During my last summer in LA, the yearning to be Mexican became so strong I knew I had to find a way to throw a huge party. This manifested into Trakaloso, a free quinceañera-style party with mariachis, cumbias, food, beer, and everything else I remember from being a chambelán at my friends’ quinces. It was for my inner child, my friends and family, and my SoCal community. Still, more than anything, I wanted to create something for all the beautiful, resilient, queer children of immigrants. The ones who are kicked out of their home for being proudly queer. For the ones who are forced to overcome all the hurdles life throws at them, often without support. Because when only 19% of Mexican LGBTQ young people report social support from their families, according to research from The Trevor Project, a party that feels like our childhood becomes more than a night to get drunk - it can turn into a genuine need. And paired with the fact that 68% of Latino LGBTQ young people report social support from friends (The Trevor Project), this sense of community literally fills the gap family leaves.

We rented out the iconic Don Quixote ballroom in Los Angeles, set up the quince-style round tables and centerpieces, offered birria plates, and welcomed a crowd of 800 young people whose parents immigrated from all over the world, not just Mexico. Something that surprised me was how different it felt from a typical club or bar environment. Yes, it was a party filled with strangers, yet the room felt warmer than most. During the first hour, I went around asking people who came in groups to welcome people who came alone. We encouraged people to greet one another, especially if they sat at a table together, and get to know each other. A few hours in, the beauty of community began to spark here and there. People began teaching non-Latinos how to dance to cumbias; the mariachis played, and this crowd of young 20-somethings went as wild as if they were watching a DJ spin. Some tables in the back of the room became home to guys in hats cosplaying as early uncles, pounding beer after beer. The cumbias turned into a DJ spinning perreo, which transformed the ballroom into a club. During the last hour, we of course ended with karaoke, and there was no shortage of young people singing the songs that used to annoy us as kids. To this day, that Trakaloso party - the last event my social club Grownkid threw in LA before our move to NYC - remains the most beautiful and memorable goodbye I could have ever asked for.

However, something happened at the end of the night that will stick with me for the rest of my life. I had just finished singing an Alejandra Guzmán song to my mom, who was able to be there that night, dancing with me, supporting me, treasuring every moment of our last month living under the same roof. I thanked everyone for coming and played a song that reminds me of the love I hold for my mother, “Te Juro Que Te Amo” by Los Terrícolas. I sat at the edge of the stage, soaking in the beautiful night it had been, when I spotted a girl sobbing with her friend by her side. I went up to them to ask what was wrong, and the girl next to her told me her mom had just been deported - and “Te Juro Que Te Amo” was her mother’s treasured song. I’ve never had to try so hard to stop myself from breaking down completely. This was during the height of the ICE raids the Trump administration pushed onto Los Angeles, raids that separated families who have yet to reunite to this day.

That August was my last full month living under my mother’s roof. I live in NYC now, and the time I spent with my family will never be as abundant as it was when I woke up each day in the room next door, ate breakfast together, and ran errands side by side. Of course, this was my choice - and the reality is, many of our community members don’t get one. Whether it’s queer folks forced to leave toxic family situations or families forced apart, many of us at some point in our lives must find community outside of family. Trakaloso is my attempt at making it easier for people like us to find it - to be together, in community, when we need it most.

On August 9th, Trakaloso will come to NYC, and you can RSVP here. This time, as its own independent party, not under Grownkid. It felt fitting to give it its own identity. It will be a free party for ALL children of immigrants who never fit in at home. Eight hours of dancing, chatting, playing, and meeting the people of New York who might be the ones to lend you a helping hand when you need it most. I hope you will come - and stay long enough that you nap on the chairs.

It’s no surprise my life has significantly improved since I had this revelation. A little digging, and the research validated my primal urges as a healthy part of our biology rather than a product of toxic masculinity. The majority of studies find play-fighting produces adaptive or beneficial outcomes, primarily because it generates positive emotional states that mediate social bonding. It mimics aggression but strips out the intent to harm (Smith & StGeorge, 2022). Another study shows self-soothing touch and receiving a hug measurably lowered cortisol, the body’s main stress hormone (Dreisoerner et al., 2021). Physical contact + play = stress chemistry going the right direction. And this release matters, because people scoring high on emotional suppression had a 35% higher risk of death from any cause, and a 70% higher risk of cancer death, than low suppressors (Neethi et al., 2025, synthesizing Chapman et al.’s 12-year mortality study). As you can see, your situationships are literally killing you - but physically fighting them can save you and the little thing you two have going on.

