this week i wrote a short story about what it means to do the thing that’s expected of you. to do the thing others think you should be doing, even if — even when — all your instincts tell you to do otherwise.

the short story was written for a prompt in a class, and to be honest, i don’t love it. it’ll probably stay hidden in my notebook for years until one day when i’m feeling archival and decide to dig through old notes.

but the themes of it have been rolling around my brain for weeks, in the quiet moments before i fall asleep or in the mornings before the coffee hits. something about authenticity, about self. something, also, about liminality and waiting for the “right” moment to do a thing. whether we are the creators of our own liminality. whether there even is a “right” moment.

“sometimes it is important to keep going if only because it annoys the people who want to stop you from existing.”

via stacy-marie ishmael

occasionally i feel as though i’m waiting for someone else to take the reins. to tell me what to do. this is partially, i think, because i’m tired, like bone-tired, all the time. which is a whole separate conversation about being a neurodivergent femme person of color in a heteronormative, neuronormative, racist, capitalist etc, etc, etc hellscape. so letting someone else take the reins, to me, equals rest.

i do not think, therefore i do not am.

but, sometimes, the waiting is probably me creating my own limbo. if i don’t move forward, then i won’t stumble. if i don’t try, i won’t fail.

i get overwhelmed with options, with ideas. my neurodivergent brain sees ALL the possibilities, and every single one is doable!!! so why not do them all RIGHT NOW???

i don’t really practice, i never have. i do, or i do not. if i don’t do it right, then it’s done, i’m done with it. i move on to the next thing.

this has been especially on my mind lately, as i try my hand at learning some beading techniques. i went to the daybreak center annual pow wow and saw some stunning indigenous art and jewelry. i couldn’t possibly afford all the things — but i do have a whole set of seed beads and the tools with which to use them. so, i thought, as i often do, i will try my hand at making the thing that i want for myself.

my first attempt at learning to do a square stitch took up the majority of one day. and, after hours trying to get it right, a bead in the middle broke when i tried to force the needle and thread back through it.

“i quit beading,” i told my partner. “i literally just picked it up, but i’m quitting.”

and then, for reasons i can’t quite explain, i kept trying. i made one pair of earrings by telling myself it was ok to just string beads and not worry about any complicated stitches. it still took forever, but i love the final product. i’m wearing them every chance i get.

i’ve since tried to make a second pair. i’ve got… several… half-started attempts. a few that i took apart because i didn’t want to “waste” the beads. still no second pair, but i’m working on it. slowly.

practice — in itself — is a skill. it’s easier to sit in a liminal space, to say “maybe one day,” and not worry about creating forward momentum. it’s harder to say “i will try,” over and over again, despite what feels like failure, despite what feels like being stuck.

“they could see that i was clearly not what i seemed to be. are you a boy was a slither away from are you gay are you queer are you deviant wait hey are you human. something was wrong with the skin, it didn’t fit me well, and even random women could tell.”

via akwaeke emezi

i have been waiting, for months now, for summer to feel like summer. for this skin to feel like my skin. for things to be the way i want them to be. but i’m also slowly sinking while telling myself i’m actually treading water. it’s not true — i can feel the water rising, i have for a while. i’m starting to run out of air and fearing letting go of what’s in my lungs to take another breath. but i keep telling myself no, no, it’s fine, everything’s fine.

so, how do i move myself into a mentality of treading water? how do i begin to practice in my real life — to build it into the thing i want it to be?

that’s the question i’m sitting with for now. maybe if i sit with it long enough, some answers will come.

<3,

n.

p.s.

• reading: i recently read Rose/House by Arkady Martine and it is still haunting my brain, weeks later. and then i learned that my brother-in-law’s parents are friends with her wife’s parents and they’ve all had dinner together — so i will be reading A Memory Called Empire soon and hoping i manage to score an invite the next time that happens… i also read this short story for my writing class and i am officially a Rachel Khong fan now.

• watching: doing a full Fringe rewatch and, man. this show is so good. and never have i shipped a relationship as hard as Olivia and Peter’s. Joshua Jackson is fiiiiiiiine.

• some fun prompts if you, like me, are exploring new creative ventures

• i rewatched Arrival recently — see: the title of this post — what a brilliant movie. it got me thinking about other, similar movies, so i’ll be working my way through this list for a few months. let me know if you watch any of them — or think of any i’m missing.

inspired by last week’s leave it to leonor, who was in turn inspired by ruby justice thelot, i remembered a note i jotted down on my phone a while ago:

“the people who live on the fringes of our lives or in our past, scrolling through old phone contacts”

i am old enough that my connection bloat exists in my address book (or “iphone contacts,” for the kids) as well as on my socials. i remember when cell phones were still new enough that we’d ask for phone numbers to keep in touch because social media handles weren’t yet a thing. we were just learning how to text, still calling each other for longer conversations.

recently, i was scrolling through my contacts, looking for someone specific — and i came across so many names i’d forgotten about, or didn’t even recognize. so many people without last names, or with notes to help me remember who they are (“Ashley M&A,” “Lorelba Bizcocho,” “Roberta”... i truly have no idea who Roberta is).

it’s the same when i scroll through instagram. sometimes i come across faces and names that ring a little bell somewhere in my brain. but i can’t remember — did we go to high school together? are you a friend of a friend? did i meet you at an internship, at a random event i attended? were you a bathroom line friend made on a night out?

and these are people whose lives i’ve watched from the sidelines. i’ve seen your job changes, your engagements, your baby announcements. but i don’t always know or remember who you are.

the world shifts around me and i cling on, so that i may shift with it. or attempt to.

there’s this thing i’ve been thinking a lot about: participation, and what form that can take. i like being present, even if i don’t always enjoy actively participating. that doesn’t mean i’m not having a good time. sometimes you just want to be there, to witness the thing. to feel connected in some way.

“So, the realities are dual, multiple, layered atop each other. I know which one is my center and which one is the most true. In truth, it does make me feel like I’m in the community, yet not, but that’s really a symptom of something more vast—I am in this world, yet not. I float between the two, trying to balance it, knowing the human world will destroy me if I make it my center, fighting to return to spiritfirst even while violently entrapped in this body.” - akwaeke emezi

i will find my way out of rooms i don’t want to be in, so if i’m present, take it as a signal of interest. of care. of participating with whatever spoons i currently have available.

we live in a world that prizes extroversion. so when we see people quiet, in a corner, we assume they’re not having fun. they’re not fully experiencing things.

but even when i’m silent, i’m a participant. i’m experiencing joy, in my own way.

so much of life is figuring out who we are, what we like — and then having the bravery to continue being and doing those things even when people tell us we’re wrong. even when they look at us sideways.

these people who exist on the fringes of my life — i exist on the fringes of theirs, as well. we may have exchanged information in a brief moment of contact, but we are forever connected, even if that’s reduced to seeing your name, randomly, while scrolling through my phone. even if i can’t remember how i know you, the point is that i did know you, for a moment. we connected. we participated in each others’ lives.

