I have always been a writer. At my core, that is what I am: someone who appreciates the warp, the weft of words as they waft through my soul. There is something about the specific feeling of an outpouring, of words siphoning through my fingers onto the keys, that is like nothing else.

I have been this since early ages - when I could pick up a pen, I did. When I was a teenager, I began blogging, writing furtive, longing stories late at night on the platforms of the day: OpenDiary, Xanga, LiveJournal. I reveled in the feeling of creation, then release: showcasing something I had crafted and created to others, behind the screen of the web.

And then, the years of being a street performer. I wrote countless poems on the spot for people here in New York: tourists and locals, people from all over the world. In those interactions, I was so struck: how their words would inspire me, and I would find something, like a treasure, a nugget of gold, using that to spin a tale, something they could then take into the rest of their lives, a souvenir, an appreciation. A marvel.

Lately, I have been wandering again through words. I found the book Just Kids by Patti Smith and am transported by her prose. So much of prose I see in my life is now truncated, made blunt and sharp by the need for sales, social media, conversion. I fall victim to this too, and I am not pretending I am above it: I’m not. I do this also. I run a business. At times, I feel I waffle between my worlds.

Yet there is a magic, a magnificence, to words - to words as long things, as vibrant, as a cluster of nouns and cliches and adjectives and notions, all strung together, for the pure pleasure of it. That is like nothing else. That is like nothing else.

An ode, then, to such.

Lately, I have been deeply longing. Longing for a life I want and can see, but feels still a few blocks away; longing, perhaps, for companionship, though that stays quieter nowadays than it once did. Longing to arrive.

I remember that feeling of longing so distinctly from my teenage days: when I was writing those journal entries. They were always stories, stories about young women, troubled women, beautiful, impossible women. I put my longing into narrators, into other characters, into people who didn’t yet exist. I crafted my longing into narrative. I turned my want into song.

Perhaps that is why I am at the keyboard again: to transmute my longing. After all, research shows that writing - and art - helps us process; when we craft a narrative, we feel better. Voila, magic. Voila, words.

As I long for my life, as I seek, as I search, as I craft, as I create - are not words a balm?

You know what I love about New York? (amidst a million things): That it is a world of worlds. That is, anywhere I walk, I can see multiple universes, all convening with one another, all atop each other, all in close proximity. I am staying at a friend’s place as I care for her feline familiar; walking through the neighborhood, I am struck: it is so close to where I live and yet a different universe. A marvel!

Any neighborhood I walk in this city, it is the same: look, an entire universe! Moving and roving and living. Oh, Sonder! Oh, Wonder! Oh, World!

Perhaps the beauty and curse of an artist, both, is the meaning. Seeking meaning, creating meaning, drafting meaning, always wanting meaning. We see it everywhere, those of us with creative predilections: in the feathers I find on my path (those, in my cosmology, mean I’m on the right path); in the mourning dove who perched, for the first time, on my windowsill; in the friend who texts when we haven’t spoken in months. Meaning everywhere. Little golden treasures of it, sprinkled along our path, winking in the light.

But isn’t this what an artist - does? Haven’t we always turned to artists, and art, for our meaning? Haven’t we always asked them to make sense of this universe, vibrant as it is, marvelous as it is, with all its chaos and uncertainty, too? Have not the artists and philosophers always been like the stars, like a beacon: shining us through the dark?

Likely so.

So I will keep this, this cavalcade of words. I parade them around on days of the week; sometimes they spill forth, seeming of their own volition. I waffle and weave between my own different worlds: business owner, artist, woman making her way, late 30s, all of the above.

But I am a writer. And a writer must write. And so I do, day over day, word by word.

See you next time.

Impermanence is a motherf*cker.

This same friend said this to me - in a text this time - and I laughed out loud. We were talking about romance, about hearts, and about how, even when you know something needs to end, you may resist it, pushing against the very thing you know is best.

I like moments like this: irreverence. Moments that remind me that we are all on a spinning blue space ball, hurtling through time and space, and as curious as it may be, and as strange, and as marvelous, too - it’s funny, in its own way.

Oh, irreverence!

Impermanence. On the mind, on the heart. As I walk through a city filled with smoke; as I witness our earth changing. As I walked the razor’s edge of life and death with my dad over the past few months (he is doing better - more on that in a moment). As I end grad school, begin a new chapter, the next chapter. As it all changes: seasons, loved ones, friends, romance, everything.

Impermanence. An open palm. The seasons turning. Always, this.

Once, I was deeply, deeply, deeply in love with a man. Let’s call him P. P and I were breaking up because I was moving - I was 26 at the time and wanting to head out for my dreams in California (this was a great move for me!). He and I had had a brief and deep connection in Asheville, and now I was headed West.

I wanted to stay together despite the move; he didn’t. But I knew I had to go, and so I was.

Despairing at our imminent ending, I lamented the circumstances to him.

You know, he said, change needs heat - friction. Tapas. Maybe all this friction you’re feeling now - is just helping you jettison off, into what’s next.

I didn’t like that at the time, of course I didn’t! I wanted him to drop to one knee and propose, not wax poetic.

But … he was right.

Damn.

He was right.

Is this friction now, in our world, in favor of change? Is it helping us shift? I don’t know, nor will I claim that smoke-filled skies and terrorizing humans will support us. But I know that in the personal sphere, in my own little world, this has shown to be true.

Impermanence is always around, of course. The only constant. But it has been more so at my shores lately. I went to a festival; it was delicious; it ended.

And - then there were those months, oh those brutal months, while dad was in the hospital. For those curious, he has since come home, and is in in-home hospice. He is actually doing very well - much better than we expected.

But …for two months, as I trekked between hospital and home, working on my thesis between overnights where my dad didn’t know who I was and I stared up at a black ceiling, wondering, how,

The presence of it - of everything, everyone, every moment - being on loan from the universe, cosmically fading in and out, in constant, ever turning motion -

Was pressing.

Yeah, sure, impermanence is a motherf*cker. The gods were kind to hand us bodies and pleasure and tree leaves and flowers and best friends and laughing ‘til our bellies hurt - but the trade off, they conceded sheepishly, is that it’s not forever.

But … could that be the gift of it, too?

If you’ve seen the show The Good Place (spoiler incoming), you know that its ending was all about how the brevity of life - is what makes it sweet.

If it went on forever, they conjecture …
It wouldn’t be nearly as beautiful.
Nearly as ripe.
Nearly as delicious.

Nearly as … life.

Could that be so?

I’m not saying we like it - lord knows we don’t. Do you think I was at peace with death as it hovered above me with its sickle and quiet eyes? Do you think I was okay with leaving P, way back when? I gnashed my teeth and wept, battled the moment, raged. Rage, rage against the dying of the light - but

But we can only fight the sunset for so long. Just as we can only fight the dawn.

Life, and death, and all in between: goes on and on.

There’s this song by Florence and the Machine - I’ll leave it below. I listened to it a bunch when dad was in the hospital, when I was going on runs to keep myself somehow sane. The lyrics speak to this, this cosmic spinning. One part says,

Is this how it is?
Is this how it's always been?
To exist in the face of suffering and death
And somehow still keep singing?

