a separate, invite-only space that’s meticulously designed to make one feel like they are in the vibiest-vibe when entering. This in itself is notable. But what’s more, the brand boasts ‘SOUND,’ a ‘content series’ that features DJ sets from said rooms that frankly champion seemingly the coolest people and the best music on earth. Check out the latest with Las Flaquitas here—it may or may not currently be on repeat in my home.

  As a luxury (and one of the most buzzworthy current fashion) brand(s) that’s pushed the envelope in so many ways—this got me to thinking about what it means to be luxury. Back in the day, ‘luxury,’ arguably, could be equated with ‘unapproachable’ or ‘grandiose.’ Instead, today, brands like ALD champion inclusivity, community, and culture by leaping off of your screen and into your ears—by prioritizing quality and timelessness, yes, but also by moving the brand, the culture, beyond the product. Perhaps not even hard selling. Perhaps by solely curating a vibe: making your new favorite playlist; pining for a seemingly impossible invite to the sound studio. Or even, building brand equity by giving back to the community. And, if that’s the future of luxury—sign me up.

  My prediction: keep an eye out to see how sound x luxury brands continue to evolve.

• Lastly, Book Clubs at lit. We’re seeing them everywhere—thankfully! I had the joy of attending a recent Lit Club NYC event over the weekend where we got into groups and swapped amidst a gorgeous Brooklyn brownstone on a beautiful fall day. In collaboration with Katie Romero—an expert on the best of what to do in New York, the vibes were truly immaculate. And, as literature-inspired travel continues to sweep on 2026 trend lists (i.e., Skyscanner’s 2026 prediction of ‘bookbound travel’, and all social media platforms, really) expect to see more book-inspired in person events and collaborations with bookish-creators.

  My prediction: keep your eyes peeled for more book-themed escapes a la hotels, creator collaborations, and bookish partnerships crossing boundaries into mainstream travel & lifestyle brands.

, founder of Bite the Apple, and Kelly, founder of at said cohosted bookswap in Brooklyn this past weekend. Follow them both for more information on bookish events (and more!) in NYC.

I’ve rewritten an article on book banning about five times now. Books! Writing! The thing we all love! The thing that threads us together is under attack, as is our entire educational system in America—down to how our history is written, how our art is displayed in museums—and now, even, the very food on the table. For over 41 million Americans.

As such, I thought it would be helpful to break down the current SNAP situation and provide resources on what to do to help. Time is of the essence; it’s important to start planning now, as we approach November 1^st. See below—and if you’re in New York City and interested in participating in a group food drive, please message me.

Let’s start with the basics – what is SNAP + what’s going on with it?

The Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP), commonly known as food stamps, is the primary federal program that helps low-income households buy food. As one of the country’s biggest social assistance programs, according to the U.S. Department of Agriculture (USDA) over 41 million Americans depend on the monthly payments. In some states, such as New Mexico, dependence on the program is as high as 21 percent of its residents.

As of today, the U.S. federal government is still shut down and as such, funding cannot be released. The USDA has warned that it does not have sufficient funds to pay November SNAP benefits unless the shutdown ends.

Also as of today, a coalition of officials from 25 states and the District of Columbia filed a lawsuit against the Trump administration, challenging its decision to halt SNAP, arguing that the administration’s refusal to use a ~$5-6 billion contingency fund to maintain benefits violates federal law. However, it is unlikely that this lawsuit will immediately restore SNAP benefits, as the legal process takes time.

What happens if benefits aren’t issued in November?

If benefits are not issued in November, millions of Americans—children, older adults, people with disabilities, and more—will face the loss of their food assistance, leading to food insecurity, hunger, and malnutrition. This can also lead to a wider economic ripple effect of less spending in grocery stores & retail, an increased load on food banks, and a potential rise in food insecurity.

To note, some states may be able to cover shortfalls temporarily. For more information, go to the USDA Food and Nutrition Service directory and contact your local SNAP office.

So, what can we do to help?

• Go to FeedingAmerica.org to find your local food bank.

• Contact your local food bank to find out what their greatest needs are right now. Also, ask if they accept perishable and/or toiletries, as many are expanding to handle fresh produce, dairy, diapers, and hygiene products.

• Donate money to your local food banks. This will allow for them to purchase large quantities and source fresh nutrients.

• Sign up to volunteer. Note that food banks may require an orientation prior to volunteering an actual shift, so look now to plan accordingly.

• Organize a neighborhood food drive. Focus on nutrient-dense items, such as canned proteins (tuna, beans, chicken), nut butters, rice, and shelf-stable milk.

• Donate or fundraise for: Feeding America, No Kid Hungry, Meals on Wheels America, and/or World Central Kitchen. Even small recurring donations (i.e. $10/month) create stability for organizations that need to plan food purchases in advance.

• Call or email your representatives (local, state, federal), and ask them to restore SNAP funding immediately + protect nutrition programs (SNAP, WIC, school meals) from future cuts.

  • To find the your proper U.S. House Representative, click here.

  • To find your proper U.S. Senator, click here.

  • Your mayor or county commissioners often coordinate with local food banks and can also amplify the urgency of restoring funding.

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Expect my older friends. The eighth graders when I was in seventh; the seventh graders when I was in sixth—I could talk to them. They would see me. And I was about to watch my brother—and my gaggle of friends, graduate. Myself, left behind to see if I could connect with those around me.

Fast forward to 2010. Richelle and Angela and Johnny and Seth. I’d pull out my fake ID, pray, and flash it to keep up with my friends—most of whom were older than me, floating into the bars with ease. It’s 3:00am in May of that same year, and I find myself bear-hugging Richelle on the floor, both of us audibly asking anyone listening — The air? God? The universe? — what are we going to do without each other after graduation?? I had another two years without her. Without them.

And so, the correlation between love and age and connection has played a role in my life as far back as I can remember. A thread that, until recent years, has seemingly been about being older—wanting to appear older, be older to catch up to my friends. Maybe then, people would take me seriously, I thought as, in my younger years, I padded my bra and caked on bronzer and, in my older years, attended work events with clients only to embarrassingly get IDed at the bar.

But today, I may finally be on the other side of the coin, as I ask my younger colleagues what’s cool to do on the weekends and, when browsing through a grocery store, I barely recognize anyone on the covers of magazines—the same covers I used to work hard to get my clients on and track on a daily basis. I hear my 24-year-old brother spew out phrases that I have to Urban Dictionary after (or during) our conversations, and I hear about old TikTok trends that I was never privy to in the first place.

But today is my birthday, and—as birthdays do—leading up to it, I’ve been forced to ask myself how I feel. Birthdays, as much as we’d like to admit it or not, are milestones; a direct measurement of time on this earth and a reminder of experiences past and present. They force us to examine ourselves, they draw light to shadows and expose pieces of ourselves, if we look close enough, that we’d like to improve. Do better. How are you doing, really? Is what birthdays would say to us if they could talk, and it’s up to us on how we respond. Do we reflect, think about the years on this earth and how we can best learn from them and move forward into the new year, the next chapter of our lives? Or do we ignore them, push the feelings down and move on, as if it were any other day?

My first thought, when analyzing the past 365-days and particularly, the past 36-years, is centered on accomplishments. What milestones I’ve generated at work and in my career: pushing to the front of a saturated entertainment market in Los Angeles off of hustle alone; moving from city to city, elevating my career company to company; pivoting and starting my own practice when I was laid off over the pandemic. The list goes on.

But when I think about the moments that stand out to me in life, I think about the smile and laugh my 70-year-old boxing coach recently gave me when I returned from Scotland and he told me he received the text message of me shadowboxing on the top of a mountain. I think of jumping on a trampoline in the basement of my cousin’s house with my little pseudo-nieces, Gigi and Ava. I think about the moving conversations I’ve had with strangers at events when volunteering for Planned Parenthood, and a deep-hearted conversation with a stranger when we were both seated at brunch in New York City together a few months ago.

And, in a country and world shaped by glorified youth, as my algorithm updates with ETERNAL Anti-Aging Super Cream with Black Lilac and Vitamin E; Retinol; Can AI Make You Younger?; Freeze Your Eggs Today! and SkinCeuticals A.G.E Interrupter Advanced; and as conversations progress with phrases like, You’re how old?, Do you want kids?, And will you ever settle down?; it’s easy to feel that life has a laundry list of products and events that one may simply be missing the boat for. A list of boxes that, if left unchecked, makes you wonder, at this age…should I have a regimented skincare routine (probably)? How many units? And wait, can AI really make me look younger?