"i wondered if this was what being a real human was: accepting you were pieces of other people too. the people you loved and the people you hurt.” - lucy rose, the lamb

anyway, that’s all just to say: i see you. your life has been witnessed, in some small way, by me. thank you for letting me participate in it.

p.s.

• currently: existing. if you have any good recent watches or reads, let me know in the comments <3

• the title of today’s post comes from here

• also: “it’s easier when i’m alone. my friends and family know i’m not a woman — i’ve told them — but some continue to think of me as one anyway. i ignore it because sometimes it’s easier to not fight, to accept the isolation of being unseen as a safe place. i exist separate from the inaccurate concept of gender as a binary; without the stricture of those categories, i don’t even have to think about my gender. alone, there’s just me, and i see myself clearly.” - akwaeke emezi

• this beautiful comic i came across recently

this month’s newsletter comes to you late because life is life-ing. i recently completed a mini residency through Seventh Wave and left it feeling so inspired. but these last couple of weeks, my thoughts have been fighting quicksand. any attempts to muddle through writing have been exactly that — muddling through.

the residency taught me that this, too, is writing. the thinking, the simply being. that i always show up as a writer, that i am always writing, even when i’m not.

so rather than share my mess of thoughts — which i hope to untangle and actually share, eventually — here are some words that came to me from the residency. maybe i’m working on a new collection of poems? no idea. but please enjoy this break from my usual ramblings…

i. body as repository

once upon a time,
there was a ghost,
or was it a little girl?

the name doesn’t matter as much
as the feeling of it. the body can be both:
ghost,
and little girl.
the ghost can grow skin, teeth.

the ghost can learn
how to bleed.

pain moves across bodies, and
bodies are archives. to name a thing
is not to know a thing
but a thing can be understood
even when
it is not perceived.

my body is a place —
i can belong to it
as much as it belongs to
me.

my body is a haunting.

the little girl grew up
feeding her ghosts,
telling them stories both
true
and untrue.

she never learned to stop
enjoying the feeling
of someone else’s possessions
in her bare hands.

my body never learned
how to live
with such a full heart.

my body is nostalgic, yes,
but it is nostalgic
for beautiful things.

my body doesn’t
know anything, really,
but
it knows
how
to feel.

one day
i will become grateful
for my ghosts, for these
daily hauntings,
for the secret
parts of me

(i might become brave enough
to share.)

the little girl will continue excavating
for stories —

the ones she’s allowed to tell
the ones she never knew about

the ones
that seem unspeakable.

in a world that
does not care

about her
survival

the little girl will
no longer
celebrate pain,

she will celebrate being alive.

—

ii. body as tender questions

my heart is a shell

and by that i mean —
i have beat it against a rock

again and again

revealing that softest part of me
in order to consume it
in order to set it free.

i crave a love so deep, it bleeds.

what happens when
your dreams are so
vivid
you begin having
memories
of them
and stop knowing

what’s true,
what’s untrue?

in a dream last night
i was carried
out to sea —

my body is a wave,
my body is the tide —

the beauty of memories is
that we forget them,

that we become nostalgic
for the things
we can’t recall —

i am still willing
to be surprised by
all the things
i don’t know.

in the unknowing,
i come home to myself
over and over again.

i swallow my grief
whole. i ask myself:

how do i hold
what’s tender
and true?

when
will i stop treating
myself
like my pain
doesn’t matter?

the true measure of success
is joy. (the true measure of me is
this beating heart.)

scars landmark my skin
like small tokens of faith —

this body is a map,
this body is a prayer —

i know
i can’t be

everything

for everyone,

but i can be this —
just this —

for me.

things don’t have to be perfect to be good. they just have to be real.

they have to make you feel something.

it seems like we’re constantly chasing perfection, when the goal should be authenticity — that’s where connection lives.

Read more

i spend a lot of time thinking about words. not just because of this newsletter — my day job is in marketing. i have a degree in journalism. i read a lot. i’m neurodivergent, and spend a lot of time recreating conversations in my head, trying to parse out what happened, what was meant. i’m often imagining conversations where i get to say the thing i haven’t been able to articulate.

anyway, i think about words a lot.

i’ve also spent a lot of time thinking about word counts. what’s the most concise way to say something, so that it fits inside this application box? what words will be most impactful on this webpage, when we need to immediately grab a reader’s attention? how do i say the thing i want to say without it becoming overwrought or convoluted or, worse, boring?

at the same time, i regularly find myself surrounded by very smart people. i belong to various artistic circles, filled with writers and other creatives who often use language to describe abstract concepts — things that were never meant to be described with words. my marketing job is in the nonprofit world, where jargon reigns supreme and people always feel like they need to sound smart. in my particular field, we are also often dealing with abstract concepts, which only adds on to language becoming more and more complicated. things are hard to verbalize, which makes them hard to understand.

i think it’s because of this — and because we equate big, smart words with big, smart thoughts — that many of us often fall into the trap of saying things because we think we need to. we speak to fill the silences, instead of letting people come to their own conclusions. we say words even when we don’t fully understand their meaning. we put complex phrases together that ultimately mean nothing.

recently, at work, i was asked to provide language for something that had not yet been defined. when my response was: i need to know what the thing is to be able to create the words for it, the pushback was: can’t you just tell us what to say, and we’ll figure out what it all means later?

as if language can be a substitute for substance. as if it’s more important to say something that means nothing, instead of using language to share meaning, to build understanding.

as if language isn’t one of our most important tools. the thing that makes us human. that forges relationships.

the more we use words without meaning, the more power they lose. think of the barrage of advertisements you receive on a daily basis — we’re bombarded constantly by words that are, ultimately, meaningless. words whose one purpose is to get you to buy something. over time, it all just becomes noise.

when was the last time you made a real, thoughtful purchase? where you actually considered what was being sold to you and you decided you actually needed it — or, better yet, where you decided you needed or wanted something without being told to do so, and then sought it out — rather than just feeling the impulse to buy?

as a marketer, i shouldn’t be saying any of this. i’d be out of a job if we were all too aware to be sold to.

as the world becomes smaller, marketing, unfortunately becomes a more and more necessary evil. once upon a time, you relied on your local community to provide what you needed. you’d go to the butcher for meat, the doctor for medicine, the local artisans for art.

now we have access to the world beyond our immediate communities. it’s beautiful how connected we are.

but the more options we have, the harder it is for any one single person to cut through the noise. people still need to pay bills, so they have to advertise their work.

but… what if the noise didn’t exist? what if “marketing” was just you making a thing that’s good and telling people about it?

