But I am choosing a different speed.
I am choosing resting, celebration, and reflection.

Rest

“Sometimes you need to pause. The world will wait.”

This December, I allow myself to rest—not because I have earned it, but because I need and want it.
And earning it has nothing to do with living.

I allow rest to nurture me.
I allow myself to follow the rhythm of nature.
Just as the trees shed their leaves and the soft-furred beings curl into the dark, I respect my own wintering.

I used to think rest was the absence of doing.
Now I know: rest is the presence of healing.

Celebrate

“Life should not only be lived, it should be celebrated.”

I allow myself to celebrate not just the results, but the journey itself.

I celebrate today.
I celebrate this moment with a tender baby in my arms, feeling the weight and warmth of her life against mine.
I celebrate the messy, imperfect process of figuring life out.

I take a pause.
I breathe everything in—the joy, the exhaustion, the wonder.
And I make the only prayer that matters:

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Reflect

“Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.”

This year, I reflect differently.
Not counting my trophies, not listing the undones.
Instead, I allow myself the time and space to search deep within.
I allow myself to look into my own heart with curiosity and without judgment.

I am trying to simply see me.

I look at myself in the mirror, as if for the first time.

I am 37 years old.
I see the grey hair starting to thread through the black.
I see eyes that carry weight and kindness, and the faint shadows left behind by sleepless nights.
I see the one-sided dimple that gives way for playfulness—a reminder that things don’t need to be symmetrical to be beautiful.

I see lines on my skin that are deeper now than in my youth, like souvenirs from life.
I see a strong and healthy body that just brought a beautiful life into the world.
And inside, a tender heart, a sharp mind, and a bright soul.

I take a deep breath in. And I say,
“Hey you.
Thank you for this beautiful life.
Thank you for being courageous and kind.
Thank you for being exactly who you are.”

Softness is my true strength.
I like to take things slow.
I love to reflect deeply and feel deeply.
I am learning to live and to love.

I am learning to look at myself without the labels I wear so tightly.
I am not just “Mother.” “Wife.” “Businesswoman.” “Writer.”
The essence of me is something quieter.
Something purer.
Free.
Unconstrained.

And this December, that is who I want to meet.
Not the woman other people perceive, but the one I see.
Not the woman who does, but the woman who simply is.

Shall we rest, celebrate and reflect?

A Note of Gratitude

To everyone who reads and feels with me, I want to offer my deepest gratitude.
Life feels less alone with you in it.
Life feels so much more wonderful with you in it.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

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But really, I am just really really glad that you are here with me.

The pain spreads from my heart to my gut, tightens my throat, and settles as a dull throb behind my eyes.

Grief runs the tap of my tears.
It keeps coming.
Warm, sharp, relentless.
I never knew tears could cut so deep.

In the past, I would have rushed to stop the flow.
I would have looked for the bandage, the solution, the ultimatum, the “worst-case scenario” planning.
I would have focused on assigning blame to make sense of the hurt.

But this time, I want to heal differently.
I don’t want an easy fix.
I am going to feel it out without demanding answers.

It’s not “Now What?”
It’s just “Now.”

I am going to stay here.
Naked. Bare.
Without a plan.
But whole.

Have you ever been unexpectedly rescued by something larger than yourself?

Many of us have known this grace.
Meeting the right person just when you were about to shatter into pieces.
Hearing the one sentence you needed to survive.
Or simply being embraced, unconditionally, by nature.

I can name a few such moments.
But the one that moved me most happened in Hawaii, twelve years ago.

I was in a bad place.
I was working 130 hours a week in a high-stress environment, absorbing verbal abuse from my team leader every single day.
I was too young to know how to protect myself.
I shrank. I wilted.
I faded with each passing day until I finished the project.

Then, I did something unexpected.
I booked a ticket on a whim, heeding a call I couldn’t name but couldn’t ignore.
I just knew I had to go.

I landed physically exhausted, mentally numbed, and emotionally shattered.
And yet, the day after I arrived, I went skydiving.

Extreme sports have nothing to do with who I am.
I don’t even ride rollercoasters.
I’m not afraid of heights, but I am terrified of losing gravity—of losing control.

But I went alone.
The others on the plane were buzzing with excitement or nerves.
I was awfully quiet.

The instructor, holding a camera to record the “happy memory,” asked me, “Why do you want to jump?”