But what if the beauty, the character in your life comes from those unchecked boxes? Could you imagine a world where everyone bases their experiences on completing The List without thinking about what’s making one act on it in the first place? Or simply taking a step back and enjoying the journey, regardless of the destination?

And so, as I continue down the road that intertwines that of love and age and connection, I can’t help but wonder about how sometimes, the seemingly small moments have made up the larger narrative of my life. How age always has been, and probably always will be a factor; but when someone asks how old you are—perhaps it’s them really asking, can you still relate to me; do we really understand each other? And with enough empathy and experiences, hopefully we can always communicate a resounding yes.

For my 35th birthday, I took myself to Paris—one of my favorite cities in the world, and sitting in the Tuileries Garden, admiring the city as the sun was setting, I wrote in my journal to myself:

Why does hunger have to strike?

Why must the weather turn more brisk at sunset?

Was today created especially for me?

Did God look down from her big white cloud

And did she paint the world, just as it was, today, for me?

My soul shines in the magic that is Paris.

My heart aches as this moment slips away.

And yet, I smile.

One year later, from my apartment in New York City, after several days of celebrations with friends in town and phone calls from loved ones near and far, I think about years past; boxes unchecked; and I feel nothing but gratitude—targeted ads and all. And, in a world that can feel overly stimulating and overbearing and at times, flat out hard, I center myself back to how proud my seventh grade version of myself would be. How connection will continue to be shared with those young and old, and I nod toward my friend, the clock, that keeps ticking away.

And yet, I smile.

Here I am in seventh grade in my Jim Kelly jersey.

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The evening continued and I stayed locked on him; around him; near him. Was it his crisp white button down against his tan skin, the tattoos on his hands and the look in his eyes that kept me coming back? Or was it the ticking time bomb of our connection—the anticipation and excitement that comes with meeting at Hour Nine and knowing that by Hour Twenty Four, the buzzer would sound; the game would end? Does time fleeting beget connection, or does connection beget fleeting time? And why does time fly so fast when we’re having fun?

I just returned home after traveling for two months straight: eight weeks across eight different cities and three states and two countries and I’m left wondering how so many laughs and smiles and experiences and locations can compress into a few small moments; glimpses of memories sparked by scrolling through my phone; photos prompting where I’ve been and what I’ve seen: dancing under the moonlight next to the ocean in Rhode Island; brisk country walks in Pitlochry, Scotland; castles in Edinburgh; sunsets and Flutie Flakes in Buffalo; sunrises and pink clouds in Orlando.

I scroll back further. Hundreds of photos remind me of how far I’ve come from Life Before—the space between relationship end and life anew; transformed, without the person you love. Without the person you knew yourself to be. Sometimes, relationships can have you mourning a future you thought you’d have; a vision of yourself you thought you’d know, perhaps even more than the person you lost. The one that stopped the clock and had you grasping for the next hour; the next day. Will I ever get over this? I’ve asked my friends a thousand times and with a resounding and repetitive YES, I heard the response but never believed it to be true.

And yet. I now look back on time—as it currently and continually slips through my fingers, and I see it no longer as a stalled foe, but rather as an old, adorned friend. How its gifted me with its presence, pulling me through and through and through and showing me life in its entirety and complexity of emotions and experiences.

I recently met a group of women in Dubrovnik, Croatia. We arrived for a bachelorette from different pockets of the world—California, Switzerland, Texas, New York; each of us at a different phase in life; most of us meeting for the first time. Over the span of the next five days, we lounged by the pool, walked through the city, dove off of boats and danced on table tops. We ate, we laid, we laughed—and most importantly, we talked. We spoke of family and of love and of life and fears and plans and phases. We cheered for one woman who recently got her own apartment after a ten-year breakup and laughed for another taking a trip with a new fling. Within five days, we grew a bond that rivals the love and tenderness of lifelong friendships. It appears that time, compressed, can do that sometimes.

Alternatively, my boyfriend and I broke up on a Tuesday. He lived in another country; our individual visions of our lives would not permit us to be together and the timer buzzed. A timer that, unfortunate for him, found him in my apartment with a few more days in New York until his flight left after I broke up with him. Nonetheless, I told him not to change it.

The next few days together ended up being some of the most bittersweet. I watched the clock. On our last day, we walked around New York. No plans, hand in hand. We sat in the grass at Central Park. The sun shone on us and we laid tangled in each other. I kissed him on the cheek and nestled my head in his neck. I really love you, you know, I told him four days after breaking up with him. I really tried. He stroked my hair and kissed my head. I know, he said. I prayed for the clock to stop.

It’s funny, really, how life slows down and speeds up in relation to your current mental state. While, according to the the Novelty Effect in psychology, as we get older and routines set in, fewer memories are encoded, so days and years do give the feeling as if they are passing by quicker. And, if you’re like me, sometimes you want to force time to pause; will it with your mind so you can hold onto the moment longer—whether it’s the feeling of the person you love’s hand in yours, shared laughter with a group of friends in Croatia, or a really fun night with a stranger at a wedding.

And so, as the world keeps spinning and time keeps passing, perhaps even faster and faster as we get older, I can’t help but think that maybe the lesson doesn’t lie in figuring out how to control time—but rather, maybe it’s in letting go of it entirely. In throwing your theories and worries out the window and embracing the present moment for exactly what it is. Taking the feelings acquired from beloved memories and adding them to the bank of our collective consciousness, perhaps, making the world a bit of a better place. Our souls a little softer. Our spirits a little lighter.

After all, it’s easy to forget amidst an eternal doomscroll but sometimes, connection can happen spontaneously. Unexpectedly. Sometimes, passionately. And, no matter how brief the connection is—whether it’s one night, five days, or two years, it’s those connections and experiences that make life more enriching, abundant, and frankly, more fun.

I land and settle back into my routine. My phone buzzes—it’s the group chat from Croatia with updates: photos of reunions with baby nieces, scenes from individual travels and apartments anew. I scroll through and smile.

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Buon appetito.

My mom, brother and me in The Buffalo News; 1993.

~~

My mom was attacked by dogs. Yes, you read that correctly. Yes, it sounded strange and weird and bizarre and almost archaic the first time I heard it, too. The information clicked in my mind slowly, then all at once. My mom was attacked by dogs. Plural.

My mom was minding her business, taking a leisurely, after-work stroll down a country road with her Havanese when two ferocious, 40-pound beasts came barreling down the street to attack them both. One knocked her to the ground, face first, and gnawed at her back, while the other attacked her tiny, fifteen-pound, ten-year-old dog that barely had a fight in him in the first place.

Yes, what ensued was traumatizing for her, as she fought to keep herself and her dog-child alive. But also for a certain 35-year-old woman, 297 miles away, who received a text message in the aftermath, mid-conference call: me. 

When I was little, as my mother tells me, I would cling to her side. Some of my earliest memories are entwined, somehow, on my mother’s limbs. When meeting someone new, I’d wrap my arms around her legs and peek my head out to determine if the stranger was safe; when upset, I’d curl up in her lap to cry; when tired, she’d pick me up and carry me on her hip to rest. I saw the world’s safety through the lens of my mom and her body, using it to measure my own stability and temperament.

I stayed this way throughout my youngest years–from infant to toddler to whatever comes next—though I’m not sure exactly when I transitioned from being another extremity on my mother’s body into an independent, whole person. Maybe I never did. 

Time passed. Minutes that felt like years were absorbed into decades that felt seconds; memories compressed and stored somewhere between biology and soul. Life has a way of building a protective layer around us that makes us almost forget that we, too, were children once. We were someone’s daughter or son or child. If we’re lucky, we still are. Will we ever not be?

My phone blinked: a notification. Two notifications. Three. Bloody photos resembling murder scenes I’ve seen on television. A Frankenstein-like creature held together by staples and stitching and wiring, laying stiff on the floor: my mother’s sweet dog, Rio. Can he be zapped back to life, like the famous beloved monster? 

“Had a rough night…” the text message read, “…I was walking on the opposite side of the street when all of a sudden, they came bolting out of their yard so fast, I had just enough time to grab Rio...”

“…ended up in the hospital…”

My brain swirled. I called my mom immediately, alone in a conference room with floor-to-ceiling windows that displayed Times Square in all its vibrancy. It was the first summer-feeling day of the year: the sun dominated the sky. It was the type of day that leads you outside, as if to brag. As if to say, here you go! And, yes, I know.