this is where my mind eventually wanders to whenever i think about words: that it would be so much better if we all actually said something instead of saying nothing. if we appreciated and protected words and language for the treasure they are.

it’s not enough to support authors and bookstores and libraries. language belongs to all of us. we need to start treating it as precious or risk losing it entirely.

that’s not to say we can’t invent new words as times change — language can still be fluid and flexible. but what would it look like if you actually stopped to think about what you were going to say before you said it, every single time you spoke? what would your conversations look like, if you actually listened to what was being said instead of just waiting for your turn to speak? if we all used “teacher silence” to give everyone a few seconds to consider the words they want to use?

technology and capitalism make us want to move faster, faster, faster. everything is built to speed us up. to make us more productive, to take up more of our time. so maybe the most revolutionary thing we can do is slow down. consider your thoughts. consider your words. that doesn’t mean you can’t take action or dive in when it feels right to. but what if we were all just a little more deliberate?

even now, multiple tools are blinking at me, trying to get me to use AI to spit out this newsletter draft. but who am i without my thoughts? without the words i choose to share those thoughts? what’s the point of even being here, if i’m just going to give that all away, give it all up?

if i am outsourcing how i talk about what i think and feel, then what is left of me? similarly, if the words i choose don’t actually mean anything, or don’t mean what i actually want to say, then… who do i become? it’s not actually me that’s being shared out into the world. it’s just words and noise and nonsense.

i don’t want that. for any of us. i want us to care. to speak passionately. to not just nod along when someone says something we don’t understand, but to push —

what is the thing you’re trying to say? how can you say it better — not to sound smarter, to seem cool, or to signal something, but to actually communicate? how does your language connect you to me, and vice versa?

i don’t have all the answers, but i know it starts with dreaming. the best things always do.

<3,

n.

p.s.

• reading: i am not normally a dude-lit reader, but i’m really loving the Dungeon Crawler Carl series. if you can get past all the things that make you want to roll your eyes — like Carl’s entire character arc being about him figuring out that capitalism is evil — the storyline is really entertaining and there are some great characters that will worm their way into your heart (#TeamMongo). if you, like me, have been reading way too much heavy stuff and need something silly and lighthearted, i can’t recommend DCC enough!

• “I think the moments for me in a poem that resonate but don’t make sense, or that I wouldn’t have thought to put there, that for me is where a lot of the aliveness of a poem comes from, actually.” — i love the part of this Franny Choi interview where she says language can be beautiful without carrying specific meaning. this might seem counter to my argument above, but i think these things actually go together — that when we constantly elevate language to be some mysterious, academic thing, we alienate people who use “basic” words, who don’t “understand” the big, scary words. and so we end up creating a divide between “educated” “intellectuals” and regular people.

• this this this this this

• i love this fun little activity, for when you’re feeling stuck

every day, the farce reveals itself more. we can’t win inside this system, no matter how clever we are. there will always be those with more power pulling the strings, ensuring we can’t win. the system won’t let us win. let that sink in.

Read more

i’m taking a tiny interlude from the regularly scheduled essay this month to allow for marination on a new zine project. here’s a selection of my works-in-process — i hope this peek into my brain as i tinker inspires your own ideating and creating and living!

wishing you a spring full of colorful scribbles and abundant, fruitful thoughts bubbling inside of you.

<3,

n.

p.s.

• this project is brought to you by rediscovering old scribblings in forgotten notebooks. thank you, ADHD brain!

• whenever i tell people about a new project i’m putting out into the world, the most common response is usually something about how that person wishes they could be braver about sharing their art. to which i would reply, what’s stopping you, besides you? today, i’m challenging you to put yourself out there. the world needs your magic.

• relatedly: “because the question isn’t just ‘should i stop hiding?’ the question is more nuanced than that. it’s: who gets to see my magic? and am i making sure that the people who need to see it, can?” - from “The Thing You Were Taught to Hide Is Your Magic” substack essay by Alli Myatt

• love love love when folks remember they have free will and do silly little things with it. more weird flyers, please!!

• leaving you with this thought

i contain multitudes, and, unfortunately, every one of them needs their own notebook.

i would love to be someone who is good at maintaining a notebook ecosystem, at keeping myself organized, so that when i have a thought, i can go back to it, cross-reference it with similar ideas, and make connections on my own schedule.

Read more

i would not claim patience as one of my virtues. in fact, i am often extremely impatient — a problem my ADHD makes clear when i’m in the middle of a hyperfixated state and my brain is screaming at me to JUST BE DONE WITH THIS ALREADY but my body can’t seem to obey.

so you’d struggle to believe i’m impatient when you see the way i will sit for hours to untangle a single knot. this is partially because the thrifty part of my brain is telling me i can’t throw away a perfectly usable piece of embroidery thread. it’s also the previously mentioned ADHD wanting to finish a task.

but there’s also something about knots, and not wanting to let things be imperfect. better to fix the problem than to find a way to work around it, even if it gives me a headache.

this realization came to me in therapy, when we were talking about life as a jumbled, knotted string. how i feel i’m constantly fighting the tangles, trying to straighten it out into a perfect line. even when i choose to live an unconventional life, i am still beating myself up for not achieving, for not hitting the milestones i don’t even want to hit anyway.

because the world tells us we must live in a straight line, and my loopy, twisted ADHD brain wants so badly to fit in, even when it clearly doesn’t.

but what if the goal is not to untangle the thread, but to find our connection to it? to be able to follow it wherever it leads us, in whatever tangled direction it may go? maybe the pain we experience is not in the knots, but in the disconnection — that the path exists but we are so hell-bent on making a perfectly straight line, that we fall off of it, lose our ability to hold on, to enjoy the ride?

what if we didn’t hold on so tightly to what we think should be, and instead learned to let what is take the lead? life might take us to beautiful places we could never have imagined.

and sure, the opposite is true, too — heartbreak is a part of living. we just don’t have to be the cause of it for ourselves.

what if trusting the universe actually means trusting yourself? that because you already have all the answers you need inside of you, you will actually guide yourself to where you need to be, if you can just get out of your own way.

when you fight the tangles, you lose out on so much. you miss the opportunities to learn, to grow. to become who you’re meant to be, not who others think you should be.

the tangles define us. we get to decide if that’s good or bad.

<3,

n.

p.s.

• reading: i guess maybe i do like historical romance, because i couldn’t put down a lady’s guide to celestial mechanics until i finished it. also, t. kingfisher writes faster than i can keep up, so i’ve only read a few of her books, but she is quickly becoming one of my fave writers. a house with good bones was very creepy and funny and good.

• watching: i only have a few words to say after watching hamnet — oh my GOD, jessie buckley. that’s it. that’s the whole post. i’d warn you to wait until you’re in a stable emotional place to see it but there’s no way you can be prepared for all the heartbreak. if you need something lighthearted (and you probably do, because i assume you’re also watching the pitt), might i recommend marathoning the latest season of traitors? i, like every warm-blooded american, am fully in love with rob rausch. also, maura’s incredible irish accent.