How many traditions have asked this? How many ancestors, how many wisdom keepers? How many answers?

Yes, this is how it has always been. The beauty and the sorrow. The horror and the wonder. Listen, I eventually got over P. Listen, my father is better now, but he won’t always be.

So for now. I laugh when my friend says quips I love. I walk through a city that is sometimes filled with smoke; I do my best to help this earth.

And, like all of us, I keep singing.

I keep singing.

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A Practice for Impermanence:

Go somewhere in nature, where you can observe a natural phenomenon: whether a river, a waterfall, or a tree.

Sit quietly; notice your breath. Notice the rise and fall of it, the way it comes in and out.

Notice the shape of your body. Feel your edges. Soften; relax.

With soft eyes, notice this natural phenomenon. Witness it gently. Notice how it changes over time; how the water shifts or the leaves rustle. See if you can simply observe without story.

Do this for at least five or ten minutes. At the end, observe if your state has at all changes.

A Creative Prompt for Impermanence:

Create something to give to someone. Create it with the express intention of releasing it. Notice: does this change your relationship to it? What is your experience of creating like - when you know you will let it go?

Then: give it to someone. Notice if that has any effect on you, as well.

Friends -
I’m making a small change in my email list after this. I’ll keep writing a monthly essay here on Substack - and for weekly offers + updates, I’ll be switching back to Flodesk.

Keep an eye out for those emails! And come and go as you please - I’ll never spam you. This is just about giving each writing its own home.

Thanks for being along for the ride.

Hi, my friends -

As summer winds along, I am delighted to inform you that I have spots available in my coaching practice.

These spaces are for people who want to come deeper into contact with themselves — their aliveness, their creativity, and their center.

For people who want to come home to themselves.

Whether you’re navigating a transition, stepping more fully into your journey, or just feeling called to work together … this work is for you. 🌿

As a coach, I work somatically - moving from the inside out. After all, it is from our bodies - from our whole, holistic container - that true change occurs.

If this resonates, you can schedule a (free) clarity call or learn more about my packages.

In true service -

“Magic loves the void.”

My friend said this to me, holding my gaze, as we stood in the stream of the subway station, people pirouetting all around us.

It struck me in that way things sometimes do: a phrase that comes at the right moment, in the right setting, to make a real impact.

Magic loves the void.

I’ve talked a lot about how I felt post-graduation, when I was 22. How others seemed to know where they were going, and heading, and what they were doing, and I felt devoid of purpose, sucked into a pit of Tumblr and warm beer and unfulfilling nights out at the bar.

I’ve also told you how, once, I said to a therapist, frustrated, “I feel like I’m in a lull right now,” and she replied - oh so wisely -

“So be in the lull.”

We resist it. I do. The void, the not knowing, the place where we aren’t sure what’s next. Like Most Humans On Earth, I want certainty - a future that has laid out plans, and markers, and clear delineations. I want to get to A, then B, then C, and have signposts along the way.

But life … is not so much like that.

The “void” of my early 20s led to such beautiful things. My eventual method of throwing every spaghetti noodle at the wall led me down a path which, though surprising, was full of delight, and connection, and beauty. I don’t know that I would have gotten there without the nothingness, the void.

In the fertile soil post breakup - that I have walked myriad times - similar. As hard as those times are, they make us. The void that arises from the lack of another - another who we’ve come to rely on, to turn to, to so adore - leads us, somehow, deeper into ourselves, if we allow it.

And in all the times of transition: when you change jobs or locations, or end a project, only to stare out at the now-quiet dawn and wonder, “what’s next?” -

Somehow, the answer, when it comes -
Is just right.

Magic loves the void.

Let that phrase be passed along, from my palm to yours, if you too needed it, if it somehow lights you.

From the quietest places,
From the locations where we are most still,
From the deepest unknown -

Is often where the next step arises.

And that is just so.

A Practice For the Void (or Otherwise):

I’m going to try something new, wherein I offer you a practice, from time to time. This week, I’m offering Somatic Centering - something I love deeply. It’s a brief practice that can be done anywhere.

A Creative Prompt For You:

Pull out a piece of paper or notebook. Pull out, also, some creative supplies: crayons, markers, watercolor, and so on.

Let yourself come to stillness. (You are welcome to do the meditation above) Take deep breaths.

From this stillness, see what arises. Come with no plan - let the brush, pen, pencil or otherwise - lead you. See if you can imagine that whatever comes - arises from your deepest center.

Allow what comes through. No right or wrong; it just is.

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The Knicks won the national championship for the first time in 53 years. The World Cup kicked off, with splendor (and plenty of questionable elements, of course).

And my father turned 84.

Two weeks ago, I was in Europe.

This was a long-awaited trip, one I’d put off once due to dad’s condition and the need for me to help out in the hospital. It was to celebrate that I graduated grad school: that after two years of sweat and effort, papers written and classes taken, time spent in libraries and pouring myself into a body of work - I walked across a stage, was handed a diploma, and was declared a Master.

Two days before I walked, I ran my second half marathon. I beat my own time by a couple of minutes (I was happy with this!).

A few weeks before that, I submitted my thesis - the thesis I wrote, in part, in between hospital shifts, as I shuttled from my parents’ house to the rehab to care for my sick dad, my ailing dad, my dad who we didn’t think would make it to his recent birthday.

All of which is to say:
It’s been a big few weeks.

What does a body do, in the face of such intensity? How do any of us walk, through seasons where life shows up with raw, vivid honesty? Where we must wander the precipice between life and death, clutching to whatever we can? When we are in hospital rooms and funeral parlors, waiting areas and doctor’s clinics - when we look around and wonder, plaintive, begging, how will I ever get through this?

I wondered this question much, during that stretch. Turned my face up to the stars in weeping inquiry. The answer, when it came, was so simple:

You just do.

I have long thought that any of my processes have a way of dripping down my body. That is, I’ll understand something intellectually; but for it to really land in my body in a true and rooted way - takes time. Almost as if the idea, the notion, the experience - must make its way down, through the mind and fascia and bone, down to my belly, from where I know.

Perhaps these seasons of intensity, of whirlwind, are as such, as well.

Perhaps these seasons of intensity are also a bit like - storm. A clearing, a way of moving things through, and even nourishing the soil. Like a way to give nutrient, albeit through challenging means.

Perhaps these seasons of intensity are, in a sense, somehow good for us: like a workout, we feel sore afterwards, but strong - even though they are, of course, so tough.

Perhaps these seasons of intensity make us.

They are - not easy. I know. I am changed by the last few months, indelibly. Irrevocably. Twisted, in some way, like a towel on a line.

But this is what makes us, after all. The darkest nights; the most curious mornings.

I keep thinking, again and again, how none of our ancestors walked through this life without scars. We are all born of warriors. And it is through the storms - that we root, that we expand into, that we then - grow.

So, there is that. I have walked through one storm. Whether there will be another - well, inevitably, it rains again, but when? - we don’t know.

For now, it is enough that I get to go hug my father. He made it to his 84th birthday; we did not think he would.