Twenty years earlier. Another summer night. The first time I got sick from alcohol—like, really sick from alcohol. I had, unbeknownst to my mother, been at a friend’s party playing drinking games that entailed taking shots of whiskey, and drinking beer–simeotaneously. Needless to say, I made it out of the party fine, but once I got home, I took to the floor of my bedroom.

My mom and stepdad were not home. I laid on the ground in the dark and looked upward, tracing the colors of the room as it swirled: black, green, black. I felt the liquor churn in my stomach and I tossed from side to side. I counted the seconds until they were home like sheep: one, two, three, four, five. I inhaled and exhaled. Is this what it feels like to die?, I wondered.

Eventually, they came home. I still remember their dark figures in the doorway of my bedroom, accessing the damage, the hallway light casting shadows of them facing me. My mom, wordlessly, entered my room, fluffed a pillow on the floor for me; tucked a blanket over my helpless body. Then, she fluffed a pillow on the floor for herself. She slept next to me through the night, patting me as I shivered.

“Mom, am I dying? Do I need to go to the hospital?” I muttered as I hugged my shoulders in a fetal position on the floor. She let out a soft, unexpected chuckle. “No, Christina. You’re going to be alright.”

What is it about a mother’s silent, calming presence that makes us feel like we can get through anything–physical or otherwise? And at what point, if ever, does that strength get passed on to us–the daughters; the children? Do the tables ever turn, really? Or are we forever, in spite of age, location, time, extenuating circumstances–always protected by them: physically, mentally, or otherwise?

I didn’t know what was happening, but I believed her.

“…punctures and wounds all over his body…”

“…thank god they didn’t get my face or neck…”

Five years earlier, almost to the day, I was laid off and stressed. I was spending a lot of time at my mom’s house—the same one I spent my teenage years in. A few weeks into the pandemic, my industry was one of the first to get swept off its feet and my job, along with thousands of others, was absorbed into the ether, with no real indication of when it would (if it would?) come back. Miraculously, however, there was somehow one job still hiring. One job that felt like the weight of my world was contingent on. I nervously inhaled and exhaled, with just a few minutes before the interview began.

1:56pm: calm the nerves.

1:57pm: inhale; exhale.

1:58pm: a Yellowjacket bee seemingly appears out of nowhere and charges at my face, in what I perceive as full on-attack mode. 

“MOMMMMM,” I yelled as a 30-year-old adult woman. Seemingly seconds later, she appeared. “THIS BEEE!” I shrieked as I shifted and sauntered, in a blazer and lipstick and sweatpants, flustered, breathing heavily, feeling the weight and anxiety of the world and my life speeding at me in the form of this buzzing and insatiable insect.

She sharply turned her head left. Saw a magazine. Curled it up. One strong, fast stroke—BAM! Slammed the bee. It fell to the ground.

2:00pm. I started my interview. She left the room.

Womxn are incredible—with our wisdom, sensitivity, logic, instincts; I can go on and on about the balance and art and beauty we bring to the world. But moms? They, they are the real superheroes. Magicians. Healers. They literally create us, shape us, and exhibit superhuman strength—physically or otherwise. When my friend, Stephanie, became pregnant and was hitting mitts with our boxing coach in the ring, I heard our coach yell, “Woahhhh! Stephanie,” after a jab and a cross, and her reply, “I know! I have mom-strength now!”

What is mom strength, really, other than the force of all of the love of the universe crinkled and shifted, bound together and expelled onto those she loves? And where would we be—as a society, as individuals—without mom strength? 

Coincidentally (or is it?), I fell in love with boxing, and one of the most common questions I receive upon people finding out is—why? It’s a question I often contemplate in moments of solace, as well. Sometimes, I feel like it truly is something that’s in your blood. I have a lineage of boxers on my dad’s side of the family who fought both amateur and pro. All men; expect my grandma, who did jujitsu (and especially at a time when there weren’t a lot of women in the sport).

But when I really think about where it comes from, and why, all I can think about is my mom. My mom, who, while working full time at the airport, was studying at night to become a school bus driver to generate more income for us to have a better life when we were younger. My mom, who set an example by action when I was young by blasting Madonna concerts on VHS and running miles on our at-home treadmill. My mom, who stuck up for my brother time and time again when he was getting kicked out of multiple schools growing up. My mom, who kills a bee in one fell swoop to protect the mental health of her 30-year-old daughter. My mom, who I still travel to as a 35-year-old woman and who recently held me as I cried.

Is it because I spent most of my former years glued to my mother’s side, that I physically felt the pain of her attack? Or is it the mere thought that the person who loves you most on this earth, being in danger without you there to protect them, is enough to set off your fight or flight? And if your instinct is to fight, and you can’t, where does that energy go? 

So, I did all my body told me I could do. I closed my laptop and left the office. I walked to Central Park and cried in the grass for hours. I took off my shirt and rolled around in my sports bra. I got up. I walked until my feet bled. I took my hair out of its low tight bun and ran my fingers through my waves that bounced and breathed as I walked.

And I called my mom. 

“Mom, are you doing okay? Do you need to go to the hospital again?”

“No, Christina. I’m going to be okay. I’m a tough broad,” she half joked in a whisper as, in true form, she laid on the ground next to our healing, Franken-dog. She slept there all night with him, on the floor by his side. This time, a 59-year-old woman and her 10-year-old dog-child. 

“We’re going to be okay,” she reassured me from the floor. 

I didn’t know what was happening, but I believed her.

Mom and I in my gym recently after training with my coach. She’s the strongest person I know.

I’m working on a few articles I’m excited to share with you all soon, spanning the topics of women’s health research, neighborhood bookstores, and the gut-brain axis (so cool). In the meantime—and in the spirit of trying something new and reading something different—see below for a short love story I penned a few months back to hold you over this lovely Saturday.

Buon appetito!

The Seasons of Us

I sit and stare at my phone and wait for it to blink. It does not; it stays black—no new text messages, no notifications from Instagram, not even the usual “breaking news” banner from The New York Times. Just, black.

Months ago, it looked quite different. It was not unusual to have 116 unread text messages, a berede of notifications from Instagram, X, Threads, TikTok, and if I didn’t hear from him, it was probably because he was sitting right next to me on the couch. My phone, alive and vibrating with the same urgency as a looming storm; me, not noticing or even aware of where my phone was located in my New York City apartment. I was busy. I was, perhaps, lying in bed with him. I was in love.

We met during summer in Mexico. He walked up to me and started talking to me like we knew each other for ages, with his long, curly brown hair, black eyelashes that hugged his lids tight, and tattoos that climbed his hands and arms like vines. The sun was shining through the open-air mountaintop villa we’d found ourselves in that night. We met a few hours before dusk. It was one of the most beautiful sunsets I’d ever seen, with shades of white and blue from the ocean blending with orange and red hues from the night sky, interlocking, dancing as we looked on from afar. “Magic hour,” they call it.

During this first encounter, he showed me a recent music video he directed; I told him about my travels. How I ended up in Mexico. How I was looking for something more than work and capitalism, how societal pressure and expectations were compounding in circles like a tornado swirling around my New York City life and brain and how, if I didn’t escape to this tiny, remote surf town in Mexico at just this time and just this moment, I could have been swept up with it, too.

I initially traveled with the intention of staying for a few days—but days morphed into weeks over the span of a few months. I kept extending my stay; kept going back; kept thinking about how nice it was to wake up to the sun and feel its wrath on my skin. How nice it was to have this friend there, a gentle, incessant soul. Good morning, he’d text and, following a day at our virtual jobs, we’d meet, walk, swim, eat, bask, wander, dance, talk. Live.

One particular evening, we drifted away from the crowds and nestled, side by side, on the beach—hands extended behind us, palms down in the sand, feet pointed in front of us touching the undulating ocean. The waves were incandescent and the stars punctuated the sky with such a stark contrast, we could have gotten lost in them for hours. We did. We spoke of our hopes and dreams and conspiracy theories and fears. The conversation ebbed as naturally as the waves in front of us and I leaned back, burying my fingers deeper into the sand. Is he going to kiss me? I wondered.

Eventually, he did.

I came back to New York City, my reality, dizzy; my mind, wandering to him. Am I ever going to see him again? My mind spiraled; then, my phone blinked.