Last summer, inspired by a rewatch of Scott Pilgrim, I pitched an idea to Kayla, my co-founder: “What if we made people fight their evil exes?” Her initial reaction was a reasonable doubt that it would work. Enabling violence? The optics of men beating women? The dangers of two gay men going at it full force? What if people got hurt? But as usual, when you acknowledge it’s all play, anything becomes possible. We decided our goal was to create a performance to show that conflict will always be better than ghosting. So over the next two weeks, we found a boxing gym, commentators, situationships willing to fight each other, and DJs to spin techno all night. And this is how the viral Grownkid “Fight Your Evil Situationship Boxing Rave” was born, under the idea that if you can’t find the right words, just throw a left hook.

The event consisted of a handful of couples boxing their problems out while the DJ spun in one corner of the ring and commentators sat in the other. We created signs with a giant cutout of the pair’s face, name, and attachment style that ring girls held up before each fight, while the commentators gave context on their situationship. An avoidant lesbian polycule struggling to decide if they’re moving to Bushwick, Portland, or staying in Los Angeles. An anxious woman fighting her evil communist ex-boyfriend. A “secure” gay couple wrestling to prove that doing it with your ex is microcheating because wrestling is so gay. Announcers included the iconic Irene Lee, who gave live commentary as the couples fought and interviewed them after each round’s winner was announced. At the end of the event, a massive fight between all the couples broke out, before an announcer stopped it to tell 700 blood-hungry young people that ghosting is never the answer, and healthy conflict is key to a happy life.

I’d like to point out that these fights were playful. Both parties mutually consented to get on stage, have a playful fight, and go home on friendly terms. This wouldn’t work if it were real violence. And trust me, some people messaged us thinking they’d get a chance at non-play fighting with their partner, which is never okay. It goes without saying: if you feel endangered or are experiencing physical abuse, please call a national hotline. Abuse in any type of relationship is never okay, and help is available.

This is one of my favorite events I’ve done under Grownkid, and I can’t wait for the day we bring it to NYC. I can only imagine the situationships the people here are getting themselves into. If you can help me bring it to life in the city, shoot me a message and let’s create something special.

Between the boxing rave’s success and our viral “wrestling speed dating” and “gym bros benching twinks n dolls” events, it’s clear young people are thirsting for spaces where touch, physicality, and mutual respect are encouraged. We’ve spent a good chunk of the last decade getting told to be scared of each other, to be the one who cares less, that apathy is maturity - detachment, protection. But I’ve always rejected that. I subscribe to the Grownkid philosophy that the meaning of life is play. Because play grows confidence, confidence creates care, and care sustains community. So please: have the courage to communicate, to be vulnerable, to play. It makes life better.

A study published in the British Medical Journal analysed the results of 218 unique studies to identify which kind of exercise best treats major depressive disorder, either alongside or instead of prescription antidepressants, psychotherapy, and other treatments. Out of 14,170 total participants, researchers found that all exercise led to moderate improvements in depression symptoms. Results showed that walking, running, strength training, yoga, and mixed aerobics produced results as effective as cognitive behavioral therapy, or CBT, a common treatment for depression. Dancing beat all other forms of exercise, consistently improving the symptoms of depression. Though the study does note that the sample size for this type of exercise was smaller. “Based on our findings, dance appears to be a promising treatment for depression, with large effects found compared with other interventions in our review. But the small number of studies, low number of participants, and biases in the study designs prohibits us from recommending dance more strongly.” But hey, I’ll take it.

My nightlife debut happened when I turned 18, at one of those Los Angeles clubs where you’re not quite dancing but more so jumping up and down with your friends while singing the few recognizable lyrics of a throwback pop setlist. Year by year, as my confidence grew, so did my desire for fresh sounds. When the gates of the underground truly opened up to me at 21, I ran through all of them, untethered by the fear of a questionable ID. Often solo, occasionally with friends, I ventured into the Los Angeles forest for a DIY rave with bright LED bulbs hanging from massive pine trees, their leaves shaking from a singular speaker on a wobbly stand blasting happycore until dawn. Andres Rigal’s Simon Says party and its extravagant, fashionable crowd - young and old - felt like what I imagined an 80s disco NYC club kid party to be. A one-bedroom apartment with blackout windows and a jock-or-naked-only dress code exposed me to many things, but most memorably, the tribal house sub-genre of house music. I could go on about the expansive and incredibly creative warehouse, club, and house party culture Los Angeles is filled with, but my favorite night out was a solo adventure to see techno-viking Rødhåd close out a WORK LA set on the outskirts of DTLA.

