“I burnt my tongue.” Jasmine sipped her non-jasmine tea.

Many questions rose from this simple act.

“Why do I crave something instant when I know the outcome?” We dove deeper.

We live in a world of instant gratification. DUH. This is not new news, but let’s chat. Who knows, maybe you won’t have the patience to read this whole Substack (I’m trying to hook you because I already know your attention span is shot, is it working?)

Have we been conditioned by the phones attached to us like a digital appendage? Any and every question answered quite literally at our fingertips? Since when did patience become the damn-near hardest thing to have discipline over? The quick digital dopamine hits have nearly fried all of us, I believe it’s time to start really talking about it.

Do you remember the last time you left your house without your phone? How about the last time you didn’t get upset when someone was walking slowly in front of you? Or when you were waiting in line to get in somewhere?

I may just be projecting here, but especially living in NYC, I have become accustomed to the eat-or-be-eaten, go-go-go environment. You blink and the week is over. The month is over. Holy shit, it’s mid-August? Wasn’t it just mid-May?

Practicing patience has become such a privilege. And you’ve heard it before:

Slow down. Have you meditated? Live in the present moment. Blah blah blah.

Perhaps it is innate human nature that stems from evolutionary survival. Act quick! Or something bad might happen. You’ll get eaten, idk. Eat or be eaten. Sure. But the dinosaurs in this timeline are ourselves against ourselves.

It’s me against me.

Here’s the thing. In one month, I grew my social following significantly and got signed to my dream modeling agency. Woohoo! This may not be your goal, but in the back of my mind, it has always been mine. Okay, so what now? You modeled off and on for the last three years. Consistently created on socials. It’s finally paying off! You were patient!

Why do I feel nothing???

Do not get me wrong, I am incredibly grateful.

But, like, also kind of numb? Almost to say, great, check! What’s next? I need something else. New reward please!!!! Let me avoid the celebration of this achievement because I am not done yet!!!! More, more, more. Go, go, go.

What is it that I am so quick to accomplish, to win, to prove? To post, to search, to scroll. There is no right time, and there is no deadline.

The deadline? That’s six feet under, babe. So take all the damn time you need or want before getting there.

This conditioning that we have all so willingly inflicted on ourselves scares the shit out of me when it comes to love. We already know dating in NYC is a hellscape waiting to humble you, but seriously, what is going on??

I’m guilty of it too, don’t get me wrong. I have burnt my tongue here and there, just to later realize I actually really fucking hate chamomile (that’s not true, but just go with the metaphor). Maybe some milk and honey would have helped if I had taken the time to add it. (Get it? Hahaha, okay, I’m done.) The more you pour in, the more you get out (God, I can’t stop).

Point is, I’m scared. I’m scared for what the need for instant gratification is doing to us as a whole. To myself. What does it really mean to work towards a good thing? Career, person, whatever it is to you. Will the reward even hit the same, having known how much longer it took to get there? Are we becoming more avoidant by knowing there’s a better, easier, quicker solution to the problem?

All of this is to say, we are far too aware to not recognize that the tea is preemptively too hot to drink, and consciously taking a step back to wait for it to cool off.

We rush everything only to get to one end goal and not appreciate all the steps put into doing so. The rejection, the embarrassment, the doubt. But also the drive. The willingness to keep going, the patience.

There’s a saying in Italian I really love, and it’s “piano, piano,” which means slowly, slowly, or “little by little.”

Little by little, we can collectively slow down. Practice the dying art of patience and see where it gets you. Some things, the right things, will take time.

8:45 p.m. on a Tuesday. I was headed uptown to the Lincoln Center to watch François Ozon’s 2025 film, The Stranger (L’Étranger). Having known nothing about the film aside from the fact that it was an adaptation of Albert Camus’ novel, I thought: this could go one of two ways.

I’m either falling asleep in the theater, or I’m going to leave inspired enough to read the original.

I bought the book the next day. And finished it in three.

So having now watched the film and read the novel, I feel entitled to write about it. For my own understanding, and for those who may find themselves asking similar questions:

If we are all aware of the inevitable, what is the damn point to any of this?

Or, as Camus writes:

“Throughout the whole absurd life I’d lived, a dark wind had been rising toward me from somewhere deep in my future, across years that were still to come, and as it passed, this wind leveled whatever was offered to me at the time, in years no more real than the ones I was living.”

Albert, you existential dark man, you.

At its core, this book is about absurdism and existentialism: the idea that searching for meaning in a meaningless universe may be futile, yet somehow that realization offers its own strange kind of freedom.

The story follows Meursault, a man who learns his mother has died, yet shows little outward emotion toward the loss. Life continues almost mechanically until he finds himself on a beach in blinding daylight, firing five bullets into a man seemingly without reason. The second half of the book becomes his trial, though it feels less like he is being prosecuted for murder and more for his inability (or refusal) to perform emotion correctly.

So my question is this: should we be more or less like Meursault?

As an over thinker, a self-aware people pleaser, and someone constantly trying to romanticize even the most mundane moments, this book completely altered parts of my perception of life.