An offered trip to Mexico City two weeks later turned into his first visit to the Big Apple with me; several day visits turned into one-way tickets turned into meeting each other’s families over the holidays. Seasons changed. When winter weighed heavy on us, we took a break and chased the sun to South America, basking in the beaches of Uruguay and indulging in empanadas and parrilla in Argentina. Hundreds of sunrises and sunsets came and went, and we’d stay up late, spiraling down black holes of philosophy and metaphysics and art and all-things-good-in-life.

I blinked and it was fall in New York City on a cloudy day.

“What do you want in your future,” I built up the nerve to ask. At this point, I daydreamed about our lives together—maybe I’d convince him to move to the New York City area and we’d move Upstate, where he’d feel more at home with some mountains by the water. We’d have a dog and he’d work on his music in our home studio and I’d work on my writing in the study. We’d head north to my snow-capped family home for the holidays followed by enjoying the remaining winter in South America. I was sure his version of the future, albeit maybe not exactly this, would entail me. My question really was, how?

“I definitely love not living in the states,” he replied. “Maybe I’ll live out in the European countryside somewhere. I’ve heard great things about Sardinia.”

~

It’s summer again here in New York. I’m not traveling as much. I wake up in the mornings and, due to where my apartment is situated in relation to the sun, every morning—whether the sun is shining or not—feels grey. Overcast. Is it raining, or just really dark right now, is usually one of my first thoughts as I get out of bed and pour myself a coffee.

I check my phone. No notifications. Just black.

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And so, as I go about my daily life, pretending that a person I deeply love is not, in fact, alive or potentially even thriving without me, I find myself getting lost in podcasts, movies, books, and art in all its forms, wondering about love and how it links us all together. It’s the binding force that has kept us writing and wondering and yearning and dreaming for centuries—and yet I find myself wondering why love, itself, is not enough, and how, outside of love, there’s one thing that connects us all together: heartbreak. 

As such, if you’re like me—finding yourself questioning life and love and aching to read stories that explore the combustion of these topics, see below for three books that explore humanity and heartbreak. Each of them are utterly short, yet pack a strong punch and will leave you feeling a bit more connected, understood, and human. Buon appetito. 

#1. Fyodor Dostoevsky’s White Nights

Short story; fiction. Originally published: 1848; Setting: Saint Petersburg; page count: 62

Dostoevsky’s White Nights, in a mere 62-pages, paints a picture of a man feeling isolated amidst the bustling city of Saint Petersburg; and yet, over the span of three days—three days!—he meets and falls in love with a woman. 

This book reads like a fever dream. Dostoevsky, in his masterful, radiant style, will touch the deepest crevices of your soul, broaching the topics of love, longing, and loneliness through unrelenting dialogue that will leave your head spinning. The protagonist, a young man, spills out his deepest feelings like a porcelain doll thrown to the floor and cracked into a million pieces at the slightest hint of love—and, throughout this unraveling, the tenderness of the human spirit emerges—regardless of time or distance. 

For me, this book proved the permanence of love and obsession, of heartbreak and hope. Read it to feel more sane if you’re going through your own romantic harrows, or if you just want to fall in love with words again.

The staff review at McNally Jackson’s Seaport, NYC location nailed it.

#2. Ursula Parrott’s Ex-Wife

Fiction. Originally published: 1929; Setting: Jazz Age New York City; page count: 232

Originally published anonymously in the late-1920s, Ex-Wife became an instant bestseller—causing a huge splash in the gossip columns and creating its own ‘who-done-it’ obsession in the pop culture-sphere of the time (you can read more about its impact in this New Yorker article). 

If you’re interested in historical fiction or stories that capture New York as a main character, then this book is for you. Think: 1920s fashion, night clubs, women friendships, love, and lust following a woman navigating an open marriage-turned-to-divorce. Although written in the early 20th century, the same romantic sentiments as today remain: attachment, longing, unsuccessful attempts to move on, and internal monologues on loop that will make you feel more seen if dealing with your own bouts of desire.

Read this if you are in love with New York, if you are a single womxn ruminating on your past, or if you need a refreshing look at life, love, and style in the Jazz Age.

“This summer will end. And, darling, darling (as you say in your ‘cello voice) I am closer to you at two thousand miles distance, than I could be to any other woman in my arms.” 

#3. Grégoire Bouillier’s The Mystery Guest

Memoir. Originally published: 2004; Setting: Paris; page count: 97

To think that I almost put this book back on the shelf! I made this quick, instinct-inspired purchase after just a quick glance at its back and a confirmation from my friend in the bookstore that it sounded up my alley. And, my goodness, how it was!

This gem of a short—and true—story follows Bouillier himself as he receives an unexpected phone call from an ex-girlfriend he’s seemingly still in love with. The second paragraph of the first page of the book reads:

“The phone woke me up. I looked around the room; it was almost nighttime. I picked up. And right away I knew it was her. Even before I knew, I knew. It was her voice, her breath, practically her face, and with her face came a thousand happy moments: moments gilded in the sunbeams of the past, moments that had caressed my face and licked my hand, and that now hung, dead and dangling, at the end of a rope.”

Need I say more? How beautifully he captures the intimacy of love and the pain of the heartbreak that follows all within a split moment of picking up the phone! Similar to Dostoevsky, expect long paragraphs—except in this case, of internal monologue; internal monologue so loud that you feel as if you’re in Bouillier’s shoes as he overanalyzes the past and, throughout the book, moves on toward the future.

Read this book if you are seeking solace in yearning; if you want to feel human again; if you’ve loved and lost; or if you just want to devour a short, messy, hopeful book in one afternoon.

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I’m concerned because the freedom of the press is shrinking before our very eyes–one of the very institutions that protects our democracy. Not only does a free press ensure that citizens are properly informed, it holds governments accountable. And, as we watch this president and administration abuse powers in ways that are unconstitutional and detrimental to democracy itself–and, as someone who’s worked in and adjacent to media for 15-years and as an American citizen with values of justice and equality ingrained in my soul, I cannot stay quiet and watch this situation unfold silently.

Here’s what we should all know now.

First of all, let’s talk about the FCC–

Let’s take a step back and look at the role of the Federal Communications Commission (FCC) in media. The FCC was created in 1934 to ensure that communication services are available to all Americans and function in the public interest – it’s an independent federal regulatory agency that oversees broadcast (i.e., it’s the body that issues fines if someone curses on national television); it also licenses broadcasters, oversees mergers, and more. In a nutshell, the FCC is here to ensure that media (especially broadcasters) serve democratic needs fairly and openly.

As such, it is vital, for the sake of our democracy, for the FCC to function independently. An independent FCC protects free speech and the First Amendment, safeguards democratic elections, and preserves trust in institutions. When the FCC acts as a neutral referee between the public and industries (i.e., politics), it instills trust in democratic systems.

However, the independence of the FCC has been questioned lately–causing deep concern for trust in a system created to ensure order and fairness in communications. For example, after his appointment by President Trump, Chairman of the FCC, Brendan Carr, stated himself, “I want to make sure I continue to work with the Trump transition team and make sure I understand 100% what their agenda is.” 

So, what does this all mean? A biased FCC can lead to the weaponization of the organization under a partisan agenda. In other words, the FCC can use its power to punish or pressure media outlets based on the content they are airing. This is happening right now.

Take, for example, Trump’s lawsuit against CBS. In December 2024, Donald Trump filed a $20 billion defamation/deceptive editing lawsuit in Texas against CBS/Paramount, claiming a “60 Minutes” interview with Kamala Harris was manipulated to favor her.

Simultaneously, an $8 billion merger between Paramount and Skydance loomed–a deal which could be impacted by an ongoing and public lawsuit.

Therefore, CBS/Paramount settling could be a shining example of how the FCC can pressure media companies into submission. With the merger pending, it is speculated that the company settled such a “meritless” lawsuit to ease both legal and regulatory pressure, smoothing the path for the merger. And this is just the tip of the iceberg.

Let’s talk about what’s happening in the press room at the White House, too.

For the first time in over a century, the White House is selecting which outlets can attend press briefings–not the White House Correspondents’ Association (WHCA)--an organization founded in 1914 to ensure fair journalistic oversight that has historically overseen who received access. This vastly shifts transparency and democratic accountability of what’s happening in the government–especially with access of newer or partisan outlets gaining front-row access in both the briefing room and pool coverage, while wire services like AP, Reuters, and Bloomberg no longer have guaranteed access. This New York Times article shows an insightful visual of what’s happening inside the briefing room.