• on accepting comfort vs. seeking joy:

a tiny note:

this is the last free preview of my paid tier mid-month-ish essays on living a creative life. if you’d like to continue reading these, you can subscribe for just $5/month. thank you for being here! 💕

today i’m going to do something a little different than usual.

this mid-month essay is about living a creative life, which i believe we all do in some way, regardless whether we think of ourselves as creative people or not.

we all have the ability to imagine. we all dream, either while asleep or awake. we all invent and ideate and, ultimately, create, whether that’s by brainstorming ideas for work, cooking meals, practicing an art, hosting a party, or even reading a book and imagining what the characters look and sound like.

we all have the ability to use our creativity to imagine the world as we want it to exist, regardless how bad the times may be.

i know how easy it is to give in to the negative feelings — to rage, to despair, to fear and sadness. and i know how much easier it is to draw fuel from those negative feelings.

“take your broken heart and make it into art.”

carrie fisher

but negative feelings are unsustainable fuel sources — you’ll burn out eventually, leaving you with nothing for yourself, and nothing to give. i also have to wonder whether we want a world built on those feelings.

isn’t that the whole point — that the current world is built on hate and greed? shouldn’t we want a world that’s built on truth, on community, on pleasure instead?

isn’t that what we’re fighting for?

i worry because i hear so many people say joy is resistance, but when i look around, i see so much anger. so much sadness. and that’s fair — you’re allowed to feel rage, to want to cry every time you look at the news. i do. but to allow those feelings to consume you turns you into the very thing you’re fighting against.

we’re all angry, but i’m encouraging you to imagine what a world is like that’s built on joy, that’s built on love. i’m challenging you to love the world, in all its wretchedness. because it’s all we have!

this one precious life — that’s all we have.

i don’t want to see the people i love — everyone, i love you all, because you are all humans worthy of love — so consumed by their fear that they stop being able to see beauty, to feel the good things. that when a better world comes, they’re unable to enjoy it. that they become exactly the thing they hate.

we can’t all be optimists, and that’s why i believe it’s so important that those of us who are keep pushing. that we keep planting joy like seeds, encouraging it to sprout among those we love. you may not be an optimist, and that’s okay. because i am. and i will hold your hand and continue telling you that things are terrible now, yes, but isn’t it so beautiful to see the bud that is slowly blossoming as spring arrives? or the way the sunlight is beaming between those trees? or the way an entire community is coming together, despite their grief, despite their fear, to keep each other safe?

things can be beautiful if we make them so.

<3,

n.

p.s.

• via my lovely friend, Monica Potts: “it makes sense that queer love is one of the first things this regime started to attack, because it’s the kind of love that challenges power and builds societies and upsets the status quo and helps create equality where there was once oppression. we need that art to power us through.”

• and from the essay she references: “the world they keep building between them changes this one too.”

• and this:

via.

a gentle reminder:

i’ll be moving maybe we’re infinite to substack in march. readers won’t be automatically moved over, so if you’d like to keep reading, you’ll need to subscribe there directly. i hope to see you over there! 💕

increasingly, i am thinking about the importance of observation, of bearing witness.

as a somatic tool, observation allows us to regulate our nervous systems. we turn our observations inward to scan the body for feelings and sensations. we turn observation outward to take note of our environments — and the threats that may or may not actually exist around us.

we count things we can see, hear, feel, smell, taste. in doing so, we feel safer, calmer. we regain some measure of control when things feel very out of control.

via.

in the social change ecosystem map, observers become the weavers, the visionaries, the storytellers, and the guides. observing allows us to find connections. it allows us to bear witness to what is now, so we may envision what comes later. it allows us to document and share histories and possibilities. it allows us to understand what works and what doesn’t, and how to share that wisdom.

observation is poetry, is critical. we bear testimony about each other as proof of our existence. we are social creatures, we are meant to be seen. and this act of observing is as important as the things we observe. through observation, we create meaning, we engage in the interpretation of symbols and rituals, we invite curiosity and collaboration.

to be in conversation with each other, we must be observant.

observing is so important right now, both in the world as it exists and in the world as we dream of it existing. we watch, we try to understand, we hold each other, we share stories.

via.

by watching, we open ourselves, too, to being perceived. we become more aware of the power of vulnerability, of allowing ourselves to be seen. seeing others’ imperfections gives us permission to also be flawed, but to continue moving on in through the world, imperfect as we are.

it’s easy to want to turn away in the face of atrocities, to not observe. and it may even be necessary to create that space when we’re able to, to care for ourselves in the long term. 

but it’s brave and bold and necessary to bear witness to evil. to not allow it to go unseen. observing each other is survival.

via.

i see you. i see your humanity. i am bearing witness to your existence, and holding it as precious.

i’ll leave you here with some words that are not mine, words that speak to this moment:

“every inch of me shall perish. every inch, but one. an inch — it is small and it is fragile, but it is the only thing in the world worth having. we must never lose it or give it away. we must never let them take it from us. 

i hope that whoever you are, you escape this place. i hope that the world turns and that things get better. but what i hope most of all is that you understand what i mean when i tell you that even though i do not know you, and even though i may never meet you, laugh with you, cry with you, or kiss you, i love you. with all my heart, i love you.”

- v for vendetta

via.

stay soft, stay brave.

<3,

n.

p.s.

• another reason to keep your eyes wide open, through it all: “and above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. those who don't believe in magic will never find it.” ―roald dahl

• the post that catalyzed this month’s topic, from @pagegalleryjournal: the commute writing game

• from @gendersauce: some ways to develop an anti-fascist life force

• from @malakagharib: how to interiorize beauty

• finally, there are so many tiny actions we can take to fight fascism that it can get a little overwhelming. definitely start where you are, in your home area. but if you have the capacity and/or funds to spread around, consider supporting the good people of minneapolis. my favorite romance bookstore there, tropes & trifles, regularly shares out ways you can support their city — give them a follow!

via.

a small housekeeping note:

as i’ve been thinking about how i want to care for my creative life, i’ve decided to move maybe we’re infinite to substack. this will allow me to offer free and paid writing in a way that feels more accessible and sustainable for me right now.

free monthly essays will continue here on beehiiv through february. starting in march, all new writing will live on substack. readers won’t be automatically moved over, so if you’d like to keep reading, you’ll need to subscribe there directly. at that point, folks will also be able to opt into the $5/month paid tier for the bonus mid-month essay, if they’d like.

in the meantime, you’re warmly invited to follow me over on substack, here, if this space has been meaningful to you.

thank you for being here — i’m very glad you are.