I drove out from Orange County to Los Angeles at 11 PM, before the coziness of home could kick in. Killed time at a friend’s house before walking to WeHo to feel a little less alone in a sleepy city. At 2 AM I headed to the outskirts, trekking through various homeless encampments before finally arriving at the WORK warehouse. Inside, I found at least 500 people pulsing in perfect sync. Naturally, I joined the hive mind, entered the collective trance, and began pulsing with the crowd, slowly gliding toward the front. At the front is where I encountered the source of the hypnosis. A ginger viking with the long orange beard to show for it, smoking a cigarette while pumping the most incredible techno I’d ever heard through a very serious sound system. I stayed beating with the hive until sunrise, closed out by Levon Vincent’s glorious 4 AM rush. That night, fueled only by an energy drink, I discovered for the first time the power of electronic dance music.

19 to 21 was a rough age. I struggled with loneliness, anxiety about my future, and a loss of purpose. I felt lost and isolated, and even though an expansive city like Los Angeles was only 35 minutes north, I struggled to find my community. I longed for the college experience of pregaming with friends before hitting party after party, chatting with old friends, fresh faces, and previous flings. At first the club seemed like a reasonable solution, but after a few attempts, I quickly realized most of those crowds weren’t quite my scene. To be fair, I’m an introvert and, ironically enough given my socially active career, it takes a lot to get me to socialize. Bars didn’t cut it for me either - too much talking. When I entered the underground, I was blown away by the fact that talking wasn’t expected; in fact, it was discouraged on the dancefloor of any decent party. This is when things clicked for me. A place where I could be surrounded by people, away from the isolation of my room, with no expectation of socializing and only one rule: dance. I started with a head nod, then a lil two-step, and soon enough I was stomping left and right, pulsating my chest in and out, shaking my hair from side to side, entering a state of pure release and relaxation - absorbing the good energy of the music while releasing the heaviness inside my heart. I can admit I don’t know how to move and I dance weird, but I no longer mind that, because I realized it doesn’t matter to anyone.

Over the next year, from LA and up until my move to NYC, I accidentally started making friends with the other weird dancers - the ones hugging the speakers who, like me, seemed to not want to be bothered. We found each other in the restrooms, during small moments of calm and openness. I began going out with friends, old and new, who also spent an equal and unfortunate amount of time inside their heads. Overthinkers who have no problem naming their emotions, but are often unable to actually feel them. We found peace and solidarity on the dancefloor through our DIY version of somatic therapy, a type of therapy that focuses on the mind-body connection, helping you feel, process, and release emotions or trauma stored as physical sensations. To us - as with millions worldwide - dance is release, and the dancefloor is sacred.

Not only is dance healing, but I can't end without acknowledging that raves exist to offer a safe haven for Black and queer people looking for a space to exist without labels or judgment. Rave culture has a long, rich, and complex history, and learning about it has only made me fall deeper in love with the music, the people, and the spaces. I encourage you to do the same - make an effort to learn about the history of electronic dance music, from techno to house, and the importance of rave culture to marginalized communities. Upholding the values and history that dancefloors were founded on is what makes for a better experience for all of us.

I started Grownkid to help other lonely young people find community through fun, low-pressure, and accessible play-based events, and dance is a perfect example of that. Though we have yet to host a proper dance party, I hope to do one eventually. In April, we're starting with our Electronic LAN Party, mixing video games in one room and a rave in the other. My ultimate goal, however, would be to shake up the 18+ party scene and make electronic dance music more accessible to younger ravers. We all know the reputation 18+ parties have, but it doesn't need to be like that. Unfortunately, many greedy promoters abandon and starve this young demographic of good music because it simply isn't profitable without a bar. That annoys me. Music is for everyone, not for profit - but I digress.

I came across dance as an emotional support crutch by accident, and although it has its flaws, I like to use the research to justify spending all my leftover money on partying - if you can even call it that. It’s a version of wellness that actually makes me feel something deeper. I apologize to my previous therapists. All I have to say is dance is powerful, our ancestors knew it, and you don’t need to know the research to believe it. So please, go dance, be alive, stomp, sway, nod - whatever it is you need to release, do it on the dancefloor. Just please, don’t stop moving, let go, let your mind float to the hive, and use electronic dance music to make the pain go away.