Press briefings have, under this administration, evolved from an opportunity for the free press to inquire about government policies and hold governments accountable and has now become a seemingly awards-based, rally-style environment. You see it every day, Trump complimenting certain journalists or criticising certain journalists for the questions they ask–even revoking passes for certain journalists and news outlets. 

This skews coverage favorable toward certain voices–in this case, toward that of the Trump administration’s agenda. It allows an unprecedented control of how the media covers the White House. All while the president himself attacks the media with his “fake news” blanket statement–allowing for his followers to discredit news they may not deem favorable to their greater good and as such, discredit important reporting that may cover important policies that the public should know.

This is in addition to an increasing narrative of ownership controlling editorial decision making at historic publications such as The Washington Post (owned by Jeff Bezos) and The Los Angeles Times (owned by billionaire Patrick Soon‑Shiong)–both of whom were reported to step in and pause editorial pieces that were not reflective of a pro-Trump narrative (you can read more on the topic here and here).

These are just a few of many, many examples of alarming instances where our free press is being threatened. 

It’s a time to pay attention and speak up, and share stories so that all of us, regardless of political affiliation, can see the threat of what’s happening to our very own democracy in America and stand up, together, to face it and correct its course.

It’s also important to take a look back in history and analyze if, and when this has happened before. As such, stories such as Maria Ressa’s must come to the forefront. Maria faced significant political repression for her reporting in the Philippines under former President Rodrigo Duterte. Because of her honest reporting, she was faced with arrest warrants, travel bans, SEC threats, and much more from the Philippines government–and, despite the pressure, she continued reporting on the matter. This ultimately landed her the 2021 Nobel Peace Prize for “efforts to safeguard freedom of expression” and she ultimately became a global symbol of press freedom, especially for journalists facing political pressure.

Let’s take Maria’s example and stay loud. It’s important to not stay aloof during such times where our basic freedoms are under threat, and to understand the importance of what’s happening in the media with facts and not blanket statements of untruths. Together, we can overcome such threatening times and move forward, together, as the democratic country we were founded to be. 

Interested to learn more? Read deeper into the Colbert situation on Substack via The Present Age: Parker Malloy’s “Stephen Colbert’s Cancellation is Exactly What it Sounds Like.” Also, a recent episode of John Oliver’s LastWeek Tonight focuses on “Trump & The Press,” which goes in depth into the matter. The links in the article above also provide additional context and sources.

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Assuming that travel was a piece of the fabric of this seemingly urbane gentleman, I encouraged him to tell me about his trip, anticipating stories of life-enriching experiences, with cultures explored and life lessons learned.

He responded, “Well, I started in London; spent a night there, then hopped over to Paris. Did a day tour, popped in and saw the Mona Lisa and sped past the Eiffel Tower, then crashed before moving onto the next city…”

My mind wandered as I thought how interesting it was that he chose to pick as many cities as possible in the amount of time he allocated for travel. “I figured I’d hit ‘em all—all the high spots,” he proclaimed with his chest.

It got me to thinking about travel, about what it means—what it is; what it’s becoming. For me, travel has always been special. Frankly, I wonder if it’s because it has not always been accessible to me. I did not grow up in a family that was consistently traveling the world; I wasn’t sure if the world actually existed beyond Buffalo, NY (where I’m from), and maybe Niagara Falls, and Canada.  Funnily enough, though, my dad and mom met working at the airport and I spent a lot of time there as a child. My mom worked the front desk of a car rental brand and my dad plowed the airfields. I’d watch the crowd contract and expand from behind the counter when my parents switched shifts. But it never clicked to me that it was something I could actually attain—do; enjoy—until much later in my years.

Paradoxically, modern day, I’ve worked the majority of my career in travel PR. I currently represent some of the most impressive hospitality brands in the world. I have clients across India, China, and in Egypt, and here in the U.S., too. I’ve learned about nomadic culture and Eagle Hunting in Mongolia, and Thangka painting and its spiritual significance across generations of Tibetans, and tiger safaris in Bandhavgarh, Madhya Pradesh. Separately, I’ve lived in five different cities across the U.S., including some of the most populated (Los Angeles, San Francisco, New York City), as well as the countryside of Morgantown, West Virginia while I was in college.

Needless to say, traveling, experiencing and learning about new cultures—it’s a part of life that makes me come alive. It’s a part of life that I feel I need to protect; to keep sacred. Travel, in all its beauty, makes me feel small; but small in the sense of a larger microcosm—in the sense of, our problems are smaller than we think, and we are all in this together, and wow, I’m so grateful for all that I have. And, as much as travel can come with its tribulations, it has also taught me how similar we all are across humanity. How we all want the same things: love, comfort, to laugh every day. Traveling, by far, has been the greatest teacher I’ve ever had.

What I’ve come to find, as of late, however, is a culture of almost braggadocious travel. Maybe it’s because of my own insecurities. Working in travel, my biggest kept secret was always that I hadn’t left the country (outside of Canada) until I was around 26-years-old. This, of course, isn’t usually the case—especially in my industry, as many people would apply for jobs touting how they love to travel (of course). They had typically studied abroad, perhaps traveled throughout the world with their families during school breaks growing up–and essentially, got the tally of destinations visited hiked high from a young age. Early in my career, this left me to feel that the applicants and newcomers already knew the world—it was a hand they’d already been dealt. But for me, I was just learning the deck.

And so, a fun game began in my life where I would bob and weave whenever the topic of travel arose. Maybe not many people asked that much. Maybe it was all in my head because of my own curiosities and fears, but the question, “You’re in travel?” quickly became imbeded with the follow up, “How many countries have you visited?” and thus began the match. To me, this innocuous yet cringe-worthy question felt like the direct equivalent of “how interesting are you,” or, “how smart are you,” or—to my deepest fear, “how good enough are you?” The higher the number, the better your chances are of being seen as competent and whole. And for me, at the time, my number was low.

Today, almost fifteen years into my career, the conversation has changed a bit. It is rare that I’m asked, point blank, how many countries I’ve traveled to, but there has been an interesting shift in conversation. Like my exchange with the friend of a friend visiting New York, there seems to still be a pressure to visit as many cities internationally as possible–especially if, like me, you’ve had a late start to traveling the world. 

Last month, protests occurred in Italy, Portugal, and Spain to combat overtourism. As reported by The New York Times, these protests are in response to quality-of-life issues, including increasing housing costs, environmental damage, and overcrowding that’s impacting locals and the places they call home negatively–some, perhaps, already with irreplaceable damage. This has been an escalating situation over time and certainly doesn’t solely exist in these three countries. This is just the tip of the iceberg.

As such, isn’t it time we change the narrative on travel? Instead of creating a checklist and bragging about the number of places we’ve been to, as if reaching a specific number earns you a badge of respect—wouldn’t it be nice to speak more of how you travel? 

I want to hear the stories in which travel has changed you; the way it’s shaped your soul. As I get older, and gratefully, far more well traveled, I’m less curious to hear of how you may have taken a speed tour and checked 30-cities off the box in one-fell-swoop and more so, about one destination, perhaps, that you’ve done right. Differently. When did you get off the tourist trail? What was an unsuspected surprise? How did you contribute—in a positive way—to the local community in which you traveled; what local merchants did you support; whom did you book through, in the first place?

For me, the first time travel truly impacted my soul was when I went to Thailand with a small group of friends in my mid-twenties. Granted, it was the first time I was leaving the country (outside of Canada and of course, this was unbeknownst to the new friends I was traveling with)—however, I remember being awestruck at every turn—from where we started in Bangkok, then down south as we island hoped before wrapping in Chaing Mai. We had nothing but our (massive) backpacks and a desire to throw ourselves into wherever and whatever this trip handed us; our itinerary: half-planned; our spirits: unencumbered. 

Of all the temples, famous beaches and beautiful sights I saw, arguably the most memorable experience was one in which we ended up well off the beaten path, in part of an island largely untouched by tourism. While here, we met a Canadian transplant in a local pub who fell in love and moved to this village. His family—from his wife and one-year-old daughter to grandma and the dog—ultimately joined us, and although none but this friendly man spoke English, our time together transcended language as we pet dogs and twirled each other dancing for hours. We tuktuked back home as the sun was rising, feeling full, dazed, and with smiles left subtly on our lips. I still think about that family to this day.