There is something strangely liberating about Meursault and his refusal to perform. About the act of not acting at all. Just being.

It made me question how much of morality is genuine and how much of it is social choreography. Expected reactions, rehearsed empathy, appropriate grief. And what happens when someone refuses to participate in that performance?

Would we too be faced with judgment and trial?

And if so, is that more reason to conform, or more reason to resist what is expected of us?

I have no fucking idea.

What I do know is life seems quite bland when you look at it filtered through the lens of Meursault. One could make the argument of being completely aware of the absurdity of it all, yet that gives us all the more reason to play along. Rather than having a certain nihilistic numbness, why not the contrary: an over passionate, complete exercise of free-will, while we can.

This feels more my speed.

So with that, my takeaways are this: we are all going to die, so do not take a second for granted. Emotional vulnerability is not performative, it is proof of human existence.

Camus says meaninglessness liberates us, I believe meaning-making liberates us.

It was my mom’s 60th birthday party. The theme was pink. She had been planning it for nearly 4 months. On October 3rd we gathered in The Steven’s Estate; Built in 1886, most definitely haunted. There was a DJ, a male stripper, a whole spread of coursed out foods, oh and psychic tarot-card readers on the secondary floor.

It was epic.

We danced, drank, and I think a lot of my mom’s friends who didn’t get out much appreciated the excuse to do so.

Halfway through the evening, I decided to put my name on the list of next-ups for the tarot card reading. Rumors spread about one of the readers in particular being the best in Essex county. Naturally, I picked her.

It was 9pm, my time to go. I entered the room and the air immediately felt stiff. All of the noise on the ground floor seemed to melt away. My senses were heightened, each creak of the old wooded floors echoed. I greeted her with the gin and tonic buzz I had on, and found myself eye to eye with this mystic woman.

She was not there to please, she was there to work. We began with a meditation. I closed my eyes as we sat in silence, her voice slowly guiding me through the meaning of each chakra, a practice she works closely with.

It was time to read my cards. As she shuffled, cards flew out. Once we reached three she elaborated on the meaning of each.

Her attitude shifted from neutral to worried, almost slightly angered. As if she was not mad at me, but for me. She paused from the explanations of the cards and looked into my eyes.

“You have this enormous, ball. Of energy. Sitting in your chest, your heart—It’s trapped. It has nowhere to go”

She began to elaborate.

What was I to do with this information aside from spiraling? Or being in denial? Question this so-called ball of energy and how to expend it???

“You see, when there’s everything trapped in the body it means there is a disconnect somewhere else, preventing you from releasing it” she says. “You must release energy either creatively, through your mind. Or physically, through your feet”

I thought to myself for a moment. You know I really haven’t been drawing or painting like I used to, or writing. Now that I think about it. Or working out either. I used to love going to the gym, the adrenalin high I’d get afterwards. When was the last time I ran? I don’t remember that feeling. I began making sense of the information being given to me, boiling it down to something relatable. (how most of these things go: our minds love to connect the dots, making everything feel like coincidences).

“I guess that’s true” I say, not wanting to reveal too much and have her knowledge of me skew her answers.

She paused for a moment. Reflecting on the cards drawn.

“You are not living by your highest self, you’re blocked, misaligned”

My higher self. A phrase thrown around quite often on the self-help spiritual sides of social media.

This woman was frantic in trying to guide me in a new way, as if it was dire. The conversation quickly shifted to self assessments, journal prompts to complete. She reached for her notebook and handed me a list to be completed, to prevent this plagued timeline from continuing.

I acted a bit in denial, because who are you to say that I’m misaligned? Yet in the storage closet of my mind I knew exactly what she was referring to. That job I prided myself on having left me miserable each day. And my boyfriend of a year had me feeling lonelier in a relationship than on my own. I had become passive in my own life. Sleepwalking just to get by, following the lead of what others asked of me.

Higher self. It echoed in my mind. Do you believe in having a purpose? Or do you believe in creating a fulfilling reality, without fully knowing what that purpose is? I still don’t know. But what I do know is life is too damn short to not be completely and utterly in love with it. Romanticize every minute. Remove yourself from timelines that don’t serve you, or feel completely aligned with who you want to be.

Jump and the net will appear.

Her words haunted me for about 2 months. This energy I had bottled up seemed to boil over. I found myself journaling more, answering the questions of what it meant to reach your higher self.

The second week of December I quit my job and broke up with my boyfriend. In the same week, 4 days apart to be exact.

No, I did not have a plan. But I knew I couldn’t feel like that anymore.

We have to be comfortable with doing uncomfortable things. If you want change or growth, do something about it. We are the only ones responsible for our reality, for our future, for our day to day.

Bet on yourself:

“Having the confidence to invest in your own potential, taking calculated risks to advance your career or business, and trusting your ability to learn and adapt. It involves owning your career path, overcoming self-doubt, and turning challenges into opportunities for growth.”

Sometimes in life you have to listen to the tarot card reader.

Weekends passed; we were both in the midst of our promoter-fueled free nights out. Taylor was in Milan to model, while I there for my master’s program. It was late April. Spring had begun to step into her glory, and all we could talk about was the need for vitamin D.