For now, it is enough to let the last few months settle, deep, nestling into my bones. Expanding me. Becoming me. From school to running to travel to family: letting all of that again lace itself through me, rising once more out of my being into who I am on this earth.

For now, it is enough to give you these words.

For now, it is enough to listen to this song I am hearing (I will put it below!) and know -

The storms come.
The storms go.
Always, I’m here.
Always, I grow.

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This brought me no small measure of delight. I’ve lived in this house for going on five years now, and never have I seen a bird’s nest in the tree outside, as much as I’ve tracked its many seasons and avian visitors.

Since then, I have witnessed the little round neighbor in her home (his? their?) again and again. As I write, presently, at 3:33 in the afternoon (cute!) - oh, stop the press. I looked out the window to check on her, and she is not in the nest, but you know what is?

Eggs. Little, round, green eggs. Baby eggs!

Perhaps such things are more commonly witnessed elsewhere, but here in Brooklyn, perched at the edge of my small village in the big city, it feels like an absolute miracle to have this friend so nearby.

So I’ve been tracking her: witnessing her day in and day out. I look out the window to see how she is; I peer through the glass to check on her visage. How miraculous, springtime! How incredible, the way life grows and gives!

Perhaps I am more tuned in presently to this given circumstances. I have made no secret of the fact that it is a turbulent and tough time in my life; a season of loss, as we walk my father into the beyond (though the timeline of such is, to us, unknown). Given the layer of sorrow laced atop much of my existence presently, having the presence of mind to notice miracles - be they minor or otherwise - has been a true gift, a balm.

Similarly, or in that vein, my friend and I went to see Moulin Rouge last night.

It was a spectacle! Made more fun by the fact that this would likely not be the show I chose - but my friend won last minute tickets, and away we went. We had marvelous seats, so close to the stars that I could see their sweat and pores, and I sang along to the familiar tunes (the show has changed, it seems, since the movie of my youth came out).

So these joys - these wonders - these miracles - right now, I cling to them. I savor them. I allow myself to truly steep in them. For they are necessary.

Necessary - and also, something to seek. When I went for a walk, I realized the nest is not visible from street level. Unless you were really certain of what you were looking for - and happened to be looking up at just the right angle - you would miss it.

Aren’t miracles, at times, a bit like this?

Some seasons bring joy to the forefront. It is bold, center stage, the star of the show.

But other seasons - we have to be adamant. We have to become scavengers, hunters of joy. We have to become magnets to miracle, seeking out the minor and major, like creatures catching stars.

We do this so we can weather. So we can be with. So we can walk - the storm.

If it is a sorrowful season - so be it. That I cannot change (in this instance). That I cannot control.

But I can … become a miracle catcher. Looking for them everywhere. Birb on the branch, eggs in the basket, the refrigerator in my house is cool, there are friends to speak to, jokes that make me laugh, the internet, the fact that I can write this to you, my IPad where I draw, drawing itself, and, always, love.

I can become an anthropologist of miracle: studying, finding, keeping, recording.

I can become a PhD of beauty, witnessing, immersing in, enjoying.

I can become a magnet to the marvelous,
Catching moments like falling stars,
One by one.

P.S. The bird is still there.

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It is my birthday. 40 years ago (I am turning 39), I entered this world, with all its pomp and magnitude, beauty and horror, wonder and curious. 40some years ago, I formed into a being, all the atoms and stars and celestial pieces coalescing into my mother’s womb, to bring me forth, to bring me here.

How miraculous. How strange.

Birthday - I just bought myself flowers. Tulips - I love them. I have a fondness for bodega flowers, living where I do. I assume they are not sustainable - I know. I try not to make a habit of it, but on this day: tulips, bodega flowers, proudly stating to the Bodega Man, it’s my birthday! In a small, charming voice he responded, happy birthday, as he handed me the tulips. As I walked back in the lovely spring air.

A friend texted me this morning - it’s 80 degrees for you today. Thank the weather gods, I replied.

Bless these gentle feeling days.

Birthday. Beautiful, bittersweet. I can’t celebrate this day without making aware - my father’s continuing decline. Hospice, the walk forward, the walk to wherever we go. I don’t know how much longer we have. I do my best to keep breathing, anyway. Every moment, one of miracle. Every moment, something to cherish. He and my mother called me to wish me birthday this morning. I recorded him singing in farsi, tavalod, tavalod, tavalodet mobarak. I knew I would continue to cherish this. Even as my heart breaks: can I find light? Can I find light.

Birthday - tonight, I will gather with friends for a dinner - all I wanted on this day, really. Last year, I had large party, declarations, becomings. This year feels quieter. This year feels -

I just got back from a training, my second weekend of Somatic Experiencing. How grateful I am for this training (though I questioned, until the last minute, attending, given the circumstances of my life), which deepens me, expands me, roots me further down. There, some classmates asked me, how do you feel about 39?

I paused.

Good, I said, speaking of how my 30s have felt a decade of gathering, of coming into, and how now, standing as I am on the edge of them, I feel rooted, and resourced, and centered in the vast of Self.

And —

And I spoke honestly, earnestly, about the tenderness of this moment. The portal, the future of loss. How that is also happening.

How we can, ah yes. Hold both.

Birthday. As I embark on this new year, this new cycle, my wishes feel simple, yet wide. I want, I wish, I intend - to keep rooting. I want, I wish, I intend - to expand out from where I am. I want, I wish, I intend - to live my dharma, fully and thoroughly, knowing it is true to who I am.

Above all, I wish to be this being I am, in full splendor, in all her moments: in all the beauty, and in all the joy, and in all the challenge, and in all the all. May I occupy this life thoroughly. May I walk with that truth. May I.

Birthday. Thank you for being here. Thank the ancestors for another day on this green globe. Thank you, as always, for helping me see the light.

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How full circle, this moment: I am seated, in my father’s hospital room, as he dozes, typing at this computer. When I was younger, and I could not sleep at night, fearful as I was of the world and its happenings, he would sit outside my doorway, typing on a laptop, doing his work.

How full circle, this life.

I wish I had more definitive updates to give you. On the one hand, there are moments of light; on the other, I am wary to update on that front at all, given how up and down the entire journey has been.

So perhaps my updates go in another direction.

The other day, not long after I had wept all over my friends at a nice dinner, stealing away into a friend’s room to have a moment in the midst, I thought to myself, with sudden clarity:

I don’t want to be a sad sack.

Now - let me be clear on something: grief is grief. I cannot circumnavigate the circumstances of my life. I can not go around the valley of loss, whenever it may present itself.

This I know.

And.
And.
Aaaand.

I can - choose to center beauty.

I can - see the gorgeous, grace filled moments when they arise (the butterfly / the yoga class / singing with my dad / sitting in the setting sun / a run / and on).

I can - be adamant in my joy. And I mean adamant. In times of darkness, we must be so persistent in finding the sweet, the lovely. Is it easy? No - our brains hew to the challenging. They do this to help us survive, of course they do!

But that doesn’t mean we can’t see the light.