in my own gentle process of becoming, i’ve come to realize that, often, my biggest hindrance is feeling aimless. 

learning to accept that my path as a (recently-diagnosed) ADHD-er will likely always be a meandering one is an ongoing process. but it helps to have an idea of what it is i’m moving towards. i don’t necessarily need milestones. if i do set them, they’re usually flexible. but, ultimately, what is it that i want? what are my metrics for success? for joy?

creating a life purpose statement has helped me ground myself in my priorities. i have, historically, beat myself up about the number of hours i spend a week working jobs that feel out of alignment with who i am, or who i want to be. but i just kept job-hopping, not really knowing what i was looking for. in developing my statement, i finally accepted that the 40ish hours i spend at work every week are actually just a means for how i get to the things that i actually want. 

having this statement allows me to dream up the life i want and ensure that it’s aligned to my strengths and to my values. it allows me to take every new idea and and consider how much energy i want to put into it, depending on how aligned it is to my purpose (that includes my day job).

and maybe there are projects i want to take on that aren’t in alignment! that’s fine! but i can be intentional about making that choice, and put less pressure on myself — and just the right amount of energy — because i know that it’s just an experiment. something fun.

in that way, having this statement creates more room for play.

creating a life purpose statement

here are the initial questions i asked myself:

✨ core values

• what are the non-negotiable elements that define what matters most to me?

✨ strengths and passions

• what am i naturally good at? what excites or energizes me?

• how do i uniquely contribute to the world?

✨ impact

• what kind of difference do i want to make in the world, community, or in others' lives?

• what’s my "why" — the thing that drives my actions and aspirations?

✨ guiding principles

• what are the principles that will help me evaluate whether a choice aligns with my purpose?

✨ balance

• how do i ensure the statement resonates with both personal fulfillment and the way i interact with the world?

✨ flexibility

• how can i allow for some adaptability so the statement can evolve as i do?

my answers to these questions were molded into various drafts. with every iteration, i noticed what was missing or what felt out of alignment, and so i continued making changes until it felt “right enough” to put out into the world.

note, that does not mean perfect, because, as item number six states, my statement is flexible and can grow as i do. but i got it close enough to naming what felt right within me. a minimum viable product for what i want out of life, if you will.

the framework i ended up with was:

my purpose is…
i am guided by…
i find fulfillment in…
i move through life…
through my actions and choices, i aim to…

in all i do, i ask…

here’s the statement as it currently lives and breathes:

my purpose is to live in service of softness and joy, fostering a vision for a kinder, more compassionate world. i am guided by creativity, community, authenticity, accountability, and a curiosity that embraces joyful play and exploration of other ways of being. i find fulfillment in fostering meaningful connection and enabling people to be more compassionate with others and, importantly, with themselves. i move through life in gratitude — for others, for the earth, and for the teachings that shape me — seeking to honor these gifts through the ways i show up in the world. through my actions and choices, i aim to cultivate a life rooted in kindness, where both myself and others can thrive in shared understanding and care.

in all i do, i ask: does this bring softness, joy, or connection to the world? does it also honor my own well-being and the relationships that sustain me?

having this statement has been a meaningful first step in intentionally building my life, rather than letting life happen to me. and that, in turn, has been a necessary step in beginning to unmask the parts of me that have been hidden under fear and self-doubt for decades. when i say i am “becoming,” i always mean, not that i am becoming something else, but that i am becoming more myself. 

every step imbued with purpose helps guide me deeper into the infinite universe that i am inside. my life is valuable simply because it is, but i become both stronger and softer when i do the self work of gaining clarity. 

i become more myself when i embrace that learning is never-ending — when i continue to seek, to understand, to grow.

i hope that, in this season of rest and reflection, taking the time to sit with some of these questions helps bring you back to yourself. that it helps expand your sense of possibility, so that you enter the new year with renewed hope and purpose.

wishing you a soft new year. ✨

<3,

n.

via.

as the new year begins, i’m thinking about all of the times i’ve uncovered myself. through the years, i’ve revealed myself to myself over and over. i am a flower in eternal bloom.

i am endlessly hungry for authenticity.

there’s something that happens when the days grow short and the nights long—something ancient that wakes within us all, welcoming the return of the light and the promise of a new year and new opportunities.

- ava thorne, cocoa and clauses

i was born in the year of the snake. it’s no wonder i’m constantly shedding my skin. discovering what’s underneath.

via.

i wasn’t always like this, but i spent too long being the version of myself that others wanted me to be. when i finally learned to sift through the noise enough to begin finding glimmers of who i wanted to be, it felt like taking a deep breath. it felt like coming home.

i’ve learned there is a truth that lives inside of us, gnawing away at us. once we speak that truth, we begin to see the entire world differently. suddenly, there is no more pain. no more nerves. only truth.

you are free.

via.

what could the world be like, if we all revealed our truths? if we all released the thing that’s inside of us?

what would the world be like, if we all felt safe enough to be free?

who would you be, if you let go of the expectations others have for you? if you were really, truly you?

via.

the walls have been crumbling down around us for years, revealing the world for what it really is. why shouldn’t our own walls come down as well, that we may better bare our teeth against those who stand in our way?

that we may better see each other — and forge genuine connections in the process?

i am asking you to see me as i am rather than who you think i should be. i am asking you to see yourself as who you are. to find that self that lives deep in the heart of you, that self that no one else can be. to courageously step into the light. to show me — to show everyone — who you are.

via.

i am asking you to be brave, not just for me, or even for you, but for all of us.

stay soft, stay unfolding.

<3

n.

via.

surprise! i’m back in your inboxes earlier than anticipated, with an announcement:

i’ll be launching an new paid newsletter tier in 2026!

don’t worry — i’ll continue offering the free monthly essay every first monday. but for anyone who wants a little extra inspiration, the new tier will be an extra mid-ish-month essay that looks at the creative process. because you — yes, you! — are a creative, just by daring to be alive. to live is to dream, after all, and what are creatives if not dreamers?

what if all you needed was permission to create the thing that’s bursting inside of you, begging to be set free? 

i believe you already have all the answers you need inside of you — you just need to say yes to them. the bonus newsletters will be a tiny push towards embracing that “yes.” tiny pushes to make tiny steps that bring you closer to your dreams, with behind-the-scenes peeks into my own processes, tips and tricks i’ve picked up along the way, and gentle nudges to encourage and motivate you in your own creativity and becoming. 

the paid tier of this newsletter will launch in march, but until then, i’ll be sharing some freebie previews of what that’ll look like. if you like what you see, consider signing up for $5 a month to keep reading after the paywall goes up.