I looked at him, calm and hollow, and replied: “I just want to know what it feels like… to want to live.”

Two minutes later, I closed my eyes and fell from the sky.

And yes, it was wonderful to remember the desire to live.
But it was even more exhilarating to simply feel alive.

That jump didn’t fix me.
But it cracked me open.
It shattered the hard, numb shell I had been living in for so long.

Later that day, under the golden light of sunset, I stepped into the ocean.
I waded in until my feet left the sand, surrendering my weight entirely to the water.
It was surreal.

The water was a warm, silken blanket, wrapping around my shoulders, heavy and holding. It muffled the noise of the world.

I turned my head to look at the far left of the horizon; I could not see an end.
I turned my head to the far right; I could not see an end there, either.

In that moment, I felt so small.
And yet, so warmly held.
Held by something immense, loving, and… forgiving.

The waves kept crashing, washing over my skin.
And inside, the sadness and grief kept crashing, too.
So I tried to be like the ocean.
I let the waves come. I let them go.
I let the tears come. I let them go.

My eyes ached and my heart hurt.
But waves heal, don’t they?
The salt water slowly wrinkled my skin and began to smooth out my soul.

And then, I heard the ocean whisper to me:

“Lynn, it is going to be okay.”

That day, I understood something profound.
I didn’t need to solve my life.
Healing was possible.
And I was going to be okay.

The ocean healed me.

I needed the fall to wake me up, but I needed the water to put me back together.

Gravity and buoyancy, two opposite forces working beautifully together to save me.

That night was New Year’s Eve.
I didn’t go to a party.
I didn’t count down.
I went straight to bed.

I was so tired.
But for the first time in a long time, I was healing.

Since then, I have carried that ocean inside of me.

These past weeks, I have been wounded deeply by life again.
But this time, I know where to go.
I walk along the river every day.
I listen to the sound of the water.
I let the pain come, and I let it go.

I try not to fix.
I try not to blame.
I try to simply be in the present, no matter how hard the current is.

I trust the water.

And I know, eventually, it is going to be okay.

If this touches your heart, share it, or leave a comment.

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I’ve been meditating on the idea of recreating my dreams.

The culture tells us to find the “thing” we’re passionate about and stick with it forever.
But sometimes, we outgrow our dreams.

It’s not that there’s anything wrong with us.
It’s not that there’s anything wrong with the dream.
It’s just that we’ve outgrown it, like those tiny newborn shoes my daughter can no longer fit into.

Can we give ourselves permission to outgrow our once-much-desired dreams?
Can we offer the old dream our love and gratitude and say,
“Thank you for taking me here. This place has been wonderful. Now, I think it’s time for me to travel again.”

Can we bring a little more lightness to the way we travel through life?

We must treat our past with respect, even when it no longer serves us.
Otherwise, it cries out like an abandoned child.
Why wouldn’t it?

These days, when I try to imagine my new dream, I can feel my old self creeping up behind me, breathing warm air at my ear and whispering,
”Danger, danger, danger… This is crazy!”

I take a deep breath and offer compassion.
Of course it feels dangerous.
Because I want to go to places we’ve never been.
Unfamiliar. Unpredictable. Uncontrollable.

Your old self can’t help but sound the alarm:
Danger! Danger! Danger!

But that’s how you know you’re standing at the edge of the world—
your old world.
Go any further, and it’s road not mapped.

I’ve been sitting at the edge of the world for a long time.
I’ve stretched my neck to peer as far as I can.
I’ve thrown a few stones, just to hear what kind of sound the new road might make.

But each time I’m about to set sail, the fear and doubt begin their chorus:
This is dangerous.
You have no experience.
You’re too young.
You’re too old.
You’re too damaged to be that.
You’re not damaged enough to claim that.
You haven’t finished your triumph in this world—what makes you think you can in another?
You’re running away.
This is lunatic.
Outrageous.
Don’t. Please, don’t.
Please—in the name of love.

I’ve sat here long enough to try everything:
to push it away, to shut it down, to talk it out, to agree with it, to please it, to comfort it.
Nothing really works.

But I know two things are true.
One, a part of me is terrified.
And two, I have to take this step.
There’s no way to silence any of it.

The only way is to accept it.

I accept that my old dream does not want to die.
I accept that my new dream needs honouring.

They are both here.
And I trust I can hold both.