“What if we took a weekend trip?”

Milan was no longer cutting it. I needed to see the ocean.

April 25th, 6:40 a.m.
Too wired to sleep after a decision in the bathroom of our notoriously favorite club off the Moscova train stop.

“What if we left tomorrow?” said Taylor.
“I’ll book the Airbnb,” I responded.

It was done. The flight was booked. The Airbnb was arranged after a quick search for the cheapest option. We were going to Alghero, Sardinia.

April 26th, 9:30 p.m. takeoff, 11:00 p.m. landing

The air was wet and the stoned streets were empty. Yellow hue lights lit the narrow streets. It was not nearly as warm as our shoulder bags, shoved with swimsuits and flowy dresses, had thought it would be.

There is no test quite like traveling in a foreign region — not fluent in the language and without a proper data plan — to get you where you need to go. Instinct plays a huge role in travel, along with being comfortable talking to strangers. We waited for the taxi driver who promised to come back for us after the irritated, just-as-confused couple before us took off with him.

Our place of stay was typical of most Italian homes: a lockbox revealing a medieval key to a three-floor, stone-step walk-up, entering into a small yet tasteful, “high-chance-of-being-haunted” home. Lace tablecloths, brass chandeliers, gold-framed paintings, and of course, a minimum of three trash bins with a strict regime of separation rules. Oh, and not to mention a clear view past the shingled orange rooftops to the deep blue Mediterranean Sea (not revealed to us until sunrise).

I conversed in Italian as best I could with the taxi driver on our ten-minute commute to the Airbnb, asking for the most idealistic spots to explore. It was then he informed us that the island was still in its prime off-season and that the other side, Cagliari, was much more interesting. With no local suggestions, we were left to our own devices for proper entertainment.

After settling into our three-night, potentially haunted home (throwing our jam-packed shoulder bags on the bed), we needed something to consider dinner.

L’Altra Vineria; a candle-lit, cave-like wine bar — our savior. The husband’s name was Luca, and God, I wish I could recall the wife’s. They were clearly still in love after the many years spent together; idealistic. My broken Italian pleaded if they had any food to offer, along with “due bicchieri di vino bianco” (two glasses of white wine). Without hesitation, we were met with hospitality and a proper charcuterie board, decorated with Sardinia’s infamous flatbread, campania.

’70s American rock played, and I complimented Luca on his music taste. He was impressed with my Italian thus far and asked where we were from. The conversation carried on for as long as I could manage. This was one of the many moments I wished my father could experience with me as well — to see me practice his native language, which he always wished to learn. I was charmed into a state of bliss by this local bar and knowing we had absolutely no plan for the following days.

April 27th, 10:00 a.m.

Taylor and I headed into town in search of a café and grocery store. We ordered two pastries, cappuccinos, and fresh-squeezed orange juice at Al Cafferino. As we roamed around the coastal fortress, and learned that red coral was the cornerstone of Alghero’s culture and economy. I purchased a small cornicello-shaped charm to add to my necklace. I couldn’t wait to tell my grandfather, who had collected coral-carved figurines for decades. We also learned that Alghero once fell under Catalonian rule, giving it a Spanish influence.

We happened upon a Fiat car show. Brightly colored Fiats lined up from times before I was born. Nonnos stood with their hands behind their backs, observing which was most impressive — one miniature, the next limousine-like, complete with crank windows.

We ordered Aperol Spritzes and talked about how we needed to return during the island’s prime season, not fully grasping how grateful we were to be there in that moment.

I was adamant about locating a restaurant that specialized in seafood. We found Angedras Lounge Bar, residing on the bastions overlooking the sea and perfect for people-watching. We shared homemade pastas and watched the sunset.

April 28th, 9:20 a.m.

The night prior, Taylor had received a DM on Instagram from a man we had both met on a night out. He was actively courting Taylor, though she had no interest, and he was clearly younger than us. He saw we were visiting Alghero and mentioned that he frequented the island for work and was also in town. He eagerly offered to give us a tour. We accepted.

He arrived outside our Airbnb with a box of crème-filled cornettos. His stick-shift car carried us along the hilly coast. We drove with all the windows down. “Ancora, Ancora, Ancora” — the radio edit by Mina — blasted as my hand rested outside the window, dancing with the speed of the wind.

“I want to take you here first, just because it’s beautiful,” he said.

I couldn’t remember the last time a detour was sought out just because it was beautiful. There was something so poetic about his statement, the value of something for the sake of beauty, reflective of the Italian mind.

He took us to an abandoned mine in the village of Argentiera, within the municipality of Sassari; once active in 1963 for lead, silver, and zinc. I felt like I had entered the map of an old Western video game.

Our next destination was Stintino, famous for the stunning La Pelosa Beach, which features shallow turquoise waters, white sand, and the 16th-century Pelosa Tower. The winds made it too cold to settle there, and he assured us there was a better beach.

Spiaggia di Argentiera; a beach still within Sassari. Locals overtook the beach, as it was not warm enough for peak tourism. The water was the deepest shade of blue and perfectly freezing. Rocks carved by the sea surrounded us, making it feel like its own segmented world.