In the last week, the internet has fallen in love with Alysa Liu’s story, from burnt-out prodigy to Olympic champion, seemingly the result of her dissolution of a results-oriented mindset and her embrace of a play-based one that led her to her first Olympic gold medal. If you haven’t already, watch her performance. You will notice something often unseen in elite-tier competitions: a completely relaxed, gleaming figure skater gliding through the ice during a performance filled with crushing expectations with an attitude that can only be described as playful. Immediately post-match, unknown to her that she was about to win her first gold medal, you see her step away from the rink beaming with joy, smiling ear to ear, and infecting an entire stadium with an unshakable glee. The result didn’t matter to her; it was the process and the simple acts of fun, performance, and play that brought her joy. What the world and millions of young people saw this week in Alysa Liu was the power of play, and I get the sense this is the start of a new counterculture bubbling.

From a psychological and neuroscience perspective, play is a voluntary, intrinsically motivated activity where the process takes priority over the outcome, and it is one of the most critical mechanisms through which the developing brain wires itself for social competence, emotional regulation, creativity, and cognitive flexibility. The defining characteristic that separates play from non-play is the presence of safety, voluntary participation, and the absence of a fixed outcome - once an activity becomes obligatory or purely goal-oriented, the brain processes it differently. In adulthood, the need for play doesn’t disappear but is often suppressed, and its decline is increasingly associated with burnout, rigid thinking, and social isolation (Gray, Free to Learn, 2013).

It is no surprise that a generation that spent its entire adolescence watching every facet of society turn code red, gave birth to looksmaxxers, doomers, and nonchalant culture. However, the pendulum is slowly swinging back; the oldest of Gen Z are now elected officials, executives, and decision-makers. I get the growing sense that many of the younger Gen Z, combined with the eldest of Gen Alpha - who are now 16 - feel the need to adapt their attitude to survive an even greater wave of social, political, and technological disruption. It has been a decade since alt-right movements found their audience, six years since COVID disrupted day-to-day life, and four years since AI came into the mainstream. With it, a growing desire to take control of our future is building, and there is an underlying feeling that it will require an attitude filled with a rebellious spirit.

I’ve spent the last year going all in on the idea that play is the countercultural movement needed to help Gen Z and Gen Alpha deal with an increasingly unpredictable world. As a result, I created Grownkid, a social club for 18-24-year-olds helping make young adulthood less lonely through community and weekly play-based gatherings. Our slogan, “The Meaning of Life Is Play,” is a philosophy that not only acknowledges the power of play developmentally but also the attitude we bring to life. A playful attitude, as Grownkid believes, encourages breaking out of social expectations placed on us, celebrates caring boldly and openly, and enables us to have the courage to live a life of our own. In short, we believe play unlocks confidence, confidence enables care, and care sustains community.

The play movement is significant not just in our day-to-day attitude but also in how our communities operate. The media’s obsession with run clubs, phone-free spaces, and members-only clubs has birthed a slew of new IRL communities to join. However, as ill-intentioned individuals seek to capitalize on the trend through high ticket prices, low-effort programming, and elite membership tiers, it’s only natural that audiences will begin to question what we’re actually supposed to be doing at these “community events” - and surely another $15 entry ticket to access vendors isn’t the answer we were hoping for.

The most successful communities will embrace play-based gatherings in unexpected ways. In a society so desperately craving permission to connect, play is the forgotten art with the potential to lead to transformative experiences. Grownkid has polled over 2,000 young people across LA and NYC on what they wish social events improved - it’s no surprise that “more opportunities for connection” was the overwhelming response. Many of the most successful communities today - accidentally or intentionally - already embrace play in their programming. Whether it’s Little Tokyo Table Tennis in the heart of Los Angeles using weekly ping-pong meetups to bring together a fashion-centric community of youth, the Gladiators of NYC who invite people to watch and participate in medieval-style battles, or singer Faye Webster’s Faye Webster Invitational, holding tennis and chess tournaments for her fans across the country, the time has never been better to ask more of our communities, whether that’s how we gather, why we gather, or what we do when gathered.