To me, one experience of the such beats ten countries visited to whiz by and see “the high notes”’—and what defines “the high notes,” anyways? Even the Mona Lisa, in all her glory, isn’t known for the intricacy of the painting itself. It’s known for the PR behind the story (trust me, I know). People travel in droves—millions each year!—to see this beautiful painting that yes, is dazzling, but what about hopping to the other side of the Lourvre and seeing Napolean’s Apartments (so cool)? Or getting sucked into one of the thousands of other paintings in this museum, like Caravaggio’s “The Death of a Virgin” depicting death and love (one of my all-time favorites)? It is, in fact, the largest art museum in the world. The possibility to get lost in its art is endless.

It’s time to shift the conversation on travel; let the topic permeate the mind with more intentional responses. When was the last time you traveled and saw something that really moved you? How did it open your eyes?

Thinking back to my younger years, it’s surprising to ruminate that perhaps what made me self conscious is actually the thing that’s made me so great at what I do now. Would I be the same if I had taken 30 international trips before the age of 30? Would I have the same determination and curiosity to learn about places and destinations and cultures and what makes them unique? Would traveling, itself, be different for me? Would I be writing? Would I be me?

Perhaps by not being handed my deck of cards until later in life, I’m able to see them more clearly; experience life more vividly. Be more open to learning and loving and sharing. I can’t help but crack a smile as I think about my 8-year-old self, wide eyed and watching people in the Buffalo airport come and go, and how lucky I’ve been to get to the other side of the counter.

One of the few photos from the magical night explained above.

Napoleon III’s Apartments; Louvre Museum

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Frankly, I wasn’t sure what to expect as I assembled myself together earlier that morning, peeling myself out of my cozy, pillow-imbued bed with gray clouds and rain outside whispering for me to stay in. Nonetheless, I opened my phone and read posts on the details of the march, some of which included prep lists of goggles, masks, an ID, and additional details that made me a bit nervous of what to expect. This was certainly not my first protest, but something about this one felt more intense, more urgent. Regardless, I knew in my bones I had to go.

I entered the train at 83rd Street to head downtown to Bryant Park, and it was already clear to me the energy ahead. My subway platform–usually sparse at this time, was humming with people holding signs and smiling. We were all headed to the same place; we all had the same mission: one of showing up. Of hope.

What ensued in the hours to come, for all intents and purposes, restored my faith in humanity. 

If you’re like me, it could be easy to lose faith and get lost in the hate that is continually spewing out of this administration, the increasing divisiveness that it promotes, and the fear it projects amongst its followers and foes alike. However, as I gathered alongside tens of thousands of people in New York City,  all for one collective purpose: to protect our loved ones and communities and stand up for what we believe in, it became evident how strong we are together, as one. 

So, as our TVs and phones continue to blare out updates that make our hearts pound and nerves shake, it could be soothing to envision moments from the rally that proved that the power of humanity, the power of love, is so much stronger than the power of hate. As such, see below for five scenes from the NYC No Kings march that restored my faith in humanity.

1. A small group of older women, huddled together in the rain with matching signs that read, “Ladies in our 80s showing up for democracy.” They smiled, waved, and took photos with passers by.

2. Due to the volume of participants, there were a few times in which foot traffic came to a halt. It was during that time that I was directly behind a woman protesting with her dog. The dog, an adorable mix with a t-shirt on and a gaggle of (dare I say, fashionable?) trinkets on its collar, kept nuzzling its head on my leg, and looking up, prompting me to pet it. As traffic eased, I had the pleasure of seeing all the attention, laughs, and pets this dog received from fellow marchers. Needless to say, I hope I protest next to a dog more often.

3. The kids. The kids! One, roughly 3, on his father’s shoulders next to me high-fiving marchers passing by. Another memorable set, perhaps 3 and 5, were positioned on a street corner with two American flags bigger than they were, waving them toward the crowd as we marched forward. The parents proudly gleamed down at them while marchers clapped and waved along.

4. So much dancing. My favorite dancing moment may have been mid-march, when a young man played an impressive drum set notable enough to attract a rather larger circle of onlookers, with smiles plastered across their faces and people of every age, from children to elders, dancing alongside each other.

5. Some really great signs that prompted ear-to-ear smiles and high-fives. My personal favorite: “No Kings. Yas Queens.”

This list can really go on and on–the overarching takeaway that I’m grateful to walk away with is that even when we feel alone, we are not. So, as much as we feel it’s right within ourselves, a key to getting through these sometimes harrowing times may be to seek community and lean on each other to get to the other side. 

See below for some of my favorite photos and signs from my camera roll.

As such, I had the pleasure of chatting with Trauma Specialist and Licensed Clinical Social Worker (LCSW) at No Limit Trauma Specialty Group, Christine Sarkissian, who shared some of her expert insights on coping skills and what we should keep in mind as we move forward in these challenging times.

Christine has worked extensively in community mental health for over 17-years, with an emphasis in crisis prevention and de-escalation. Throughout her career, her work has involved high-risk environments, which has bred her experience in both micro (individual therapy) and macro (systemic advocacy) levels, and led her to where she is now.

In other words, Christine knows how trauma works–both on an individual and mass scale. And she was kind enough to share her time and knowledge with me, including tips for dealing with such challenging and unpredictable times. See below for what I learned.

Flowers for a palate cleanse. 

On a macro-level, many people are experiencing collective trauma and psychological overload.

It’s no surprise to share that we are not alone in our feelings of  concern and overwhelm. From firsthand fear and impact, to the constant stream of news and conflict many of us are exposed to through our phones, networks, and beyond–many people are in a heightened state of anxiety and emotional burnout.

“People are in hypervigilance,” Christine explained. “Their window of tolerance is smaller. What we’re seeing is a massive psychological response to constant emotional triggers.”

So, what do we do?

According to Christine, emotional regulation is a fundamental practice when facing persistent stress. Drawing upon the Polyvagal Theory by Dr. Stephen Porges, she explained how our autonomic nervous system governs our responses to perceived safety or threat–and when it’s dysregulated, our bodies and minds can experience racing thoughts, intrusive imagery, rage, anxiety, panic, and even dissociation, numbness, chronic fatigue, and detachment from our emotions and body.

As I learned, our vagal tone is core to how we shift between calm, alert, and shut-down states in response to stress–and it’s deeply involved in both physiological and emotional responses. When we have a high vagal tone, we have more emotional flexibility, better stress recovery, and calmness under pressure, while those with a low vagal tone may experience a slower recovery from stress, and are more prone to anxiety, inflammation, and emotional reactivity. 

In other words, our vagal tone is key to regulating our anxious feelings and emotions.

“If you’re in a hyper-aroused state–obsessing, doom-scrolling, feeling unsafe–your nervous system is telling you something. Listen to it,” Christine stated. “A practice that I share with my clients includes daily check-ins. Even for one minute in the morning, ask yourself, ‘What am I thinking? Feeling? Where’s the tension in my body? What do I need right now?’” This, she further explained, will help to bring awareness to the mind and body, providing a holistic view on what you need in that moment to feel safe, secure, and operate from a place of clarity, not fear.

Other regulation techniques include breathwork, sensory self-soothing, journaling, gratitude practices, meditation, and support systems–whether through therapy or beyond. 

“We can use all five senses to soothe,” Christine explained. “From smell (candles, cologne) to textured items and sounds, like playlists…using our physical senses can keep the brain engaged [and help to regulate it] without emotional triggering.”

An interesting recommendation was to make a ‘self-soothe box’ in which you create a variety of different textures that you can physically touch when feeling a wave of stress to assist in stabilizing thoughts and emotions. Think: homemade stress ball personalized to your preferences. You can do this by using a shoe box, or any type of small case in which you can glue or tape textures that feel good to the touch.

Christine also provided a list of books, linked below, that have comforted many of her clients. 

All in all, the resounding message shared was the importance of taking care of oneself, first, so you can show up as the best version of you for others. That can mean taking small steps during overwhelming times–and can also mean knowing when to take a step back and reset. As Christine shared, “The best we can be for others is sometimes the one who helps them calm down… Sometimes, small goals are the most powerful.”

Recommended books:

• Man’s Search for Meaning – Viktor Frankl

• No Mud, No Lotus: The Art of Transforming Suffering – Thich Nhat Hanh

• Getting Past Your Past – Francine Shapiro

Another recent moment of serenity in Dubrovnik, Croatia.