“You know, Sardinia was once the land of the giants.”

My ears perked up, I love nothing more than a cheeky tale or excuse for escapism.

“Ancient Greek literature, specifically Homer’s Odyssey, mentions a race of giants in the Western Mediterranean, which some scholars connect to Sardinia. There were even “Tombs of the Giants,” sometimes thirty meters long, thought to have been created by the Nuragic people.”

I had even more reason to love this strange island.

We ate ice-cream sandwiches with children’s cartoons stamped into them and packed our few belongings.

April 29th

Our flight was scheduled to leave early that morning. Sardinia now lives in my mind as an otherworldly place — somewhere to go when you need reminding of purpose, introspection. Where perspective is everything, where folklore lives on, and where the deepest of blue seas wait.

It all started when I went for dinner at The Commissary at Metrograph in lower east side. We ordered the burrata, served over arugula, dates, carrots, and persimmon. a perfect pairing of salt, fat, and acid. The core component to any successful dish (with exception of heat). And god the texture—she was everything, which is so important to me in any salad. I was completely obsessed, and knew I wanted to recreate it in my own kitchen. Good artists take, great artists steal or whatever it is. I was inspired.

Now, full transparency, this salad went through many alterations, to bring you what I now consider the winter salad of my dreams. There is an abundance of things to be said about the importance of seasonal grocery shopping, but that is not the purpose of this post. I will lead with this: endives, radish, persimmon, and citrus are all winter-forward produce. Optimum freshness and flavor.

Endive’s are crisp, slightly bitter leafy vegetables from the chicory family. Something I hardly experiment with but felt drawn to having seen it in Trader Joe’s. I was actually looking for radicchio to opt out the arugula from the original recipe—but Trader Joe’s did not have. I have been deep in my radish obsession so that just felt fitting and the rest followed from the original Commissary inspiration.

Serving size: 2 people (or 1 if you’re really hungry)

Ingredients:

• Endives (3 heads)

• Radish (3-4)

• Red onion (1/4)

• Carrot (1)

• Persimmon (1) OR grapefruit (1/2)

• Dates (3)

• Burrata (1)

Dressing:

• Really good extra virgin olive oil (just buy it, I know it’s expensive)

• Juice of 1/2 a lemon

• Salt & pepper (preferable Maldon sea salt)

• Dijon mustard

• Honey or maple syrup

1. Endive’s are your base later, the bitterness and texture is the exact component you need to built it up, and support the remaining ingredients.

2. Slice your radish as thin as possible, the earthy-spicy punch that you need.

3. Just a bit of thinly sliced red onion, this is totally optional and does not make or break the salad.

4. Okay let’s chat about this persimmon-grapefruit situation. You cannot have both together, but they are equally as beautiful in this. I guess go with whatever is more accessible to you. If you chose persimmon I suggest going with an under-ripe one. Mainly for the texture but also so the sweetness does not overwhelm / compete with the dates. If you choose grapefruit: segment the fruit to prevent the pith from killing the vibe.

5. Take a peeler and peel your carrots as thin as you can, ribbon like.

6. Chop your dates as thin as you can. Think matchsticks.

7. Okay so any major dressing needs those core components we talked about earlier—salt, fat, acid, heat. I am a simple dressing kind of girl, less is more. You will never catch me purchasing pre-made salad dressing, and most of the time that ingredient list is frightening. Anyway—squeeze half the lemon juice in a small bowl, add the smallest amount of dijon mustard. Like 1/2-1/4 teaspoon. We don’t want it to overpower. Big ol’ pinch of salt, few cracks of pepper, teaspoon of your sweetener of choice. Whisk with a fork as you pour your expensive olive oil. Emulsify that shit. I would say 3-4 tablespoons.

8. Assemble, dress, and add your blob of burrata.

9. The burrata is very important to me, the creamy-fattiness cuts the acidity-tang from the endive-radish-red onion vibe you have going on, along with the dijon-lemon situation in the dressing.

10. Plate and enjoy, ideally with some crusty warm bread, an extra swig of olive oil, and a crack of black pepper.

LMK if you make it :) more recipes to come.

It’s 1pm on a Thursday in New York. Jasmine had invited me to join her in the block party celebration for the inauguration of our newest mayor. We pushed through the crowded streets only to move a few feet forward, to commemorate what feels like the shift of something dire. Something great is coming. Because if it isn’t we are fucked.

I am starting to view 2026 as something similar to an assignment not yet started, with the due date only days away. Hopelessly giving it my all and knowing it must get done. No distractions.

We sat in Conwell Coffee Hall, what felt like the epitome of New York charm. Phthalo’s green marble walls and rich walnut wood tables. This used-to-be bank was our warm safe haven, where Jas and I reflected on the past and set intentions for the future. A frequent topic of conversation between the two of us, but even more heightened with the new year having been the day prior.

“I think this is the year we prioritize human connection more than ever before” I said.