Play-based events allow for greater confidence because of the natural egolessness that engaging in play brings to light. It serves as a literal rewiring of the brain; whether through roleplay or genuine attempts, play forces you out of your own identity and gives permission to step into the new, even if it’s just for that one activity. Since the brain can’t tell the difference between performance and reality, those who engage in play might find themselves adopting the traits they were only putting on for the “play” of it all. Often, this leads to transformative experiences and benefits that extend beyond the course of the gathering.

As seen with Alysa, a playful attitude will begin as a counterculture to nonchalance before eventually going mainstream and inspiring younger generations. Playfulness is an act of rebellion against social norms, expectations, and discourse that we’re unwillingly placed under. Playfulness is an attitude that encourages us to think about the risks we want to take, the attitude we show towards others, and the life we actually want to live. To see a young person self-actualize and free herself from societal expectations, to do things on her own terms, and win by doing so - it’s invigorating. In hindsight, it will be obvious that for millions of youth, the meaning of life is play.

The dancefloor, traditionally a space for connection and community among youth, no longer seems to be enough for increasingly sober audiences. This, alongside the proliferation of cameras and non-consensual recording in intimate spaces, has brought dancing to a halt in nightlife. While the more underground dancefloors - protected by social manifestos and strict door policies - continue to be an important source of release for many youth, casual club-goers have migrated into the day.

Slop events are the result of the ‘beastification’ of gathering, where novel concepts, interactive experiences, and the potential for online virality take priority in the planning process. Many have originated in NYC, such as “Lesbian Oil Wrestling” by @Ziosaaa in Bushwick, or the infamous “Timothée Chalamet look-alike contest” and John Chungus “Touching Grass” meetups by @Anthpo. The success of both makes it clear that audiences demand to be involved and told what to do, not just be given the opportunity for release through the dancefloor.

It makes sense. The iPhone took concert audiences from a wave of lighter flames into a sea of phones. The rise of short-form content feeds changed how musicians present their songs to the world, favoring short choruses over long progressions. And now, social algorithms influence why we gather, with attendance earned not by the quality of the performers or sound system, but by the opportunity for interaction. Youth no longer want to be just consumers of content but rather part of the creation process itself, going offline to have a reason to enjoy the online again.

This is an overall positive outcome. Young people are facing record unemployment and dealing with a loneliness epidemic, which leaves the cover fee for a club as a hard sell against the often-free slop events.

There’s a formula to these: a badly designed flyer, an outrageous concept, and vague location details with no need to RSVP (and if there is, it’s definitely on Partiful). The DIY nature is what makes them so appealing to youth who grew up digitally native and crave the sense of adventure that their iPads couldn’t provide growing up. And as holds universally true across mainstream media, prediction markets, and YouTube videos: a good title is all you need.

With slop events, both sides win. Creators get a steady stream of moments to turn into long-form content and spread through clips, and attendees get to help create it while connecting with their communities. It’s not just IRL creators organizing events, either; it’s also fandoms, niche-interest groups, and hobbyists looking to indulge in the offline. Slop events ultimately allow for a more diverse, inclusive, and unique social scene for modern youth. Simple concepts with minimal costs that often use urban spaces as free-to-use venues shift the power from centralized clubs and nightlife and put it in the hands of those looking to connect on their own terms.

This evolution in how and why we gather is a step in the right direction; however, it neglects the number one rule of community: consistency.

While it seems like these events are everywhere, actually tracking them down proves difficult and leaves you at the mercy of the algorithm. The flyers might hit your explore page long after they’ve passed, and organizers tend to be individuals having fun rather than a reliable organization, meaning simply following a page isn’t an option. That’s part of the allure of these events. You either catch them, or you don’t. But considering the point is community, not just internet clout, it can be frustrating not having a way to connect more meaningfully with the people that remain after the content has been filmed and footage sent off for editing.

By throwing consistent events under Grownkid, I aim to create a place where, little by little, week after week, interactions go from one-offs with strangers into memories with familiar faces.

So while our mission is to give young people a consistent space for connection, our true marker of success is if they branch off and begin hosting their own events, learning how to form community in their unique way. The good thing is there’s no pressure for it to go viral, which is why simply learning the skills to throw a good dinner party, movie night, or group outing is a great way to guarantee yourself a healthy social life as you age.

As I said, community is ritual, and if slop events are what will get young people to gather IRL again, then that’s more reason to love them.