As I was making my way down here for this trip, I kept thinking, this is sacred work. Caretaking is sacred work. Holding our elders as they walk this walk - is sacred work. To be with life in its change and unfolding: sacred. Sacred, sacred.

Can I find beauty in that, too? I do, I do.

So. This. Thus. I will not pretend these are easy times, and surely each of us have our own story of challenge, in whatever way we do.

But - the dogwood. The magnolia. The oak tree. The butterfly. The way the sun filtered through the pines on my run today. That is: the smallest miracles. That is: the light. That is: somehow, still, the magnificence, the marvel, even in tiniest moments, of being … alive.

I kept a list on my phone of joys from the past few days. So far, we have:

Labi Siffre’s song, Bless the Telephone, coming on as I walk to the train, and the sun hitting me in that moment.

Early morning rain by Cleveland Francis

Humor

Writing to my clients

The stars

The smell of flowers

All night long by Lionel Richie

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Grief makes me spare. I stand in the sun, a cup of coffee in my hand. I feel the rays. Oh, the birds are chirping! My ears hear them. It is like - all else falls away.

Grief makes me lean. Little else matters right now than my family, orienting to the needs of this moment, showing up. If I can make it through ten minutes: that is a miracle. Ten minutes more? Amazing.

Grief makes me, at times, hyper present: the only thing that is happening is this computer, these keys, the plant on my desk. At other times, it spins me into some other dimension, far and far away.

Grief makes me.

It is looking, more and more, as if my father is departing us. We do not know the timeline; death is its own process. But we have left the realm of “getting better” and entered the realm of “providing comfort.”

What provides me comfort is knowing that this is what he would want. Many years ago, my brother, mother, and father all read Atul Gwande’s book, Being Mortal. We sat around their kitchen table as they discussed what they had taken away. It was a large consensus: the emphasis on prolonged life, when faced with the truth of decline and suffering, is unnecessary. What matters is a good life. What matters is a good death.

We are trying to give him both.

Of course, it has felt strange and curious to be in the public eye, at moments. Do I still do my events? Do I still hold space? Do I still create content?

In some moments, I am able to, fueled by some fire that says, this is what he wants for you: to live a life.

At other times, I just want to sit in the sun.

There is a cemetery outside my house where I have often taken long, winding walks. I did so plenty after breakups, when I was grappling with the grief of those. I did so plenty when I first moved here, fresh and flower-eyed. I know those hills well.

I remind myself: take these moments. Have the care. Be held. Last night, at the dance I attend (5Rhythms), a friend held me as I shook with weeping. Four other friends gathered in a puddle around me on the floor. A friend, at the beginning, said to me, you have a lot of good people around.

I remind myself that.

Isn’t it tempting, when writing, to want to have a pithy, sumptuous, well worded conclusion? Some way to wrap up the notes and lessons, the way life is presently unfolding?

But in my present unfolding, there is no conclusion. We are at the behest of time and life and death and doctors. We do not yet know how this will go. We know that we are holding care. We know that we are doing my best. My friend reminds me, you don’t have to do this perfectly. You’re doing a good job. I nod, I cry.

So there is no conclusion, only words. And words, which have been my respite for as long as I have know, now turn towards you. They, perhaps, remind you of standing in the sun. They, perhaps, remind you, that this is life, too, in all its glory, in all its muck.

Etc,

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Ayo, friend! A note:
Since I wrote this, a lot happened. It’s been a wild two weeks.
We now have more information; there is, potentially, a bit more light. However, I still wanted to send this to you. It’s perhaps the most honest piece of writing I’ve ever done; and writing, after all, has always been how I process The Big Things.
With love.

I am writing you this from a hospital bed. I am writing you this from a hospital bed, next to my sleeping father, my ailing father, my hurting father. I am writing you this from a hospital bed next to my father, for I do not know what else to do.

I am writing you this from a hospital bed, at 12:25 AM, because words have always been my respite. When I was young and heartbroken, addled by the boys or the world, turning on myself: I wrote. When I was in college and baffled, uncertain how to become the woman I wanted: I wrote. When I was lost. When I was finding. When I was grieving. When I was anything.

So now that I am at the edge of the territory I have known, stepping into a wilderness of which I have precious little knowledge, surrounded, it feels, at times, by dark buzzing - I write.

I write, I write, I write.

My father was always one of my favorite people. I was lucky in this way, blessed in this lifetime with a father figure who was kind, and upright, and generous, and gentle. He imparted upon me wisdom. He made me laugh. He was where I turned when I didn’t know what to do. I’d call home, and my mother would pick up the phone. Hearing me weeping or frantic, she’d knowingly say, “I’ll get daddy.” And he always, always knew what to say to soothe me.

Now it is me soothing him. I pet his brow and tell him, I’m here, daddy. I’m with you. He gets agitated (sundowning). He is confused. I still say, I am with you.

It is one of the most human, and most curious, experiences, this role reversal: one day, you are the child. Suddenly, you are the caretaker.

And so it is.

What do I do, when I’ve reached the edge of my knowing? Not long ago, I was at a gathering, and a woman there quoted her meditation teacher. The teacher said, when you are confused, it just means you have reached the edge of your knowing. In the moment, I rolled my eyes a little. Now, I think of it so often. This is just unknown. This is just new. That is okay. This is new.

So much is new.

Maybe, if nothing else, I can love. My love for my father is vast, wide, wild, enormous. It fills oceans. It fills conference rooms. It is the size of a small city. It could power a power plant!

His love for me, I know, is the same. He always called me his pumpkin pie. Even when he got more confused, when I called, I’d ask, how are you? and he’d respond, the better for talking to you!

Every time.

Our love is wider than our bodies. Our love is timeless. Our love spans lifetimes. Maybe I was his daughter in many. Maybe we were connected in some way. Now he is butterflies. Now he is night skies. Now he walks with me in a different way.

It is worth saying: he is still here. For now. But his mind, it fogs, it drifts.
But do I want to tell you of that? Or -

What I want to tell you about is the butterflies. What I want to tell you about is the birds I heard singing the other day, on the porch, as my mother and I shared a quiet moment with coffee. What I want to tell you is the friends who have brought us food or let me weep all over them or texted me at midnight. Grace. I call it grace. I call it grace.

I want to tell you about grace.

Friend, whoever you are, my words reach to you. They reach to you and they say, none of us is alone. Even when I feel it, sitting as I am, listening to a playlist called ‘classical sleep,’ hearing the whir and buzz of the IV machine. Even as I stare into bleak sky. Even as I ask why why why. None of us is alone.

Maybe these moments, break us as they do, reform us, even then, to be more powerful, more present, more human.

Maybe this, too, is living.

Maybe this, too - is this life.

Is this life.

Is this life.

A note: You may have noticed I’ve been moving between Substack + Flodesk. I will be using this platform for long-form writing, for the time being; I’ll send course updates via Flodesk. You are always welcome to unsubscribe from either or both. Thanks for being here. <3

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I have written this missive to you six times. Every time, I rearrange the words, try better to convey my message. Every time, I start at a different part of the story: the fact that I got food poisoning over the weekend, where I was when I heard of the attacks, the story of my mother’s immigration to the U.S. None of them quite wind up where I want. None of them quite do the right thing.