Let’s talk about this. What does human connection look like to you? Is it a text checking in on a friend you haven’t seen in a while? A story like to the girl you met in the bathroom back in college? Calling your mom after a week of forgetting to do so?

Or, is it turning to the stranger reading a Playbill on the F train home, asking if she enjoyed the show. Stopping someone to ask where her wool coat is from, and complimenting her while you’re at it. Actually making the time to go to your friend’s apartment, even to just sit in silence.

Of course we can incorporate a mixture of the two as connection, it is the digital age after all. But I know damn well you’re sitting here thinking I relate much more to the first than the second.

I think we have done a remarkable job at isolating ourselves. We knew this would be our fate with the popularity of social media. Becoming social only through media.

“How the fuck do these girls do it. A ‘what’s in my bag’ perfectly curated. Like everything is meticulously placed to have a deeper reflection of the owner?” Says Jasmine.

We have become so obsessed with ourselves, with curating the most perfect version of ourselves, that we have forgotten how to actually apply it into everyday banter. I fear the clean girls. Perfectionism curated down do their initialed hair clips. Repeat, repeat, repeat until it’s perfect. Until they're perfect. Until their social following knows they are perfect.

We have slowly been straying from this aesthetic, of course. It is a breath of fresh air to see a realistic messy rejection of the clean girl. Especially with AI taking over, we crave imperfection now more than ever. But what does all of this really say? What does it reflect in the direction that society is learning into? And what does it all mean to you?

My dad visited me in NYC, right before the holidays. Inarguably the worst time to visit NYC, due to the extreme tourism. I found myself having a conversation with him, one which commonly arises.

“I could talk to anyone, Madeline, strike up a conversation with someone who is the complete opposite of myself”. He brags. Priding himself on this skill, thanks to his successful sales background. A muscle to be worked, a gift not everyone is born with.

“Sure, I could as well. But when was the last time you did.” I was more so asking myself this question.

We may know our potential for human connection, fully self-aware. Hell you may even be the clean girl perfectionist reading this saying: “I’m not isolating myself!! I’m the most social person I know!!” But this self-deception is only a temporary reality relief, unless put to practice.

It really is that damn phone. There is one common denominator in all that I say. The fulfillment in connection we get through our phones, and learning how to be more intentional with it. I don’t think we all collectively wake up and want to scroll for hours. Fully aware of the time we are burning, dopamine we are depleting, and lack of connection we are creating. All of this is to say I think we can collectively agree that something greater is coming this year. Because we are all so sick and tired of waking up and feeling like this. That this little time we have on earth is being spent thinking about becoming the best version of yourself but not actually doing anything to get there.

I had a whole conversation with my roommates the other night. “I want to write a Substack article about the rejection of perfectionism in 2026 and the dire need for human connection”. This lead to the discourse that we all ultimately want the same thing, but are so jaded to do so. Really asking ourselves: what’s stopping me. Something else that feels incredibly important to acknowledge is the danger of human connection, or seeking it out (especially as a woman). The transactional fear lingering with a question to be asked. What does this person really want from me?

We need to shift the narrative. Or we are fucked. We have been brainwashed to think everything has to have a deeper meaning, that a question’s underlying truth is transaction.

“I want to be able to recall more stories, like when my grandma tells a story about the past, she can be so detailed even down to the shoes someone else was wearing and relate it back to the conversation somehow” said Jas.

You know what stories I can recall most? The ones I had with complete strangers. In person. Nearly every interaction of someone stopping me on the train, asking if I liked the book i’m reading, being stopped on the street and asked to take a picture of two friends, sitting at a coffee shop and having a conversation with a friend. It is the little human moments that make us the most present.

So yeah. Reject perfectionism. Be more present. Strike up a conversation with a stranger. And get off that damn phone.

Dear Jamar,

I write to you from the B train headed down town to my apartment off E Broadway. Stuck on a compelling loop of replaying the moments just witnessed. Grappling with the feelings I’m left with. You were most definitely placed on this earth to choreograph.

We, as humans, use art to tell a story, and as you said, convey those feelings we so deeply struggle to bring forth:

What is it that you’re currently working through? What movement do we lean into to express such, release such?

Questions I commonly find myself asking.

Arca and Iris Van Herpen were your noble companions in conveying this story. How they paired so beautifully. With Iris teetering on the natural world, as it evolves in the age of intelligence. And Arca, as she is at the forefront of just that very thing, in sound design. Two artists I deeply admire.

Now I must admit, Jamar, I was completely unfamiliar with you, and your work. I hope this stab doesn’t jade your ego, but accept me with a new appreciation for your craft. I was invited to this event the day prior. It wasn’t even in my scope of knowledge. Perspective is an interesting thing isn’t it? A spontaneous evening for me, and for you; a strategic, possibly years in the making world premiere.

The point of this whole thing, anyway, is to thank you. Thank you for keeping the art alive, in a way I could have never imagined.

Sincerely,

Madeline Jaye

In life, we are met with an overwhelming amount of choice. A revolving door of possibility. But we do not stop to question the deteriorating effects which too much choice may inflict or rather infest.

