Which is strange, when you think about it.

It almost gives off January energy, but without all the pressure. September feels less about resolutions and more about expectations and possibilities. Maybe the possibility is a holdover from summer and its long days, when it somehow feels like there is enough time for everything.

Summer is still lingering. The days are still warm. The trees haven’t quite begun their great letting go. And yet, somewhere around the first week of September, I always feel it.

The urge to begin again.

Not fast.

But slowly.

Maybe it is all those years of returning to school. New shoes. New teachers. New subjects. Fresh notebooks without doodles of flowers and eyes filling the margins yet.

Even now, long after anyone expects me in a classroom, September makes me feel as though I should be learning something.

And perhaps I should.

I’ve been thinking lately about why we ever stopped giving ourselves school years.

I don’t necessarily mean going back to school.

I mean, why should learning belong only to that part of our lives from 1 to 25?

There is still so much I want to know. So much I want to become better at. There are books I haven’t read, recipes I haven’t mastered, questions about myself I haven’t answered, places I haven’t seen, and ways of living I haven’t tried.

Life, I think, should be continuous learning and growing.

So this September, I want to go back to school.

Not literally. I’m not trying to take out any student loans.

I want to return to curiosity and wonder.

To an old practice in a new notebook.

To the kitchen after months of wanting to be anywhere but near a hot stove. To the books left half-read on the nightstand. To routines that somehow disappeared during a summer of possibilities. To conversations around the table that last longer than the meal.

A return to the table.

A return to home.

A return to ourselves.

Not everything needs to be reinvented. Sometimes the life we want is waiting inside the things we already know matter to us.

Maybe September isn’t asking us to become someone entirely new.

Maybe it is asking us to remember.

What did you once love doing? And is there perhaps a different way of experiencing that thing now?

What have you been meaning to learn?

What practice made you feel more like yourself?

What deserves a place at your table again?

And what would happen if, instead of waiting for January to design our lives, we allowed September to be a quiet beginning?

There are four months left in this year.

I don’t say that to incite panic about time running out or to put pressure on this moment. But what is a life if not, in some way, measured? And in this timeline we’ve collectively agreed to live by, time is one of the ways we measure it.

Lately, the speed at which life is moving feels astounding.

Maybe September doesn’t need to be another month we race through.

Maybe we slow down just a bit.

Long enough to enjoy the sun still warming our faces before the crisp fall air rolls in.

Four months is enough time to learn something.

Enough time to be wonderfully bad at something new and follow the process long enough to become better at it—perhaps even great.

And enough time to remember to give ourselves grace while we do.

Enough time to return to something.

Enough time to change something.

Enough time to begin building the life we keep imagining.

So this month, Onyx & Milk is going back to school.

We’ll talk about learning and curiosity, the practices worth returning to, the homes we’re creating, the tables we’re gathering around, and the ordinary choices that quietly become a life—and eventually, a legacy.

We’ll make things.

We’ll cook things.

We’ll read.

We’ll ask questions.

We’ll pay attention.

And perhaps we’ll buy a new notebook, even if we don’t technically need one. Apparently part of my personal curriculum still includes an unreasonable affection for beautiful notebooks. Or you can always get the notebook I made a few years ago.

But maybe that isn’t such a bad thing.

Because sometimes an old practice deserves a fresh page.

Welcome to September.

Welcome back to life, to home, and to a table.

Mine came a little after one o’clock in the morning.

I woke to the sound of my son’s voice cracking on the other end of the phone.

“My car is messed up.”

“It won’t move.”

“I don’t want to get fired for being late.”

If you’re a parent, you know that sound. It doesn’t matter how old your children become. In that moment, they’re still the little person whose tears once sent you running down the hallway.

But that night, I wasn’t only listening to my son.

I was listening to his father.

“What happened?”

“Where are you?”

“Are you close to work?”

“Are you okay?”

His voice never rose.

He never sounded flustered.

He didn’t waste precious moments wondering whose fault it was or how expensive it might be.

He simply gathered information, gave instructions, grabbed a flashlight, and then said two words that changed the atmosphere of the entire night.

“I’m coming.”

Not, We’ll figure something out.

Not, Call someone else first.

Just...

“I’m coming.”

I got dressed, trying my best to stay composed. Internally, my imagination had already written half a dozen worst-case scenarios. Eventually I laughed at myself and admitted I needed a little help quieting the noise.

I took a Xanax.

Sometimes you simply need enough peace to think clearly.