But here’s the paradox - “right” thing? What am I searching for? What benediction, what salve, what balm? Is there one right now? Is there one right now?

I truly - and genuinely - and fully - don’t know.

I can tell you this: the past week has been a haze. From learning about the death of Khameini while in a cabin upstate, to a cavalcade of messages from both friends and family, to the various think pieces and reflections, and everyone, everyone, everyone, with their thoughts and opinions, loud yellings and notions -

It has been, to say it succinctly, a lot.

I read this article by a diaspora human who spoke of how the Iranian diaspora has been fracturing from its internal squabbles over this war. I felt so seen - so understood. Immediately, the day of the attack, there were fault lines: members of my family who celebrated. Members of my family who were more cautious.

But above all, we all want one thing: peace.

My mother left her home country to pursue education. She always thought she would return, but a revolution rend the fabric of her life apart, and here she stayed, in the United States, where she met my father and carved a life and created a family.

My life has always held these stories: of family who left a land they no longer recognized; of a grandmother who my mother had to scoop out of war; of before and after. My life always felt on a knife’s edge, like I was the child of two parents - Iran and America - who might squabble at any time. My nervous system on alert. Scanning, scanning.

Now that fear has come to pass, and if I am fully honest, I don’t entirely know how to feel. My family wants for this regime to be gone, and I do, too. Is that best done through bombs? Is that best done through this? I don’t know.

Above all, I keep begging people: hold nuance. Hold nuance. Hold many things. You can oppose war and still want a people to be free. You can want a people to be free and still think the way of things is complicated. You can listen to people. You can listen to people.

Perhaps the most maddening has been seeing people online arguing with Iranians about how they should feel. This is wild to me - it is one thing to disagree, but to say, no, you can’t feel that way, and let me tell you about your lived experience. What?!

But. I breathe. I pause. I breathe.

It does nothing for me to find these people online and pursue them. I breathe.

I am seated in the coworking space I joined as I write you this. It is peaceful and sun-soaked; we have a gorgeous day here in New York City, the first of the season. A gift.

Meanwhile, not so far away, streets are soaked in oil and bloodshed, and people are hurting. Those in Iran are caught between tyranny and bombs, perhaps not knowing where to turn. Sometimes, there are not easy answers.

Meanwhile, my WhatsApp chats are rife with opinions, words spat across screens. I feel exhausted by it. Can’t we just listen?

Meanwhile, I don’t even want to make it about me. This moment is far beyond that, the cry of so many ancestors coming through me. (Admittedly, I did get food poisoning over the weekend from Iranian food - that seemed some sort of cruel irony) The cry of a people. The cry of decades. The wanting, always, to be free.

My friends, I do not have for you answers or platitudes. It would be dishonest to try and give them to you, for they do not live through me.

But what does, as always, is a reminder of humanity. Beyond the headlines and the hot takes and the words parried - there are people.

People who want to eat their bread and hug their families.

People who want to dance in the streets.

People who want to live a life that is filled with ease and bounty.

People who want beautiful, bright days, just like any of us.

And above all, and beyond anything, and no matter what, and always -
That is what is the most important,

And Iran deserves to be free.

I’d love to hear from you. If you have thoughts, ideas, feelings, notions - I always love engaging with you below. But please: be kind.

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This past week, I finished up this show I’ve been really enjoying. It’s called Offline Love, and in it, a group of 10 Japanese humans go to Nice, France, where they turn in their digital devices and navigate the city - and dating one another - via map and letter.

It was wholesome, adorable, engrossing. The cinematography, the people involved, the music. I got deliciously obsessed, hunkering down under my weighted blanket, watching it with a mug of tea nearby.

But of course - this would happen. I am, after all, grieving.

When my grandmother passed in 2014, I got really, really into The Hunger Games. I couldn’t tell you quite what it was about the story - it was dark, and engrossing, and I liked that Katniss used bows and arrows and stuff. But looking back, I recognize: my heart needed somewhere to go. It was my first experience of deep grief, in that way, and I needed an escape. Somehow, The Hunger Games did just that.

This time around, it’s dad. He’s declining, his mental fog taking over his mind and causing him to be weaker and weaker. I was always close with my father and this has proven a wide, wild challenge. Many have been the nights I’ve wept; long have been the tears.

Through this, I suppose, there’s Japanese dating shows.

What do any of us do, in times like these? We are stretched and shifted, thrust into portals that change us. What can any of us do, in the face of grief? We are turned and twisted, lifted through the muck of our own existence. At times, grief is a wide, vast lake: black and bottomless. At times, it pulls me (us) under.

And other times, I stand on the shore of it, and I look up, and o. Look. There. There! There is some light.

Things I take comfort in now (other than The Boyfriend, another great Japanese dating show: highly recommend!): sunshine, looking at beautiful views, tiny graces, friends, my family, the comforts I have. Re-committing myself to my purpose, my presence, my being on earth. Story, myth, archetype, ancient history, how we are all part of a continuum, the earth continuing spinning, song.

So with Offline Love finished, I turn to other routes of escape - but I also turn towards. We need both, after all: times when we allow in the vast tundra of our grief; and times when we shut the door, quietly and gently, and light the hearth. Times when we are with others, held in warm arms - and times when we look up at the star-dotted sky, perhaps crying, perhaps for a moment on our own.

Wherever you are in this journey: I pray you, too, find peace. Wherever you are in this journey: may you seek comfort if you need it.

And wherever you are in this journey: Offline Love is a damn good watch.

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When I was 23, I decided to go on a grand adventure that had me shaking in my boots. I found an organization that planted fruit trees at schools all across California, and I thought to myself, that sounds fun! So I applied, fundraised for my plane ticket, and flew out to California.

The first night I arrived, I was petrified. Who the hell were these people? Was I genuinely going to live on a freaking bus with them? WHAT WAS I DOING????

I remember calling the then-boyfriend I had (a friend semi-affectionately called him ‘loafers’) and shivering. He was kind, and patient, and I calmed down.

The fear didn’t leave, exactly. But - and o, this is it, isn’t it? - I did it anyway.

I tell you this tale not to highlight my own particulars, but to emphasize this truth: it is not that there is an absence of fear. It is that we forge on anyway.

When? For what? When we love someone, and we are terrified of opening up. When we are launching a business (or a course, a website, a new venture). When we are going for the dream we know we want. When we are scared to vocalize our opinion on something - to stand for what we know is right. When we march. When we protest. When we parent. When we work. When we love.

In many moments of our lives, we will feel fear. This is the price of admission for some of our greatest moments. That is just - how it is. If there is to be change, there may be fear. If there is to be shift, or expansion, or exposure, or anything new or uncertain or novel - we may quake.

But the true marker of courage - is finding the fortitude to step forth regardless, knowing life is, yes, uncertain, but some of our greatest gifts come from just these risks.

That choice at 23 was undeniably one of the greatest things I’ve ever done for myself. It got me out of my comfort zone, introduced me to people, places, and concepts that became foundational to my life, and set me on a course and path that I am still on today.