Choice overload or the Paradox of Choice: abundant options lead to anxiety, paralysis, and dissatisfaction, making decisions harder.

Capitalism is a strange structure. We think its effects stemmed solely materialistically. But what about our own minds? We keep demanding more space. More storage. More versions we could become. Cramming more information than we ever intended.

When is it too much? When is it okay to admit; I was never supposed to see that.

When I write I always structure the conversation as a problem, and solution. Rather subconsciously. The problem is being self aware enough to recognize this is not good for me. I have too much choice and too many aspirations, ultimately leading to paralysis. Too many hobbies to conquer and versions of myself to discover. The figs are rotting.

The solution? Perspective. I am allowed choice and to discover what sticks most. What a privilege to have choice. To have access to practically anything you can conjure in your mind. Archives to be discovered. Exposure to learn from. It serves as a reminder that I must spend as much time with myself and my inner monologue. To know myself enough, to know what choices I want to make, and just do them. When one feels lost, one must create. What you create, or the choices you decide in this life do not have to be perfect. You just have to do them. Actualize them.

There are three major themes I find myself leaning on time after time. Perspective, authenticity, and gratitude. These are the keys to a fulfilled understanding of self in a world of too much choice.

Awe: a feeling of reverential respect mixed with fear or wonder.

An underexplored emotion (in my personal opinion). Something so great it could consume you. I notably experienced awe on my second day in Paris, where I set out to spend a couple of hours roaming the Louvre. It was the Richelieu Wing, home to French Portraits and Napoleon III apartments. I settled on this as my introduction, having known what else was to come (saved the best for last one might say). Besides, I am constantly drawn to portraits, along with Baroque and Rococo architecture.

As I entered Napoleon’s ornate and eclectic rooms, I was overcome with awe. Thick velvet draperies, gilded stuccoes, and deeply cushioned furniture. Chandeliers and the beaming gold leafed wood moldings.

To think this was once someone’s living room, dining room, halls to be walked aimlessly. My mind simply couldn’t comprehend it.

Now I feel the need to clarify that I am no major fan of Napoleon, I’m quite indifferent in all honesty. His paradoxical ruling style is not one I am most passionate about. But damn, that man knew interior design. (This opinion was further solidified upon visiting Oper Granier, which Napoleon commissioned).

The second overwhelming sense of Awe bestowed upon me, and particularly greater than the first, was when I saw her. The Winged Victory of Samothrace. One of the most sought out sculptures from Ancient Greece, and for good reason. Nike, the Goddess of victory, stands 8 feet tall atop a ship. Meant to be perceived at about ¾ stance on her left side. To highlight the drapery of her clothing, soaked by the crashing waves of the sea. Wings stationed for fleet at any moment.

I felt my breath slow as I approached the Daru staircase. My vision honed in as tears started to form. I couldn’t place all of the half thought thoughts beaming through my mind; How could someone create this with their hands? How can something B.C. be preserved this long? Was she always headless? There was something so vulnerable about seeing everyone crowd around the body of a woman: how, even faceless, she could be the most memorable. What a concept.

I was completely overcome with awe.

I think back to a podcast I listened to by Andrew Huberman, the episode was called The Power of Awe. He notes that noticing moments of awe can significantly enhance well-being and happiness. The focus on wonder not only reduces stress but may also contribute to better health (give it a listen if you have the chance).

Now i’m not here telling you that in order to experience awe you must take a spontaneous trip to Paris and roam around the Louvre for 5 hours. Huberman states there are simple mindfulness practices that can help turn ordinary moments into awe-inducing experiences.

I guess all of this is to say if you romanticize on the regular, your mundane becomes miraculous. A little perspective shift and you’re basically in Paris?? Idk. what I do know is life’s too short to wait until a spontaneous euro trip to feel this way, so open your eyes a little wider, and challenge your perspective.

My newfound favorite advice.

“No one is thinking about you.”

How pessimistic, right? Nihilistic, even.

I’m not trying to be mean. Let me explain: everyone is so busy being consumed in their own personal life, why would you be walking through their mind. We are self obsessed creatures. The moment you realize the world simply isn’t revolving around you, the more free will you obtain. The shackles of other people’s judgement will break if you remind yourself of this simple truth.

No one is thinking which shirt you wore that day.

No one is thinking how long it took you to complete it .

No one is thinking about how you never finished it.

So why let that dictate your decision?

Never let other people's judgment (or even the consideration of such) be a factor of decision.

What I'm really trying to say in all of this—is to live truly and utterly for yourself.

Cleanse yourself of the lens society has placed on you. It has been so deeply ingrained into our subconscious to filter everything though.

No one is thinking about the time you backpacked through Europe.

No one is thinking about what lipstick shade you’re wearing.

Or that Substack you posted.

So just post it.

And if someone is thinking about you—and I mean really spending their mental capacity and time to do so—let that serve as a reminder that there is something deeply unfulfilled within themselves, that they crave from you.

Or they are in love with you. 

But you shouldn’t worry about that. Because no one is really thinking about you.

Except yourself of course. So live only for yourself. 