I can hold the pain, the fear, the grief, the nervousness, the excitement, the pride, and the joy.
I sit in my center and allow it all.

“Hey, I’m not leaving anyone behind,”
I say gently to the part of me that’s afraid of being abandoned.
“You’re coming with me.
You just don’t need to steer anymore.
You’ve been steering for so long. Thank you.
I know you’re tired.
I can feel the exhaustion and pain in your tears.
Come with us this time, as a passenger. And…enjoy, see if you can.”

“Will you come with me?”
“Will you trust me?”

To my surprise—though a part of me already knew—
I felt a gentle, hesitant nod.

“And you know,” I whisper,
“we can always come back, if we miss this place.”

Her shoulders drop.
I turn my gaze toward the world of the Unknown.

Unlike in the movies, I’m not going to just cruise away.
The real world is more iterative.

You move forward a little, then get washed back a bit more.
You may be full of energy today, and not feel as adventurous tomorrow.

It’s not linear.
Life isn’t.

But it is alive, tender, and full of wonder.
Yes, it is.

Shall we travel?

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“Humans are natural creators. When we consume all day without creating, we get depressed.”

There’s so much truth in that.
But I think it’s only half the truth.

In this digital age, most of us are victims of instant gratification: the dopamine rush from reels, on-demand entertainment, immediate answers to every thought. Sometimes we find ourselves over-consuming, trapped in the loop of stimulation.
The guilt, shame, and withdrawal that follow only lead to…more consuming.

Unlike plants—pure creators through photosynthesis, who simply bask in sunlight and make food for themselves—humans are omnivores.
We must take from plants or animals in order to live.
So perhaps the question isn’t whether we consume, but how we consume.
How do we take with respect?
How do we take only what we need, without disturbing the balance around us,
or within us?

Consumption itself isn’t evil.
It’s part of our role in the ecosystem.
But when we overconsume, the balance—in the field and in ourselves—tips off course.

So, why do we create?

Not everyone who loves writing wants to become a full-time writer.
Children draw, dance, sing, create freely, playfully, without the burden of “success.”
Creation, in its purest form, is joy.

It’s our intrinsic need to express, to bring something to life.
I like to think of it as our most ancient dance with the Unknown:
to bring forth something that did not exist before, often without knowing exactly what it will become.
We may have a vague idea, but something magical moves with us:
as the pen glides across the page,
as paint meets canvas,
as we stretch our limbs into air.

We create as we go.
There is freedom, improvisation, and mystery in the act of creation.
It lifts us from the mundane and carries us to the sacred.
For a moment, we are larger than ourselves—no longer confined to body or thought.
We are connected to something vast, alive, and wordless.
That, I think, is transcendence.

So why do I write?

Honestly, I don’t know.
But something calls me forth.
And it keeps me sane.

There are days I don’t know what to write.
Days I feel I can’t write.
And yet, somehow, I find myself sitting before my laptop again and again.
And I write.
I keep writing.

Yes, it brings me joy.
It’s wonderful to create, to express, to connect.
But more than that, I’m simply answering a question from the Unknown, its quiet invitation:

“Will you write?”

“Yes,” I whisper. “Yes, I will.”

And what’s the point of it all?

I don’t know.

What’s the point of listening to a beautiful song?
Of keeping a home tidy?
Babies won’t remember the first three years. What’s the point of all the things we do together?
Dogs leave us too soon. What’s the point of loving them so deeply?
We come to this world and we leave one day. What’s the point of anything?

Perhaps over-analyzing is the trap.
We think if we can just solve life, it will be okay.
But the truth lives in living itself,
in the rawness of the moment,
in the discomfort of knowing we’ll lose it,
in the fragile beauty of what never lasts.

We say we can’t have it all.
But what is “all”?
When we’re on one end, we fear the other.
When we have it, we fear losing it.
What really stops us from enjoying the present is our resistance to the wholeness of “all”: the happiness with its trace of tenderness.
Hold both,
and you already have it all.

When we stop trying to think our way through life and simply be,
we glimpse the infinite moment of now.

The point is life itself.
The point is love itself.

Maybe the meaning of life is life.
And we can stop trying to earn our place in it, because we are already here.
We already belong.

So…what’s the meaning of creation?

Creation is the meaning.
I may not understand it,
I may not be able to explain it,
but something keeps calling me forward.
And I choose to heed its call.