What else to know now:

• There is a ‘No Kings’ march occurring in cities nationwide this Saturday, June 14th to reject authoritarianism, billionaire-first politics, and the militarization of the country’s democracy. Read more on the general initiative here; NYC, details for Saturday’s march here; here are the details for the rest of the country.

• Click here for tips for preparedness, peaceful protesting, and safety via the Human Rights Campaign.

• The 2025 Primary Election is upon us; early voting in NYC is from June 14-22; Election Day is June 24th. Learn more here.

**Please note that this article is not intended as a substitute for psychotherapy or other forms of professional support. Please do not suffer alone; visit suicidepreventionlifeline.org or call 1-800-273-TALK (8255).

I remember this, I think. This is what it felt like to exist on a daily basis between 2017-2021.

Grief. Fear. Exhaustion. Anger.

These feelings blend together in my body as I listen to headlines that report on policies, philosophies, and words used by leaders that propel us further away from what I stand for as a human being, and what this country has stood for in its founding: of which, unity and equality stood paramount.

And such, as the popular saying goes, those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. It entices me to guide my feelings into action: what did we do that worked last time around? 

Memories replay: my first public outing during COVID–masked, standing six-feet-apart from the dozens of others that met in Tompkins Square Park to protest for Black lives, singing hymns as a group as we marched through the streets of East Village; hundreds gathered at Union Square–one woman silently watching speakers preach, a single tear streaming down her face as we rallied for women’s/human rights. I remember email organizing; Zoom meetings; deep conversations with friends—group chats converted from meme dumps into channels for meetings and resources.

It made me realize: in a world that oftentimes feels overwhelming and arduous and exhausting and frankly, flat out hard, strength is amplified in numbers, and together–through friends, through community—small steps can be taken that can ultimately have a lasting impact.

Now is the time to think about the events, conversations, and demonstrations you’ve gone to and shared with your community in the past; what course of action was an accelerator for change? Where, and how, did you feel like you were making the biggest difference? How can you—can we—overcome this, together?

Clarity may come one step at a time. In the meantime, see below for recommendations that inspire hope and foster community—two things the world will always need, and that will always help us through even the most challenging of times.

Buon appetito.

A rally in Union Square, NYC.

**T/W: r*pe, sexual assault

Aperitivo: To read

Saving Five: A Memoir of Hope, Amanda Nguyen

204 pages; nonfiction/memoir; published 2025

Raw; honest; and poignant; prose that will bring you to your knees—Amanda Nguyen discusses her heroes in this book, perhaps without realizing that she, herself, is one.

In a soul-shaking account of her experience getting raped at Harvard University and the aftermath over the months and years following, this eye-opening memoir not only tells the tale of one woman’s story, it tells the stories of hundreds of thousands of women who have experienced sexual assault in America—giving the reader a firsthand look at the obstacles and policies in place that have historically closed the door for survivors seeking justice. Equally packed with page-turning prose, Saving Five details Amanda’s journey into activism, which resulted in Congress’s unanimous passage of the Survivors’ Bill of Rights Act in 2016.

This book is a must-read: layered with fictional adventures through the stages of grief intertwined with the harrowing road to seeking some form of justice, this book ultimately is, as the title suggests, a book of hope; and if everyone reads it, the world would be a better and more empathetic place.

It had me from the first page.

Primit: To eat

OASES (@oasesnyc)

Chelsea, NYC; Co-Founder Sonam Sangmo

I recently attended an event at OASES, a New American restaurant with a Himalayan twist that opened last summer in New York City. Intentionally designed and inspired by Ayurveda, the space offers an all-day cafe, a small shopping bazaar, and also boasts a restaurant with cuisine curated utilizing all non-GMO oils, natural sugars, and seasonal and local produce from New York farmers.

I recommended adding OASES to the list, especially for its programming that is intended to encourage community members to gather and elevate one another. The event I recently attended not only celebrated women in conjunction with Women’s History Month, it also encouraged conversation through self confidence-boosting affirmations and exercises practiced with other attendees. I encourage you to follow them on Instagram to stay in-the-know with future community-minded events to elevate your spirit.  

Secondi: To know

The news cycle is arduous and unremitting, with so many updates per day that I would be writing around the clock to tackle all current topics of concern. Today, however, I want to shed light on abortion rights—a topic that impacts every single U.S. citizen, and particularly, the one in four women who receive an abortion by the age of 45 in this country (via Guttmacher Institute). 

It’s no news that restricting abortion access does not stop people from attaining them (read more via the World Health Organization); however, it does compromise the safety of care and disproportionately affects marginalized communities—including low-income individuals, people of color, and those facing intersecting forms of discrimination—ultimately leading to increased maternal mortality, among many other economic and health-related consequences.

Since the overturning of Roe v. Wade, abortion access continues to be a daily and fluctuating topic throughout our national landscape: in Alabama,a federal judge recently ruled that Alabama can’t prosecute those who help with out-of-state abortions–a small victory for the state, which has one of the strictest abortion bans in the country; while in South Carolina, the Supreme Court recently heard arguments focused on whether individuals may sue the state to obtain medical services from Planned Parenthood unrelated to abortion–just to name a few.

Today, however, the emphasis is on Iowa, as it’s a prime example of how rules implemented by one state can have a ripple effect across state borders and continue to impact the health and safety of our communities across our country. 

As such, in July 2024, the Iowa Supreme Court outlawed abortion after six weeks–causing women to have to look elsewhere for an abortion, including in Illinois, Nebraska, Minnesota, and Kansas. The result? Increased wait times–expect a minimum of 2-3 weeks in Minnesota and Kansas, and 3-5 weeks in Nebraska and Wisconsin; increased support needed to attain such services (i.e., for travel, lodging, childcare); and therefore, an increase in demand for funds to support such needs for lower income communities.

Thus, demand for abortion funding in Iowa and across the Midwest is vastly outpacing the funding itself. For example, practical support sending in Iowa increased 181% in the first full month following the ban; yet funding has essentially remained the same.

So, what can we do? Support funds such as the Iowa Abortion Access Fund, which helps hundreds of people from Iowa and the Quad Cities who would otherwise be unable to afford the full cost of their abortion. Not in Iowa? Look into your state’s abortion access fund organization to seek volunteer or donation opportunities. Or, as always, donate and/or volunteer to your local Planned Parenthood. Live in New York? Check out New York City Abortion Access Hub (“the Hub”) (nyc.gov/abortion) for resources and information on how to get an abortion (and see the Hub’s one-year report here).

Read more from Iowan, writer, author, and Iowa Abortion Access Fund Board Member, Lyz Lenz, here: Iowa’s abortion ban is causing a funding crisis in the Midwest.

Dolce: To enjoy

• Take a deeper look at the Hands Off! demonstrations that took place around the country (and world!) this past weekend—photos via NPR here.

• I found a copy of Dr. Nicole LePera’s How to Do the Work in my community bookstore on the Upper East Side—a serendipitous moment, as this book has been on my reading list for a while. You may be familiar with Dr. LePera from her Instagram, @the.holistic.psychologist—however, this book is a self-help must-read. Building upon her experience as a psychotherapist, the book offers insights and tools into a mind, body, and spirit connection. Complete with exercises (i.e., meditations, writing prompts, etc.) at the end of each chapter, the book has helped me to identify patterns and help to better lay a foundation for self care that works for me. I recommend it to anyone looking for inner healing.

• For those in New York City, Read the Room has announced its latest literary salon on Belonging on April 29th at 6:30pm! Expect readings by Marcy Dermansky, author of Hot Air; Santana Dempsey, reading from The One Who Loves You; Brian Gresko, The Sun Magazine; Melinda Hansen, The New York Times; and Diane Mehta, author of Happier Far. Get your tickets here.

“This is an ‘absolute beginner’ class,” he would hymn, “So first and foremost, it’s important to recognize that how you approach the drawing is just as important as drawing itself,” he’d say, and he’d guide us through three deep inhales. “Remember to breathe, have good posture, and keep a good position between yourself and the object you’re drawing.”

It got me to thinking—if the outcome of our drawing depends on how we prepare ourselves to draw–does this same principle apply to life, in general? And how am I–how are we all–approaching the things we love or the things we want in life, whether it's work, causes we believe in, our most important relationships? Are we showing up deflated, exhausted, depressed; obligated? Weighed down? Or are we arriving as our best selves—ready to love; ready to, if need be, fight?