In that period of deep self-discovery, I took three core principles from Wicca: intention, belief, and action. These concepts offered the ability to shape the reality I desired. It was that simple! As if I was being sold the cheap thrills of an infomercial. I needed something to believe in, so I did.

I practiced my craft. Collected elements from nature. Wrote my intentions down nightly. Learned Tarot from my mothers old deck. Poured black salt along my windowsill and left crystals under moonlight. Crushed eggshells into dust and carved scripture on bay leaves. Created spell jars and did my shadow work. I burned incense and candles to a point where my parents speculated I was trying to cover the smell of pot. It was an utter cry for self discovery and clarity.

All of this may sound like complete nonsense—woo woo, some have even written it off as satanic. But it was my ritualistic craft, a form of therapy, an opportunity to teach myself about faith in an untraditional way.

I look back at this version of myself and thank her. She taught me core concepts I carry with me daily. The largest being the belief in myself. When you have a genuine belief, and you practice daily—recite your wishes in the mirror, write it on paper—you begin to witness your reality subtly, but undeniably, shift.

Today, manifestation and the law of attraction have become extremely popularized, especially throughout social media. And it’s because more and more people are realizing the power of it.

I’m not writing this to convert anyone to some spiritual belief system. In fact, I think traditional religion often teaches many of the same values I learned. Regardless of what you believe in, I hope you find faith within yourself. You are the source.

Once you start viewing things a little differently, your entire perspective changes, along with the world around you.

So here are a few notes to leave off on.

• Everything is a reflection of yourself. A mirror if you may.

• Your personality creates your personal reality.

• Be slightly delusional, speak your aspirations and dreams into existence.

• ***but be protective and intentional with who you share this with.

• Visualize exactly what you want, practice it.

• Be patient.

Don't be afraid to believe in a little magic, life isn’t that serious.

Yet this stunts originality.

As they say in Fight Club,

Everything is just a copy, of a copy, of a copy.

Or as Pablo Picasso once said

Good artist copy, great artists steal.

But do I really have to steal?

Or do I just have to expose myself to enough new art to feel inspired to create my own?

Where does a source of inspiration even come from?

How do you know what inspires you?

What is the origin of inspiration?

Is it boredom?

Or an overwhelming sense of emotions?

Is it truly exposure therapy?

Consume enough, but if you don't create, is it just a distraction?

What is the philosophy behind this ideology?

If I read enough books, will I write one myself?

If I watch enough movies, will I direct one?

Without persistence and action, nothing will get done.

Just consumption.

It's a difficult idea to create more than you consume.

Consumption is mandatory to stay relevant.

A dopamine kick, quick enough to fix that junkie mind.

How do you bring the ideas into the real world?

The idea that someone else may read this and get a reaction, inspiration, to create.

That is enough.

Exposure therapy is an interesting thing after all.

What have I allowed myself to consume to come to this stream of consciousness?

And how the hell am I going to create more than I've consumed?

How much of my personality is just a late-stage marketing strategy? And where do I buy the product of myself, so I can be perfect?

In this writing, I want to explore three ideas that feel inescapable today:

1. The loss of identity in late-stage capitalism

2. The pressure to perfect oneself through constant curation

3. When there is nothing to sell, you sell your physical form

I. You don’t have an individuality complex, babe.

Have you ever asked yourself: why is it that every design choice must fit the mold of a specific category, or core, which will then signal to others what kind of person I am?

There’s an insane inflation of identity happening. We’re asked to express ourselves through things we own, trends we follow, and microcultures we align with. Everything has to be referential. But that very system of referencing has diluted originality. It's so hard to have originality when we are constantly fed a narrative of needing to align with a certain core or aesthetic. Built upon the latest trends to perfectly summarize that subgroup.

I remember in undergrad, I took a course titled Culture, Dress & Appearance. It explored how human appearance operates as a communication system—shaped by social, psychological, and cultural factors, from a cross-cultural lens. We discussed Mods, Skinheads, Hippies, Punks—movements that responded directly to socio political and economic moments.

I wonder if they’ve had to revise the curriculum to reflect today’s identity crisis. Because I think our zeitgeist is this: the loss of self in the face of algorithmic overexposure.

We are constantly performing versions of ourselves—sliced, filtered, curated. Instead of participating in a movement, we’re busy branding ourselves as individuals. Our identities don’t coalesce into collective power—they dissolve into personal marketing strategies.

II. “How do I become the best version of myself”

We’re fed a narrative of ultimate curation:“Each attribute of adornment to the self must be a reference, with a greater story to reflect the ability to cultivate with the utmost intention”.

Not everyone lives in this headspace, of course. There’s an entire world of people untouched by this cultural machinery. But if you have a brain and spend a minimum of 5 minutes on social media, this is an obvious assumption.

Don’t get me wrong—I believe in aligning with your higher self, in investing in your mental and physical health, in living with intention and for longevity. But we rarely pause to ask: Why? Why do we feel such urgency to be better, cleaner, calmer, stronger?