In doing so, I transcend fear, smallness, the constant planning and striving—
and I simply be.
Dancing in this moment with the Unknown.

I don’t know where it will lead.
But I love it.

And so, I keep writing.

Why do you create?

If this touches your heart, share it, or leave a comment.

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“One of the misconceptions young poets have is thinking,
‘All I have to do is find the core part of me that knows what to say, and I’ll speak from that center.’
But it’s almost the opposite.
You must find the core part of yourself that does not yet know what to say.
That is the part that will write good poetry.
That is…

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But behind each desire lives something strangely terrifying.
It tightens our stomach and weakens our knees.
It hollows us out, carves a void inside.
It pulls us in, makes us small—so small that we eventually vanish…

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I once heard someone say, “In the history of the phrase ‘Calm down!’ being said, no one has ever calmed down because of it.”

It’s funny because it’s true.
When we’re overloaded, we’re at our most primal and vulnerable.
Our bodies slip back into fight-or-flight be…

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Getting sick is the perfect time to practice surrender.
It is also the hardes…

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If you love me, you’d know what I want. You’d remember my favorite food, the music I love, the day w…

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During this time, people are motivated in ways they never were before: some quit old habits, some learn new skills, all to support the life they are nurturing.
For me, the change that surprised me most, though, was cooking.

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O.N.E. offers a gentle weekly pause to observe, explore, and nurture.
3 minutes of stillness and spaciousness before the week unfolds.

One Observation

At a concert once, I noticed how the audience held their breath in the rests between notes.
It wasn’t only the music that moved us.
It was the pause that gave the melody its shape.

Life, too, is composed of p…

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One Observation

“Not everything you do or try will work out. Some of the dreams are carrier dreams.”

In this new phase of motherhood, I’ve begun trying many new things.
Some out of curiosity. Others from old creative longings left unfulfilled

Doing something just for…

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This week is about walking through the hard minutes, one square at a time.

Being a new mother can feel all-consuming.
Sometimes—even when I give everything I have—it still feels like I’m falling short.

For someone who is highly sensitive, the challenges intensify.
Sleep deprivation cuts deeper, and noise isn’t just noise.
I…

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I believe we all have a doorway into our deepest selves, a quiet inner knowing.
Some are small—daily rituals, tiny acts of care.
Some are earth-shaking—events that uproot us, demanding we begin again.

Through these doorways, we don’t just think about the meaning of life;
we taste it, we live it.
We lift our heads from the everyday and glimpse…

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I’ve kept my Substack private; only a few people know I’m writing.

Last week, a friend asked, “What do you write about?”

I said, “About building a life that won’t fit in pigeonholes. My journey from logic to magic, from woman to mother, reclaiming childhood dreams. It’s my journal on what it means to be fully human.”

She raised her eyebrows.…

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I’ve been practicing Acceptance, accepting the good ones, the bad ones, the not-so-pretty ones, and the achey ones.

I imagine each emotion as a shade of color.
If I want to be an artist, a creator living in a colorful world, I need all the colors.
Nothing excluded.

But it’s never easy.
After years of practice, I recently discovered something n…

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We all have the natural ability to appreciate beauty.
It lives in us, unlearned.

Each evening, walking along the Thames with five-month-old Zoe, I see people pause—caught by the sky.
The wild sunset, dancing clouds, colorful brushstrokes of light behind shadow.
Strangers stand still, as if summoned by something ancient.
Held by the light.
Not …

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A few weeks ago, Zoe—my five-month-old daughter—started recognizing faces from a distance.
These days, nestled against my chest in the baby carrier, she gazes at the baby in the mirror as we ride the elevator.
Sometimes she giggles.
Other times, her gaze is steady, curious.
I don’t think she understands the concept of self just yet.
Still, I…

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We live in an over-acting world.
Everything is about doing—waking, packing, working, scrolling.
Even the quiet things like sleeping, resting, surrendering get framed as to-dos.
Ideally, things to do well.

But here’s the strange thing:
Surrender is a verb, but it’s not something you do.
Rest is a verb, but it’s not about effort.
Sleep is a verb, …

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I often imagine people as different kinds of plants.
Some need more sun; others thrive in shade.
Some prefer acidic soil; others flourish in sand.
We all need nourishment, but what that looks like varies widely.

Sensitivity works much the same way.
Some people feel more deeply and take longer to process the world around them.

Tom Boyce, a prof…

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