(and yes, i am a former theater kid. yes, i did watch and love the unhinged masterpiece that is glee. please do not hold either of those facts against me.)

why do we stand in the way of our own power? we are so scared to become our true selves, to let ourselves be seen.

but what if all you needed was permission to create the thing that’s bursting inside of you, begging to be set free? 

maybe all we need is a push. for someone to understand the battle raging inside of us without us having to explain it, and for that person to say: 

go for it. do the thing. share it with the world.

we’re longing to have our moment on the stage. we just want who we are — who we really are — to be acknowledged. to be accepted.

so this is me, telling you that i see you. telling you that the world needs you to show up as who you are. to embrace cringe. to be vulnerable. 

the world needs your ideas, your passion, your love.

so much of the anger we hold, of the fear that stops us, of the pain we endure, comes from what we’re holding in. from pretending to be someone we’re not, just to fit in (or even to survive). but what would it look like if we all just… let go?

if we all took one collective inhale, and exhaled everything we’ve been keeping hidden?

what a relief that would be, to finally fully stretch out our muscles. to see just how expansive we can become.

there is and only has been and only will ever be one you. why would you purposefully make yourself so small, to become a copy of a copy of a copy of someone else? why, when you contain so many multitudes, would you ever let yourself be anything other than infinite?

we are children of the stars. we don’t belong in boxes. we deserve the opportunity to shine.

to be seen. to be held.

in 2026, i’m encouraging you to let go of what’s holding you back. to allow the world the privilege of seeing you as you truly are. to experience all you have to share.

you, yes you.

you hold everything you need inside of you. you just need to allow yourself to access it, to set it free.

if you need some gentle nudges, guidance, or pep talks along the way, i’ll be here. next month, i’ll be sharing the first step i took in beginning to align my life with my strengths and my values, so that i could begin the process of unmasking and expanding into who i’ve always been, on the inside — and how you can do the same.

seeing you and holding you gently through the end of the year.

<3,

n.

via.

it’s been a full year of ✨ maybe we’re infinite ✨ — i’m so appreciative of everyone who’s come on this journey with me! i will continue playing with the shape and form of this newsletter, allowing it to be whatever it needs to be monthly, but this will always be a place to explore the tender bits of who we are, and who we are becoming.

i’ve also got some surprises coming up in 2026 as i expand into myself and explore my own becoming. stay tuned!

this newsletter’s name was borrowed from john green’s YA novel turtles all the way down / the movie based on the book. in it, a young woman with obsessive-compulsive disorder is going through her own messy process of becoming and understanding her self. the scene varies between the book and movie, but in the movie, she’s visiting her dream college and sitting in on a class with the professor whose work inspires her to want to go to school there. after the class, she meets the professor and has this conversation with her:

“i’m worried that i’m not real.”

“why is that?”

“it’s like what you said — a lot of my thoughts and behaviors don’t even feel like they’re mine. like they’re not things i want to think or do. and then when i look for the originator of my thoughts, the Real Me, i never find it. you know those nesting dolls? the ones that are hollow, and when you open them up, there's a smaller one inside, and you keep opening them until eventually you get to the smallest one, and it's solid all the way through. but with me, i don't think there is one that is solid. they just keep getting smaller and smaller.”

“that reminds me of an old story. there's this very famous scientist and he's giving a lecture on astronomy to a large audience. and he's describing how the earth orbits the sun and the sun orbits the galaxy, etcetera, etcetera. and when he's finally done, a little old lady in the back raises her hand and says: ‘professor, with all due respect, what you've just told us is bullshit. the truth is the earth is resting on the back of a giant turtle.’ so the very famous scientist gives a smug smile and says: ‘so what is the turtle resting on?’ and the woman replies: ‘it's resting on the shell of another giant turtle, of course.’ and the scientist says: ‘and that turtle?’ and the woman exclaims: ‘don't you understand? it's turtles all the way down.’ 

you're imagining the True Self, the self that exists independent of circumstance, as that turtle on the very bottom of the pile. but... maybe it's turtles all the way down. maybe you're infinite. and i think your doubts make you more real. not less.”

- turtles all the way down, john green

this is my most core belief: that we are infinite.

that we are endless means we have endless capacity to learn, to explore, to create. it means there are infinite ways of being, not just one “right” way. it means we are never done becoming ourselves.

the idea of being infinite is terrifying. boundaries can be comforting. rules can make things feel safer. and some boundaries are appropriate! and necessary! for self care, for making space for others. boundaries allow others to see and love us in the ways we want to be seen and loved. 

but when we box ourselves in out of fear, our soft, safe boundaries end up becoming our cages.

because we are infinite beings surrounded by other infinite beings in an infinite universe, two opposites are true at once: we are both large and small. we are full and we are empty. we are everything, all at once.

we are a part of the constant both/and dance of the universe.

i believe we need to feel small, we need to feel some measure of insignificance. we need to be humbled by the vastness of the universe to feel some measure of peace, to feel life is worth living.

“i feel… small [...] but not insignificant. like i’m a part of something greater. like maybe i’m meant for better.”

- tusk love, thea guanzon

and because we are infinite beings, we actually have infinite time. we were once stardust and back to stardust we will go, when our energy rejoins the infinite collective consciousness of all things. energy never disappears, it only transforms.

“look up long enough and you start to feel your infinitesimality. the difference between alive and not — that’s something. but from where the stars are watching, there is almost no difference between varieties of alive, between me and the newly mown grass i’m lying on right now. we are both astonishments, the closest thing in the known universe to a miracle.”

- turtles all the way down, john green

and once you realize that we are bigger than our bodies, that we are more than just these human shells, none of the earthly constructs — money, status, things — matter anymore.

what would it look like to embrace our infinitesimality? to allow ourselves to dream big? 

“we have big, beautiful brains. we invent things that fly. we write poetry [...] we are capable of big lives. a big history. why settle? why choose the practical thing, the mundane thing? we are born to dream and make the things we dream about.”

- the sun is also a star, nicola yoon

what if we understood — truly understood — that because we are infinite, we carry infinite love inside of us? that there is more than enough love for everyone? that it does not need to be hoarded like a precious resource? what would it look like to love big?

via.

to understand that every life is beautiful and sacred and worthy. that existing is enough, not because of what we do or our potential, but because of how much we already carry within us.

“i want to insist that our being alive is beautiful enough to be worthy of replication. and so what? so what if all i ever made of my life was more of it?”

- on earth we’re briefly gorgeous, ocean vuong

to end the year, i’ll share some notes with you from my journal. some thoughts you can ruminate on as you take this season to slow down, to hibernate and prepare for the spring:

i trust my knowing.

every day i grow stronger and clearer in my inner voice. in knowing and understanding what i want, what i need, what is good for me.

no one belongs in this body more than me.

no one belongs to this body more than me.

i am the keeper of my Self.

every day, i cast the net of my Self out wider. i expand. i continue becoming.

every day, i become more my Self.

i am full. i am whole. even as i continue growing. because my Self is infinite. i dwell in possibility. every version of me can and does and will exist, in this lifetime, in me.

all my past and future selves become infinite knowledge. i carry every answer within me.

i’ll see you back here in 2026.

stay soft, stay infinite.