There was so much joy, it turns out, on the other side of fear.

These humble turnings. Outside, there are men tending to the iced-over snow, brick-like as it has become, turning the sidewalks to woodland trails, urban routes now more like hiking. I lace up my snow boots and go out anyways.

Last night, I went to a dance, a place that releases me, like a pressure valve on a rice cooker. Five Rhythms - a style of dance that works me like putty, makes of my soul a space that can, once more, witness the world.

Like so many of us, I have felt myself squeezed dry by the realities we all face. Alex Pretti, Minneapolis, Iran, and my own grief, which grows and shifts and expands and collapses and takes its routes. I think of my father. I cry. I cry. I hold. I am.

What a time to be a human! And yet: it has always been.

I went on a walk yesterday, a long one. We got a metric fork-load of snow over the weekend (I believe this to be the legal term), and this is new for my system. I have not lived long in lands where snow falls in such measurement. So I took myself on a walk.

The park provided the joy I sought: dogs leaping, humans chasing after them, people conversing, and adults, in pure wonder, shrieking as they sled down hills. All this before 8 AM.

The sun still shone. Somehow, it does.

I would be remiss to not speak to the world. There are hurts, haunts, horrors. We witness with our hearts beating in sad reverie as the world turns. My country aches in its bounds, tearing at itself. The country of my mother and family reels from such carnage, such heartache, such loss and death - at the hands of its own government - that it is hard to fathom.

What do we do?

Nine years ago, as I told you, I lost many people. Many. Three at once, a weekend filled with funerals and dazed tears.

At that time, too, my system felt overwhelmed. I could not quite turn towards what was, for it felt too vast, too wide, too wild. I had to take it in chunks.

Perhaps we do that here, too - or perhaps we get even wider. Ah, that must be it. For Francis Weller, that incredible teacher, reminds us that we are wide. The grief is vast. But we are more so.

I am not saying it does not burrow us in sorrow - for at times, it does.

I am just saying that we go on walks, and we sing songs, and we dance with friends, and we go to protests, and we hold hands, and we sing again, and we turn towards, and we grieve, and we rage, and we weep,

And we continue on.

For as I write you this, I can feel sun. That is no small miracle, I know it. And neither is the fact that you are here, and I am here, and I can write words at all.

And some days - some day! - I’ll let that be enough.

Hey, friend -

Happy New Year’s!

I’ve got updates + words below. But before so, I want to give a little housekeeping:

Over the next few weeks, I will be switching to a new newsletter platform. I’m trying out something new - a platform that will allow me to express all my offerings with presence and care.

As such, a heads up that these emails will be coming from another source. Thank you for being here!

Now: on to the words.

This morning, I sat down and felt for the first time in a while. I felt it all: the grief of the world and the sadness of this moment, the tenderness and fear, the worries about rising authoritarianism and crumbling governance. I felt the uncertainty, the sadness, the horror, the anger, the rage.

I turned towards it - this is my practice, after all - and I put a hand on my heart. “I hear you,” I said, “and you are not alone.”

And then, the storm passed. I looked out the window and saw a tree. I remembered the vastness of this earth. I remembered the timelessness of being. And somehow, in that moment, I felt peace.

It is not an easy time, for so many beings on this earth. And yet: here we are, each of us, spinning around, continuing our days, living and loving and learning.

Friend, there is so much I want to say to you. The short is: this week, nine years ago, I lost three people at once. Unrelated, but I went to three different funerals. What does a body do with that much loss?

I’m posting more about it online, but that time shaped who I am. It shaped my adamance about living. Because I get to be here. And those people - two of whom were young and one of whom was so suddenly gone - don’t.

I also want to tell you about my grief journey. So many of you beautiful beings sent me messages of support on Instagram about my father - thank you. That meant the world.

For those who do not know: my father has Alzheimer’s, and we’ve been walking with that. I grieve it, as he slowly drifts, but I also do my best to stay grounded in my gratitude, in my presence, in all the gifts.

And there are so many.

I pray you can find the gifts today, even amidst - the rest.

Love,

Tuesday, January 13: Somartica

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Rooted begins on February 21 🌿

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See you next week!

Friend -

I was at a party the other night, and I was talking to a fellow partygoer about this time of year. It just doesn’t feel right to me, he said, to speak of renewal in the dead of winter. I don’t feel like this is a beginning.

I hear you! I replied. In Iranian tradition, the new year begins in spring.
And - I continued - There is power in collective understanding. Because so many of us subscribe to this moment of turning, it makes it more potent, more powerful.

On this, we agreed.

2025 was a large and expansive year. Personally, professionally, internally and externally, I grew in ways phenomenal. And I want to reflect on this, while honoring that for some of us, this moment may not feel renewing.

Still, as I said, there is power in the collective. And since so many of us are reflecting on the year, since so many of us are considering the harvest of 2025, what we reaped and sowed, what we left and lost, what we gained and bring -

I, too, shall do - and invite it for you, as well.

Questions I like to ask myself as this year turns, that may or may not land for you:

• What did I gain this year?

• What did I lose?

• What am I leaving in this year?

• What am I calling in?

In my own life, so much happened. I:

• Did multiple content partnerships - most notably, with Alma + Pesi

• Put on 10 Inner Child Art Nytes/Daytes all over New York

• Debuted Somartica and found its continued home

• Led the first cohort of Rooted - and opened enrollment for the next!

• Led multiple clients through transformative coaching journeys

• Completed my final semester of grad school (just my thesis left now!)

• Executed three successful corporate workshops blending creativity and play

• Ran! A! Half! Marathon!!!

• Supported myself and my family through the moment we are in (more on that below)

How often do we pause to celebrate our accomplishments?
Could you do so, too?

There is, also, a great and continuing grief. I do not speak of grief as an idea - I know it intimately in my life, from losing friends young, to many relationships, to now, walking with my father as he slowly loses his memory (Alzheimer’s). This is not an easy thing, but it is the task of my life, and so I turn towards it, with care, just as I do all other parts of living.

I recently shared about this on Instagram and was touched by how many messages I got of both kindness and similar experience. A reminder to any of us: as much as we may feel it, we are never alone.

Above all: thank you for being here. Thank you for being an ear, an eye, a person at an event, or however we interacted. Thank you for the responses, the comments (I read them all), the replies. Thank you for any way you interact with my content - which, though it may seem small, means the world.

As we head into the next year: I have big goals, visions, ideas. But first -
I rest. I let this year digest. I renew.

As we carry forward - wherever you are and however you are feeling -
I hope you do, too.

🌿 Rooted is Open for Enrollment! 🌿

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Saturdays, 12-2 pm | Begins February 21 | Only 16 spots

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✨ Somartica is back on 01.13! ✨

What happens when adults remember their most playful, embodied, grounded selves?

Join me for this evening of creativity, connection, deep belly-laughs, gentle nourishment, and of course: play.

Tuesday, 01.13 | 7 PM | Brooklyn, NYC

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There will be no newsletter next week, as I burrow into family, and the like. Happy holidays + new year!

I think back, at times, to this moment with a man I knew.