There’s a drawer somewhere in my childhood home, filled with old iPhones, digicams that may or may not work, and a collection of CDs, tapes, and USB sticks containing memories of my early childhood. Every year, usually around Christmas, my family and I will dig through this drawer and spend the evening watching hours of home video in the living room. Most of the videos are boring and uneventful. Someone awkwardly filming people eating at a family party, drunken conversations no one remembers, or little me sitting on a curb, rambling to the camera. Whenever I watch it, I get the sense that there is something different about it. It does not attempt to engage me, the audience, and ignores the existence of any future one as well, choosing instead to focus on whoever is in front of the lens. For my mother, the one responsible for these clips, it is clear there was no algorithm to subconsciously adhere to; intuitively, she engaged in a human-centered documentation of life. Although not optimized for viewer retention, I love watching these videos of my friends and family. It brings great comfort to know that someone thought to point a camera at a five-year-old version of me. I still think about these evenings fondly, looking forward to the day I, too, will have a secret memory drawer to pull from.

This drawer concept stuck with me, and those nostalgia-filled nights were the catalyst for my obsession with documentation. It began in middle school, when for a whole year, I secretly preserved mundane conversations through the voice memo app on my phone. In high school, I convinced my friend group to record a weekly podcast that documented our coming-of-age for five continuous years. When I entered my 20s, I created yet another podcast, this time sitting down with friends & loose acquaintances for thirty minutes at a time, asking them for their perspective on life’s universal emotions. At times, my obsession with documentation felt like somewhat of a mystery. Was it because I was terrified of forgetting my life? Perhaps I was bracing for something, and comforting a future self by preserving memories to watch on a rainy day, or to remember friends whose paths have crossed and diverged. Or not, maybe it’s simply something to watch on a distant Christmas evening.

A few weeks ago, I ran into one of my acquaintances, Yishen, whom I had previously asked to be a guest for my podcast about life’s issues. Two years had passed since we recorded his episode - he was twenty at the time - and he admitted that only the week prior had he actually listened to the episode. A girl he had been seeing found the episode by accident and asked him about it. When Yishen listened to it, he felt worlds apart from that person. Though he found him corny, he looked upon him with a gentleness that acknowledged the growth he was about to experience. He thanked me for giving him the chance to capture his past self and left. This encounter was proof that, if given the opportunity, people will not only be happy for the spotlight in the moment, but thankful for the preservation of their past selves in the future - and, importantly, this reflection is more often than not sparked by a lovely person taking an interest in you, eager to learn more.

However, in an age where content is abundant, it can be difficult to remain motivated to record and preserve memories that are not being put to work on the platforms. I was no exception, given that I, too, was doubting the usefulness of these videos and voice memos, since I had not watched or listened to any of them. However, life has a funny way of keeping you on the right track, persistent with its clues to guide you. Running into Yishen was a gentle reminder; unfortunately, the harsh one was the loss of my close friend.

My memory drawer stood no chance against loss nor the cycle of grief. I found myself scrolling through the 69,845 photos on my phone, searching for memories of my friend that the facial recognition search filter might’ve missed. I refused to believe that after years of friendship and countless days together, I had only 572 photos and videos to show for it. I went through it all; mostly blurry photos, 10-second-long videos, and candid photos that look good on Instagram, but provide no hint of his personality. I held my finger down on each image, absorbing each hidden moment it revealed like a drop of water on cracked lips. I scrolled top to bottom, bottom to top, over and over again, eager for my friend to reveal his inner self to me once more–the way he did when we were together. The inside jokes and odd habits that he trusted me to hold without judgment. But nothing. Only content to scroll past.

I’ve accepted that my obsession with documentation was born from a scarcity mindset - a fear of forgetting, of being forgotten, of failing to appreciate a moment’s sweetness - recently, however, I’ve given it new meaning. What I seek is not to spend my life living behind a camera, eager to capture every moment, but rather to balance this obsession by focusing on the more meaningful bits, poking around until I find the little secrets that my friends hold in the crevices no one thought to look in. Some of these, such as inside jokes, live openly in the room. Others are harder to discover, like the unique things we see in a clear blue sky or the wishes we make upon a candle’s fire. But are these secrets, or rather simply, things no one had thought to ask about before?

Connections will come and go, sometimes by choice and other times torn from us – before we’re ready to let go – and it isn’t until loss comes around that we realize how little energy we put into truly capturing the people we treasure most. Old habits die hard, but I now spend more time filling memory cards with secrets rather than content, intentionally ignoring the algorithm’s thirst for content and choosing to capture the beauty of the people in my life instead.