<3,

n.

long live my favorite pirate, josh naylor.

i was told, somewhat jokingly, to write 3k words about baseball, which, if you’ve ever known me, is quite possibly the unlikeliest sentence i ever imagined myself writing.

and yet, here i am, crying over baseball, and so full to bursting with words bottlenecked inside of me. a pile of jumbled half-thoughts and mostly-feelings fighting to make their way out first.

via.

as it turns out… i love baseball.

i’ve always loved going to a baseball game — all my friends know that. i love the thrill of a packed stadium. i love an overpriced beer and greasy stadium food. i love browsing the merch — the MERCH! my little shopaholic heart loves seeing all the silly and fun things a team decides to sell (and the unauthorized merch being sold outside the stadium with all the best one-liners from the non-media-trained/don’t-give-a-fuck athletes — never change, Big Dumper!!).

via.

i love the buzz in the air. the way a crowd becomes one singular entity, experiencing joy, elation, hope, gloom, or depression alike. i love the feeling of belonging, which is all i have ever wanted, anywhere. in baseball, belonging is tangible. fans cheer and scream with each other, performing call-and-response or doing the wave. they high five or hug when things go right. they show solidarity with the team by waving their rally towels or wearing their silly little rally caps or shoes or whatever other random items they can balance on their heads. when a team wins a big game, the crowd filters out and the excitement is palpable. 

via.

it’s the only time in my life where sensory overwhelm becomes fun and enjoyable, rather than making me want to run away and go breathe into a bag in a dark, quiet room.

anything can happen. and it will. and it does. in baseball — as in no other sport — the impossible is becomes possible, every single game. baseball is a game of hope. baseball fans have to be endlessly optimistic because the tides can turn at any moment.

i’ve been in love with a seattle mariners fan for 13 years, which means that, for over a decade, i’ve experienced what it is to see someone be endlessly hopeful. when we moved to seattle three years ago, i knew that meant we’d be going to games regularly, and that i’d be hearing more about a sport that i only marginally cared about from someone who is extremely passionate about it. baseball is its own language, one that relies heavily on numbers, and to me that has always meant that it was not for me, because numbers become fuzzy when i look at them too long or think about too hard. they jumble up in my mind and make no sense at all. i love the complexities of language and words, but when people speak in numbers, it makes me feel alien, other. 

that is not the point of baseball, to me. so for a long time, my caring about the sport extended only to the boundaries of the stadium, and not one inch beyond.

but this year, after two years of going to mariners games and enjoying myself in an emotionally detached way, the tides turned. we watched them win, and win again. i started learning not just the names to chant, but when to expect to chant for them because suddenly i started understanding the positions and the rules of the game. i learned who my favorites were — and not just because they said funny things in interviews or had amazing hair or nice butts or excellent merch (though that helps, always).

i started to care.

and then they made it to the postseason, and the normally sleepy city of seattle was suddenly buzzing. and i started taking my emergency anxiety meds, and even more antacids than usual. but it felt immensely worth it, to be a part of it. to feel those extreme highs and lows, and come back the next day ready to do it all over again.

after one particularly difficult loss, we drove home listening to the kind of sad-but-beautiful songs that make you love everything even as you’re crying. “Long Long Time” by Linda Ronstadt came on, and i held my partner’s hand as we sang along, the lights of the nighttime city shimmering around us in a fast-motion blur. seattle has a reputation for being grey and gloomy, but if you’ve never seen the city at night, you know that it sparkles — all those lights reflecting off the water. it’s beautiful even when it breaks your heart.

at the same time the postseason was happening, i started reading The Prospects, by KT Hoffman. it was a silly little pickup, offered by a friend and accepted in a moment of, “hey, i like baseball! i like gay stories! this looks cute!”

as the mariners dove into the second half of an extremely tense playoff series, i read:

“‘We’ll try again tomorrow,’ he adds, because he really does want to believe that tomorrow will be different than today, than the days that led up to today. It’s the way Gene approaches baseball — not just day-to-day, but inning-to-inning, play-to-play. The ability for one pitch, one hit to change the tide of a game has always made baseball special: it is a rare sport where, truly the game doesn’t end until it ends.”

i did not expect that book to devastate me the way that it did. the story of a sweet, young, trans baseball prospect making it out of the minors and into the majors — and falling in love, and learning to let himself want, and believe that he deserves to want and not just hope — hit home in ways i wasn’t ready for. 

when his maybe-new-boyfriend-and-forever-crush asks to hold his hand so he can come out to his family, this line pulled on my heartstrings in a way i wasn’t ready for:

“[...] Gene notices that something in Luis’s face has opened up. Partly, Gene is sure, it’s the simple act of being home. But the other part, the part that queer people maybe understand better than anyone else, is the act of a parent changing the shape of their home so it can fit you, and loving you as much as they always have. More, because they know you better now.”

i’m crying again just rereading that. and touched — in a way that i can’t explain, not without an entirely separate essay — about the joy that Gene finds in his own queerness, in the trans body he over and over again says he loves despite the way the world thinks he shouldn’t. what a revelation, to read a book about a trans character who loves himself, even if he hasn’t quite figured out how to let others do so, too.

he belongs, not to others, but to himself. and that is extraordinary.

the mariners didn’t make it to the world series, but they made it as far as they’ve ever gotten. we not only witnessed history, but got to be a part of it, living in the city, going to games. we spent more than i care to admit on postseason tickets, because there is nothing like the thrill of being there, in person, clutching the railing until your knuckles are white, screaming your throat raw, jumping up from your seat to cheer with a crowd. for an entire season, and a bit beyond, i felt what it was like to belong. i learned to let myself want that belonging, to believe i was part of it and deserved it. 

what a gift, to experience that.

stay soft, stay wanting,

<3,

n.

p.s.

• this poem, by lauren mantis

• q&a post — safe space to ask questions as a queer ally

• this moment 😭 

gif from “fire of love”

i missed my self-imposed deadline this month because i’ve been sitting with these thoughts and having trouble untangling them enough to make sense of what i wanted to say. so this will be imperfect, but what isn’t, especially in these times? maybe the sharing is enough, that others might take these thoughts and turn them into something that’s useful for them.

via.

i believe we hold rage because we carry hurt — that others are not living up to the basic expectations required of a community — that they are not living up to our expectations — that the world is unfair and unjust, that we, ourselves, are not always the people we want to be.

i believe our rage is grief, crying out to be held and healed. that it needs time and space to simply be, so that its edges can soften and we’re able to better understand and move through it. that we often hold on to our rage so tightly while the edges are still sharp, we don’t give it the space it needs to transform, because everything transforms, into something we can hold gently and, eventually, let it go of.

that we end up cutting ourselves on that rage, the wounds making the rage continue building, until it becomes something uglier, something rotten.

that, ultimately, there can be no healing without love.