He and I were in an improv class, and after one of said classes, we were outside, in a group, chatting. He turned to me and said, you’re really funny!

In the moment, I deflected it immediately - turned red, turned away, shut down. There was no way he meant me - or perhaps he was somehow mistaken in his opinion - I simply thought he was so cool. Could it be?

I don’t remember what I said, but I muttered something, and the moment passed. Perhaps the kicker to this is that he wound up married to someone in that improv class (another hilarious human!).

Now - I’m not claiming I would have married That Random Funny Man had I accepted his compliment (though … maybe?), but I think of that moment, at times, in terms of capacity.

See - we can only accept what we have space for. We can only say yes to what our systems consider safe. And we can only allow in what we actually think we deserve.

It’s why so many of us get in our own ways, be it in love, business, or otherwise. Because we don’t trust ourselves to hold that which comes towards us. Because we are afraid, somewhere within us, that we aren’t actually that deserving, or good.

But - the great news?
That can change.

For the past few years, I have been doing somatic therapy with a wonderful practitioner. I came to that work after a terrible break up - realizing, then and there, that the tools I had were not working.

The work I do with my practitioner is profound. Traditional talk therapy did heaps for me - I’m grateful for it. But it only went so far, and the embodied experience of feeling my way through has transformed me.

Transformed me so much that I am beginning training in that specific modality in February. For I have seen what this work did for me. And what it is like when we expand our embodied capacity.

As I told a friend recently: I feel like insight makes its way down us. It lands in our heads - but then takes a while to make its way down, into our bodies. That’s when it really lands.

Have you witnessed this? I have. I knew for years that I needed to expand my capacity, somehow show up differently. But I didn’t know how.

Ah, yes. Then through years of therapy, somatic work and expanding, purposeful nervous system reshaping, and embodied learning -

Those insights came home. To land. In me.

Embodiment is a journey, and it is one we all deserve. For we all deserve to meet the moments that arise with grace and presence: turning towards, not away. Opening up (when it’s safe!), not shutting down. Becoming our most grounded, authentic selves. Isn’t that the world we crave to be?

When I look back, I have compassion for that younger me. She simply didn’t have the tools to remain open in certain moments. That’s not a problem; that’s just a learning. And like all learnings, we can learn new things.

If any of this resonates with you - I want you to know that change is not only possible, it is available. You deserve to open to your life, whatever that means to you. And with care, and compassion, and support, you can.

Things take the time they do, but change is always there for us. It just takes some witnessing, some noticing, some breathing, some being. And with these tools - oh!

We can all bloom into the beings we were meant to be.

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Ready to move into the next phase in your life? Feeling a little lost? Craving some grounding? Coaching is a fantastic way to find your truth - and move towards it with clarity and purpose.

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🌿 The doors to Rooted are officially open! 🌿

Rooted is a six-week journey of grounding, presence, and true aliveness.

Through embodied practice, creative togetherness, and proven pathways to wellbeing -

We’ll root down, expand, and return to ourselves -
So we can show up as the beings this world so needs.

If you feel the pull, I’d love to have you. ❤️

Join Here!

I just placed a rolling backpack outside. It’s pretty used, its wheels rubbed down to smooth. It has multiple flaps, perky and upright, sitting on the sidewalk.

For two years, this backpack was my mobile office, carting my busking supplies around. From my house to the park and back again, I’d lug it, filled with typewriter, table, tablecloth, chair, paper and signs, and set up in Central Park, where I’d write poems for people of all sorts: adults and children and in between, people in joy and people in rapture, people in sorrow and those in deep grief. The many facets of humanity.

The art form itself I’ve done for over 10 years, starting with when I was living in the bay area and decided to give it a go during an arts festival. Deliciously, delightedly, it was a success. I was hooked.

And I just put the backpack out on the street.

Lately, I’ve been feeling a deep shift within me. This is arising mostly around my events - Inner Child Art Nyte, long something I cherished and felt so proud of, isn’t filling me as it did. Tomorrow, I’m doing one, and I confess, I feel reticence. Usually, I am delighted by the prospect of stepping into that space. This time, my resistance fills me.

The truth is, my attention is elsewhere - on Somartica. This new event, which has taken my heart and attention, and which I would probably do daily if I could.

But I’m having a hard time letting go.

When I realized that I wanted to turn away from street poetry, it felt such a struggle. I was in a summer that included all manner of challenge: breakup, dad’s declining health, some theft. I was tired of lugging my things up and down subway steps, craving more stability, exhausted by shifting sands.

But - I had also built an identity around this. “I’m a typewriter poet,” I would proudly tell people. I had worked hard to get into a poetic agency, had placed my work online, had created clientele. How could I step away from something I had once so loved?

A year ago, I sat on my couch with my ex partner as we realized that we needed to break up. We’d had such a sweet arc: from best friends to partners, creating a loving, nurturing relationship.

But we also could never quite choose one another. I remember vividly the moment, where for the third and final time, he told me, I just don’t feel like we are meant to be together, and I said, we’re breaking up.

The truth is, we had both known it, for a while. But we were so tired of dating, so ready for a relationship, and so sure this should work - that we plugged our ears, squinched shut our eyes, and tried desperately to create love out of deep care. Maybe for some people this works. For us, it didn’t.

All of these anecdotes share the same theme: letting go. Even when we know it’s time, it’s so hard. Even when our heart tells us, this is the right thing, it’s challenging.

This is human, I believe. We resist change. We crave homeostasis. Even ‘positive’ changes rattle us, shaking us to our bones, our core.

What do we do, when we know it’s not what’s meant for us? What do we do, when we realize it’s time to let go?

The backpack had been sitting in my hallway for a few days. Despite my knowing that I am no longer turning towards street poetry - and the fact that the backpack is a little broken anyway - the idea of putting it out on the street (the NYC universal language of ‘take my shit!’) - was daunting.

Just now, coming home from an event where I didn’t feel much resonance with the others there, tired from a morning where the doctor didn’t show up for my appointment (strange), reflecting on the fact that it’s been hard to sell tickets for Inner Child Art Dayte and my heart just isn’t in it -

I grabbed the backpack and put it out. Yes, it’s sad. Yes, we grieve change.

But when we let go,

We make room for what’s new

To come through.

Editor’s Note: This was written a few weeks ago. Since then, Inner Child Art Nyte occurred, and it was beautiful. Sometimes, just the loosening of the grip - goes far.

Offerings:

Saturday, December 13:
Somartica

12-1:30 PM
Reforesters: Williamsburg, BK.

What happens when we remember our most embodied, creative selves?
That is the question at the heart of Somartica: an afternoon of embodiment, creativity, and unfettered play. We’re back in the beautiful Reforesters for this special daytime edition.

» Tickets Here!

Workshops for Organizations

The research is clear: teams thrive when people feel connected and safe to be themselves. My workshops helps build true relationships through creativity, play, and artful reflection. Books are open for Q4 2025 and beyond!

» Schedule a Free Call Here!

Coaching

Ready to move into the next phase in your life? Feeling a little lost? Craving some grounding? Coaching is a fantastic way to find your truth - and move towards it with clarity and purpose.