Is it because of our over accessibility into the lives of others who are doing so? A promise of success if only we mirror their routines? A digital avatar telling us which trending audios to use? If you started dancing on tiktok at 16 years old, you could now be living in your Calabasas 5 million dollar house by 20. You just aren’t posting 2-3 times a day. You’re just not doing enough pilates classes. Have you tried lowering your cortisol? Buy this wooden lymphatic drainage kit on Tiktok shop. Yes! this is the answer, you will now be the best version of yourself. Subscribe to the thing that you must buy, and then you will be perfect.

III. The Body for Sale

When there’s nothing left to sell, the body itself becomes what’s sold.Not our labor. Not our intellect.But our form.

Ask yourself: how many people’s jobs is it to sell you back yourself? Influencers, creators, even brands—they all sell aspirational versions of you to you. The message is always the same: you are almost there. You just need to optimize a little more. You just need this one more product. You just need to be a little bit better.

We live in an economy that demands constant output and reinvention. Knowing that you have the possibility for a life of dignity and autonomy should be enough to persuade the average worker in a capitalistic society to break out of that.

I say this not from a pedestal, but from the thick of it. I’m guilty of the same mindset: believing my small following could eventually grant me creative freedom. That if I just became more intentional, more strategic, more aesthetically consistent—I could “make it.”

I just need to sell the product of myself. And then, I’ll be perfect.

The versions of yourself which you once dreaded, yet now morn. Lackluster performance of a capitalist ritual. Clock in and clock out. Be grateful for distraction and forget about creation. Follow the conformities flow of those walking the street side with you, the 8:17am train ride into Manhattan. 

But you once prayed for this. A sacrifice you wrote in the white walls boxing you in. Wishes granted only to now feel complacent. Continue to reinvent, evolve.

Perspective is a devilish thing. For how many long to just walk a block in your shoes. Maybe I've set my expectations too high, within my very own bell jar. Trapped in a familiar stained glass world fogging up the windows and walls. 

Or maybe I just want, to be everything.

A sense of familiarity overwhelmed me as the car tires crunched beneath the pebble laden  driveway. Weathered wood shingles accompanied by white trim stood massively affront as I questioned the unfathomable income of the home's owners. The hydrangeas seemed additionally vibrant this time of year, welcoming of the rain filled mornings. As we walked the landscape my hair began to double in size, letting my curls submit to the salted air. The roar of a crashing wave spoke more-so a soft echo. What a dreamlike state this feels, to be accompanied by such great sensations. I could never question the aged lovers who choose settlement in this little town. For just a moment I questioned what coming times may present for my future lover and I. Shall we choose a kindred coastal town to find comfortability in? Uncertainty continues to haunt me yet I've practiced to face it without Fear. “The only thing that you have to Fear is Fear itself” my mother proclaimed to me on the slanted sand dunes. The tide was low as the children ran through the puddled beach, reflections mirroring each footprint. A part of me burns in desire for my childhood innocence to return. I know I will never hold that same sense of wonder, yet in that moment I promised to protect it

.

The idea of glorifying someone has always felt odd to me. My first memory of this was when I was 13—though it might seem uninspiring, it involved Justin Bieber.  One night I was in the backseat of my mother’s car, headed towards a girl in my class's birthday party. The theme? You guessed it, Belieber. Call it a crush, call it an idol, but I didn’t know a single damn Justin Bieber song. As a 13 year old girl growing up in middle-class suburban Massachusetts, you would’ve thought I was held against my own will to not partake in his fandom. Let’s just say this party left thirteen year old me questioning where my priorities should be.

As I got older this ideology continued on. I watched close friends obsess over actors, singers, and athletes—beg and plead with their parents for tickets and stay up late for new album releases. I felt like I was in a bubble sometimes, unable to relate to the appeal. Don’t get me wrong, I was still well versed in pop culture, but never fixated around one individual. 

“Who do you look up to, who do you want to be like when you’re older?” A question you have been asked before, or asked yourself. 

I never had an answer, and if forced to, I would commonly choose whoever my friends answers were at the time. I look back at this concept now and believe it stems from a place of not entirely knowing who I was. But I can also flip the script and say I know myself enough to know I am not like anyone else. Maybe it sounds conceited, but I despise the comparison to someone else. Why would I want to jack someone's style, music taste, favorite movies, travel plans, or haircut? Call me superstitious—but I almost feel that you give a certain piece of yourself away when you idolize someone too much, hence that person earning fame, and you remain a fan. Reserve that energy for yourself.

The problem with idolizing someone is you reach the inevitable understanding that they are not who you thought they were. 

“Did you hear so-and-so cheated, is racist, or has a disturbing past?” I guarantee you can think of a celebrity and check one of those boxes—or even all three. Listen, I am not a pessimistic person, it’s just the weird world we live in. This isn’t to say you shouldn’t let your 13 year old daughter have a Justin Bieber themed birthday party–and it’s not to say you shouldn’t have passions or mentorship. I just think we should decenter the glorification of people. Separate the art from the artist. They’re all just regular people at the end of the day, right?

In conclusion; kill your idols. Find inspiration for the sake of your own interests. Think freely and originally, even if it's been done before. And, as always, create more than you consume.

Subscribe now