“watching you hold your hatred for such a long time i wonder: isn’t it slippery? might you not someday drop it on yourself? i wonder: where does it sleep if ever? and where do you deposit it while you feed your children or sit in the lap of the one who cherishes you? there is no graceful way to carry hatred. while hidden it is everywhere.”

- alice walker

i have been angry, and it exhausted me. it drained me so fully, i could no longer find joy. it hardened my heart.

via.

i have seen how anger transforms good people, people who care about kindness and fairness. how it prevents them from seeing reality, so assumptions become their truth. how they stop being able to see the good in others, because they begin assigning values based on those assumptions. how the entire world, for them, becomes a place full of villains, of bad intentions.

via.

i think we make a mistake when we confuse passion for rage. because, yes, rage can be a spark to ignite, to catalyze. but passion ultimately stems from love, not hate. when we are motivated by love, a warm ember rather than a quick-burning fuel, our energy is sustained. we can go longer, dive deeper, when our hearts are soft, when that softness allows others in. when we can rely on others to help shoulder the burden of carrying on.

“the feeling behind their words was no longer a furious need, driven by neither rhyme nor reason, but simply an inevitability. a surrender. they had come this far. they would see this through.”

- micaiah johnson, those beyond the wall

after anger comes surrender. here is a quiet prayer for myself, for others: 

may i surrender myself to the tides of life. may i relinquish control, so that i no longer feel rage about the things i don’t have control over.

and when anger does come, because it will, may i learn to allow it to become a spark, rather than something endlessly burning, turning my soul to ash. may i let love carry me forward.

via.

stay soft, stay passionate,

<3,

n.

p.s.

• if you haven’t seen “fire of love” — where this post’s featured image came from — go watch it right now.

• also highly recommend reading both books that were quoted in this post:

  • play nice

  • those beyond the wall (but start with the first book, the space between worlds)

• …if your heart needs a lighter read, though, might i recommend this entirely sweet and swoon-y and weird and silly cozyish fantasy romance? i just finished the trilogy and sobbed at it being over. but like, a good sob, because of all the happy endings.

cringe is forever, including my photoshop skillz.

there’s been a lot circulating about gen-z and anti-cringe culture — they did, after all, invent “cheugy” to poke fun at millennial cringe. and they seem to be extremely concerned about not making the same mistakes of generations past, no matter how small they may be. but the truth is, this started way before them, and will continue so long as we continue caring about how others perceive our lives, rather than how we experience them.

it’s not a new thing, the pressure to perform, the society gossip. it’s just that now we live in a time where we’re under constant surveillance. it feels like we have no private spaces anymore where we can be our own freaky selves — or even explore what that looks like. we can’t be silly without worrying we’ll go viral for it, become a worldwide laughingstock.

we have no space to embrace cringe. to revel in it.

add to that: in difficult times — like when the world is on fire and people are being killed just for existing — we seek comfort. we want to be able to feel in control of something, even if it’s just what we buy. we are all 50s housewives, looking for that mad men-style advertisement of bottled perfection. that one thing we can buy that will make our lives shiny and seamless.

via.

and so punk dies. zines die. the whole idea of DIY as a creative outlet dies. instead of scouring our neighborhoods for trinkets that define our current place and time, that represent our lives as they actually are, we go to target, home goods, world market and buy things that make it seem we’re living different lives. ones that involve extensive travel, luxury shopping trips, yachts off the italian coast. we buy a dupe of a dupe of a dupe until our entire lives become dupes. 

we are facsimiles of what we want to be, rather than true versions of ourselves.

we want perfectly curated lives. we want to proclaim on the internet that WE HAVE LIVED, without actually taking the risk to do so. the risk of being messy, of inviting others into our messiness, of asking them to be messy with us. the risk of figuring things out together, instead of paying someone else to give us the answers.

via.

we mistake representation for reality — performing activism instead of doing it, showing intimacy instead of building it. we’re more comfortable crying on instagram — or posting something that shows we’re actually so vulnerable and so authentic — than crying in front of our friends.

but we don’t need permission to be messy, unfinished, uncurated. what would it look like to prioritize process over output? to enjoy the art of being rather than doing? 

what if we reclaimed our time as ours, rather than everyone else’s? what if we practiced building our connections on presence instead of performance, flawed and unfiltered?

via.

it’s not that there isn’t room for aesthetics — there is joy in beauty. it’s about finding that beauty in the raw mess of living. it’s appreciating that, if you scoop up a bouquet from a meadow, it’s not going to be a bunch of roses. it’ll be a variety of wild flowers and wild grasses. some weeds. probably even some bugs.

it won’t be perfect, but it will be beautiful. all those wild things, just fighting to exist.

just like you, just like me.

via.

stay soft, stay sexy/camp/silly/outrageous/ambitious.

<3,

n.

p.s.

• ocean vuong on how cringe culture holds young people back

• making mistakes can be fun! and silly! especially when you’re an 18-year-old who’s allowed to get tattoos! (ask me how i know)

• aesthetics have killed the house party

• speaking of buying experience, did you know you can pretend to have nipple piercings now?

• nothing is more cringe — or punk — than asking for what you need and offering pieces of yourself to others!! bring back the barter system!!

via.

when she said you do not have to be good,

because the truth is

you do not have to be right,

but you do have to be good — not perfect, simply good — and you have to believe

in the goodness of others —

your need to be right is firm as cement, binding the brick walls between us.

but when you believe in the goodness of others,

when you can see their humanity, when you desire to also be good —

you will want to fight for them

just as fiercely as you would fight for yourself.

the world does not just go on — not for us —

it takes many acts of humanity to make it so,

because the world simply does not need us — it will go on without us.

so, no,

it is not enough to love what the soft animal of your body loves.

you do not need to skin your knees,

but you must be good enough to love all of the other soft animals too —

to witness their despair

and their joy

and their fear

and their hope

and understand that while you have a place —

while you belong —

in the family of things —

they do too.

p.s.

taking a continued summer interlude from regular essays, but who knows? maybe content form will continue being loosey-goosey because i’m having fun with it. stay tuned!

i started working on this project at some point during quarantine but, as with most things back then, the process became too heavy to see through. at the time, i was working through my definition of my self — and experiencing the dual joy and grief of coming out as nonbinary.

i was letting go of who i was so that i could begin to explore all of my beautiful possibility.

taking this project back up feels like coming home to myself. sharing a sneak peek with you all here. it will be available soon, in zine form. write me back if you’re interested in getting a copy via snail mail <3

stay unstoppable.

<3,

n.