When the news can feel overwhelming–with so much to absorb that it may cause a paralysis of where to start and how to help–perhaps a small way forward is to think about your process. How are you approaching the blank page of each new day–are you sitting up, posture straight, beginning with deep breaths, ready to put pencil to page? If not, what new habits can you establish so that when the time comes to turn on the news or take action, you’re ready to take on the challenge? Is it adjusting the podcasts you listen to; the time of day you listen to them? Is it by reaching out to community outreach organizations email by email, day by day? Or sometimes, is it by turning everything off and recharging your own social and emotional battery?

Only you know the answer to that, dear reader. But, in the spirit of the insurmountable Cecile Richards, former president of Planned Parenthood Federation of America and the Planned Parent Action Fund for over a decade, “The truth is, anything worth doing has its challenges. And, yes, fighting for what you believe in can be discouraging, defeating, and sometimes downright depressing. But it can also be powerful, inspiring, fun, and funny—and it can introduce you to people who will change your life.” 

Buon appetito. 

Said art class and one of my creations; 92NY.

Aperitivo: To read

Make Trouble: Standing Up, Speaking Out, and Finding the Courage to Lead, Cecile Richards, with Lauren Peterson

304 pages; nonfiction/memoir; published 2018

Cecile Richards lived a life of purpose. From her early years growing up in Texas under the wing of her mother, Ann Richards, seeing her turn from housewife to the Governor of Texas firsthand; to her later years (still) advocating for women’s rights as the president of Planned Parenthood Federation of America and the Planned Parenthood Action Fund for more than a decade—Cecile’s story is that of resilience, perseverance, and inspiration.

Apart from her impressive accomplishments–which range from being named as one of TIME Magazine’s 100 Most Influential People in the World (in 2011 and 2012), as well as receiving the Presidential Medal of Freedom last year, Richards worked tirelessly to champion women and our rights—including drawing to attention to the fact that one in five women have visited a Planned Parenthood health center in their lives, and co-founding Supermajority in 2019, a women’s political action group that advocates for gender equality.  In September 2023, she also launched Charley, a chatbot to help women access abortions. And–as if that isn’t enough–just this past fall, she cofounded Abortion in America, an organization dedicated to telling the stories of people whose health and lives have been affected by state abortion bans.

Cecile’s approach to life and resistance is one to take notes on. Thus, now could be an excellent time to read (or reread) her memoir, Make Trouble: Standing Up, Speaking Out, and Finding the Courage to Lead. Detailing her life from childhood to 2018, the book is a glimmer of hope as to how to persevere through challenging times, and still make changes—step by step, day by day.

Primi: To eat 

Misipasta (@misipasta)

Chef & Owner Missy Robbins (@missyarobbins) 

I was recently at an event where Chef, Restauranteur, and honestly, icon, Missy Robbins, spoke about her approach to gastronomy. She discussed how, despite not having Italian ancestry, she has an “inner nonna” that guides her—and that it certainly has, as one of her restaurants, Lilia, still is one of the toughest reservations in the city, even after years of being open (a true testament to the quality and impact of her culinary vision and talents).

 What grabbed my attention was also an emphasis on her newest spot, Misipasta—which is both a market to shop pasta and other Italian specialties, as well as an apertivo bar for cocktails and cicchetti. With an emphasis on high quality ingredients, Missy spoke of the importance of living well—and thus, eating well, and how cuisine and mental wellness go hand-in-hand.

 Food is nourishing; it’s an escape; it’s nostalgic; it’s a time machine that can, in one bite, transport us back to childhood or through continents to a café in Paris or burst, like a balloon in our minds and take us to places and tastes never before experienced. It’s utterly important, during times of such, to nourish ourselves. Take ourselves to places both nostalgic and new, and take the time to reset so that we can fully approach our lives in the present moment.

Lasagna al forno via @misipasta 

Secondi: To know

There’s so much to know–perhaps too much? Over the past few weeks, President Trump has signed what’s estimated to be over 300 executive orders. These orders, which have the force of law but can be revoked by future presidents or blocked by courts, have ranged from ending birthright citizenship, to pardons for January 6 rioters, to withdrawing from the Paris climate accord (just to name a few). He’s also restored U.S. participation in two international anti-abortion pacts, including one that cuts off U.S. family planning funds for foreign organizations if they provide or promote abortion services. 

It’s easy to feel overwhelmed and powerless when so many brash changes are occurring on a federal level that are impacting the lives of millions of people around the world. However, a good place to start can be taking a step back and thinking locally–what organizations can you join, directly in your community, that can positively impact those around you?

In my neighborhood in the Upper East Side of NYC, I’m pleased to have Four Freedoms Democratic Club–an organization that meets regularly to help advance causes that impact the 76th Assembly District of New York State. I encourage you to research the local organizations in your community that are tackling issues important to you. To get you started, here’s a list of democratic organizations in Manhattan.

To quote, once again, the impactful Cecile Richards, “When you’re fighting for justice, you lose, you lose, you lose–and then you win.”

Dolce: To enjoy

• Sometimes, there are people you meet in life that are so obviously living their passion and purpose that it blinds you. One of the most recent shining examples of this is artist Bernardo Rodriguez, whose talent (and honestly, views and philosophies of life) has absolutely no bounds. Check out his work at BernardoArts.com, or check out some of his classes, like Beginner Drawing (referenced above; click here for options), or his meditative art class, Mindful Artmaking Evening: Connecting Breath and Creativity. He’s also available for commissions.

• I’ve been so inspired to see so many writers I follow and love create their own SubStacks, including Rebecca Traister, journalist and author of powerful books such as All the Single Ladies: Unmarried Women and the Rise of an Independent Nation, Good and Mad: The Revolutionary Power of Women’s Anger, and more–follow her new SubStack here.

Having been lucky enough to live in and experience the vibrancy of the City of Angels, I’ve seen firsthand the strength of its community. The same community that has left many of us with tears in our eyes as we watch family, friends, and strangers come together and exhibit an unparalleled resiliency. It is in these actions and this togetherness that we will start picking up the pieces.

Today’s newsletter is dedicated to Los Angeles and those impacted by the fires. See below for recommendations on where to go, what to donate, and how to help–even from afar. 

Apertivo: To read

The below includes donation and volunteer opportunities, as well as resources for those impacted. 

• (to donate): support impacted individuals and families directly; click here for an encompassing list curated by GoFundMe.

• (to volunteer - local or afar): volunteer your services to restore Altadena - fill out this form to indicate how you can help; this includes in-person and remote services that range from clean-up to grief/mental health counseling, to creative services, and more.

• (to volunteer & donate): click this live list of needs and ways to help the LA community via LA Works.

• (resources, donation & volunteer): click here to view a live list of resources & aid via MALAN; this includes volunteer needs, supplies organizations are accepting, what they are providing, and more.

• (resources & donation): click here for a list of resources and donation opportunities including mutual aid, general aid, and donation opportunities for artists & art workers impacted by the fires.

• (resources & donate in person): @altadenagirls aims to restore normalcy for teenage survivors of the Eaton Fire; they provide free beauty products, clothes, and brands and are accepting donations.

• (resources): new haircare, skincare, beauty supplies, basic clothing & other basic essentials will be provided by LA Moms this Friday, January 17th from 10:30am - 5:00pm on Abbot Kinney; click here to fill out the form and for more information.

• (resources): pro bono therapy for Los Angeles wildfires

Primi: To eat 

• There are currently 47 Los Angeles county restaurants offering food and relief to fire evacuees and first responders. Click here for an all-inclusive and live list via the Los Angeles Times. 

• New York City: here is a list of restaurants you can support that are providing relief to LA. 

Secondi: To know

• The Los Angeles People’s March has been cancelled due to the wildfires. Follow @womensmarch on Instagram or visit peoplesmarch.com to start a local action or learn more.

• The L.A. Fires Have Nothing to Do With DEI; read this important journalism via Time.

• More than 12,000 personnel have been deployed to support the ongoing crisis; among those are nearly 1,000 incarcerated individuals that earn between $5.80 and $10.24 per day, plus an extra $1 per hour during emergencies–significantly lower than the starting salary for non-incarcerated firefighters. Here’s what to know (via Time).

If there’s an organization you’d like to include in the above, please reach out and the list will be updated. Sending my love to you, Los Angeles. <3