» More info here

Rooted is Back.

This week, super-early-bird doors opened for the next cohort of Rooted - beginning in February 2026.

Over six transformative weeks, we’ll practice proven pathways to wellbeing and grounding - somatic work, positive psychology, and creativity - so you can show up as the human and leader this world so needs right now.

Doors open to the general public on December 15 - but super-early-bird pricing ends before then.

Want that pricing? Just respond to this email.

See you soon!

Hey, friend -

Sometimes, I wish I could freeze time right where I am. I’m in a good moment in my life: feeling young yet wise, healthy and grounded, excited about where I am heading (yes, even with the world as it is). I’m in an upswell, one of those precious moments where things are blossoming, opening. A gift, this.

There have been other times where I did not feel this way: where I wanted to rush time, push it along, squeeze it through its passageways and get somewhere. When I dealt with challenging health issues in my 20s; when I was in relational turmoils that twisted and torqued me. When I was grieving. When I was lonely, uncertain, sad.

The Greeks had different concepts of time: Chronos being clock time and Kairos being the felt sense of time. I feel the easiest way to understand this is to juxtapose one minute with a lover versus one minute of burpees: same time! Different feeling.

What does it mean, to be in a body, navigating space, as life carries on?

My friend sent me a voice memo the other day in which she mentioned how her body is shifting as she ages. She had a specific thing she saw - eye bags - but I related to the overall inquiry. I am entering early middle age; my peers are, also. When I was younger, this time span seemed unfathomable to me - late 30s? What the hell? Wasn’t I a certified adult by then?

Perhaps I am; perhaps I am not. I know that in my own navigation, this time period has felt profound, settling, expansive, and rich. I feel blessed, joyful, present. As I said: sometimes I want to stop time.

But - o, bless! - I can’t. I can expand it through practices: the more we seek novelty, the wider our time seems to us; and mindfulness adds precious minutes. These are both studied and known.

But I can’t stop the march, the inexorable clock, the Chronos. I can add Kairos but I can no less prevent the seconds than draw a cloud upon the sky.

So the question becomes: what do we do with time?

When I lost multiple friends in my late 20s, it smacked me in the face that life was not a guarantee. Anyone could be gone at any time, and that was just - how it was.

As much as I grieved, I also got committed: I will make the most of my life. Because I can. Because I am here.

Recently, I have been grieving in an ancient, lineage based way. My own grandmother - who I lived with - had her childhood stolen from her, married young. My mother was the first daughter to not be put in an arranged marriage.

Do you understand what it means, in this body, to get to live dreams?
To have - time?

So I do not take it lightly: this moment, this body, these freedoms. Yes, there is a world. Yes, it challenges.

But I also get to be here, right now, living fully, expressing thoroughly. And even if I can’t freeze time, well.

I can be in it, in thorough capacity, soaking every moment into my brusque and golden skin.

Upcoming Offerings:

Saturday, December 13:
Somartica

12-1:30 PM
Reforesters: Williamsburg, BK.

What happens when we remember our most embodied, creative selves?
That is the question at the heart of Somartica: an afternoon of embodiment, creativity, and unfettered play. We’re back in the beautiful Reforesters for this special daytime edition.

» Tickets Here!

Coaching: The Aliveness Container

Ready to come home to yourself?

Coaching is a wonderful way to find your next steps, unstick yourself, or return to your center. My approach is embodied, client-centered, and trauma-informed.

» Schedule a Free, 30-minute Clarity Call Here
» More info here

Workshops for Organizations

The research is clear: teams thrive when people feel connected and safe to be themselves. My workshops helps build true relationships through creativity, play, and artful reflection. Books are open for Q4 2025 and beyond!

» Schedule a Free Call Here!

Rooted begins in February 2026.

This is the last week to join the early access list and lock in super early bird pricing!

Join me for a journey into your own presence.

Join the List Here

Hello, friend -

Some years ago, I was trying adamantly to befriend a woman in my community. I thought she was so cool - dressed well, hip, a therapist, etc.

We hung out a few times, but it didn’t take. Eventually, she sent me a kind but honest text that said, I just can’t be the friend you need right now.

At the time, I was so offended - she didn’t want to be my friend? What the hell?!

Aw, but. Looking back. I see it so differently.

I’ve been speaking with multiple friends, lately, about the lack of cultural containers around friendship. We have them around dating - you break up with someone, and everyone gets it: you might be in touch or not, but there’s mutual understanding. That makes sense! Yeah, totally.

In the platonic realm - not so much. Friendship isn’t discussed the way romantic love is. It isn’t held the way romantic love is. We don’t have the contexts. The containers. The cultural conversation.

Isn’t this to our detriment? Friendships, too, go through shifts and changes; we might be closer or further from any one person at any one time, and we may even break up, resolve, get back together, or drift apart. All of these things happen in platonic settings, too, and yet - we don’t discuss it.

And so, when it inevitably does, our little hearts feel alone. Is this normal? Am I like others? What’s going on?

I say all of this because I want us to have cultural containers for this. I want us to understand that all relationships go through the shapes and shifts they do, not just romance. And that’s - well, that’s life.

When I look back on that time with that woman, I see it so differently. Sure, no one wants to be rejected, but that person was offering me a kindness: the truth. And as difficult as that can be to swallow, it is ultimately in service of all beings. As my friend said recently, “the truth has legs.” That is: when we hold what’s true, with kindness and respect, it has a way of guiding us forward.

May we all do that, my loves - in romance, in friendship, and in all the ways we can in this world.

Upcoming Offerings:

Sunday, November 23:
Inner Child Art Dayte

4 PM
Reforesters: Williamsburg, BK

Ready to let loose?
Inner Child Art Dayte invites you into a container of creativity, connection, and play - all in service of reconnecting you to your most authentic, vibrant, alive self.

» Tickets Here!

Saturday, December 13:
Somartica

12-1:30 PM
Reforesters: Williamsburg, BK.

What happens when we remember our most embodied, creative selves?
That’s the question at the heart of Somartica: an emergent, co-created experience of movement, art, and play. The last one of 2025!

» Tickets Here!

Coaching: The Aliveness Container

Ready to come home to yourself?
If you’re feeling the call to return to your center, your knowing, your beating heart … this may be for you.

Coaching is a great way to find your truth, your self, and move into your next steps - and beyond.

» Schedule a Free, 30-minute Clarity Call Here
» More info here

Workshops for Organizations

Desiring a research-backed, joy-filled workshop for your team or organization? My carefully curated workshops blend embodiment, creativity, and play to help your team connect and thrive. Schedule a free consultation below, or click here for more info.

» Schedule a Free Call Here!

🌱 Ready to Root? 🌿

Beginning in February, we go on a 6-week journey of greater aliveness, greater presence, and deep, nourishing grounding.

Through weekly sessions, a guiding workbook, and a private, supportive community, we’ll reconnect to our own centers -

So we can show up in this world with presence and ease.

Registration opens in December.

Join the waitlist below to be the first to know.

Get on the Wait List Here!

That’s all for now.
See you next week!