We drove separately toward my son. Chris led the way while I followed behind him. Looking back now, that small detail feels symbolic. He carried the steadiness while I borrowed it.

When we arrived, my son’s car looked almost alive in its distress.

Every warning light was flashing.

Fluid pooled beneath it like an injured animal.

It had given up only about a thousand feet from his job.

Chris quietly assessed the situation.

“Go get the keys from him.”

“We’ll leave your car here.”

“We’ll wait for the tow truck.”

No panic.

No unnecessary words.

Just the next right thing.

We called a few towing companies before deciding to go with the first one we had contacted: Full Speed Towing. Something about the dispatcher’s calm voice immediately settled my own. In stressful moments, peace has a way of becoming contagious.

The driver arrived sooner than expected.

His name was David.

He was exactly like the dispatcher—calm, capable, and reassuring. He carefully loaded the car, drove us home safely, and even backed it perfectly into our parking space.

When I apologized for not having cash for a tip, he smiled.

“I’ll take a Google review.”

So, sometime around 3:38 in the morning, before crawling into bed for what would amount to only a couple of hours of sleep, I sat down to write one.

At the time, I thought I was writing about exceptional customer service.

Now I realize I was writing about something much bigger.

The next morning, after finishing his shift, my son walked through the front door.

Like every mother, I asked the only question that really mattered.

“Are you okay?”

He shrugged.

“Things happen.”

Such an ordinary sentence.

Yet I’ve carried it with me ever since.

Things happen.

Cars break down.

Plans unravel.

Phone calls come in the middle of the night.

The life we carefully organize has a way of reminding us that it cannot be controlled.

For a long time, I thought building a good life meant building one where fewer things went wrong.

Lately, I’ve begun to wonder if I had the blueprint backwards.

Maybe designing a good life isn’t about eliminating hardship.

Maybe it’s about building a life sturdy enough to meet it.

That night, I watched what sturdiness looked like.

It looked like a father who didn’t panic because someone else was panicking.

It looked like calm becoming contagious.

It looked like reliability.

It looked like knowing that the first responsibility wasn’t fixing the car.

It was caring for the person.

The car would eventually be repaired.

The greater work that night was protecting a frightened heart.

As I’ve replayed those hours in my mind, another detail keeps returning to me.

The tow truck driver’s name was David.

I don’t usually make too much of names.

Maybe it was coincidence.

Maybe it wasn’t.

But I couldn’t help thinking about the David of Scripture.

Before he was a king, David was a shepherd.

His life was spent moving toward danger while others moved away from it. He protected what had been entrusted to him. His courage didn’t come from believing nothing bad could happen. It came from trusting God enough to walk into difficult moments without being ruled by fear.

"Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me."Psalm 23

That image stayed with me.

A man named David helped carry my son’s wounded car safely home.

Chris carried peace into the situation before David ever arrived.

And somewhere between the two of them, I found myself seeing another picture entirely.

Perhaps this is how God has always loved us.

Not by promising that nothing will ever break.

But by answering our fear with His presence.

When we cry out in the middle of our own dark nights, His first response isn’t always to remove the problem.

Sometimes His answer is simply:

“I’m coming.”

I wonder if we’ve misunderstood what protection looks like.

We pray for safe journeys.

Perfect health.

Smooth roads.

Lives free from interruption.

But perhaps protection isn’t always the absence of difficulty.

Sometimes protection looks like a car refusing to move.

Because a broken-down car is far less costly than the accident it may have prevented.

We rarely know what we’ve been spared.

We only know what inconvenienced us.

Faith is trusting that God sees the road beyond the curve we cannot yet see.

The older I get, the more I believe that peace isn’t found in controlling what happens to us.

Peace is found in knowing who is walking toward us when it does.

That night reminded me that the strongest people in our lives aren’t necessarily the ones who know how to solve every problem.

They’re the ones whose presence changes how everyone else experiences the problem.

Chris modeled that kind of steadiness.

My son experienced that kind of reliability.

And I caught a glimpse of a deeper image of God—not as One who prevents every hardship, but as One whose presence transforms hardship itself.

Maybe that is the architecture of a well-designed life.

Not a life that never breaks down.

A life built on a foundation strong enough that, when it does, love answers the phone, peace gets in the car, and somewhere in the darkness, a quiet loving voice says,

“I’m coming.”

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If there is one season I love more than anything, it is summer.

I do not like the cold. Maybe it is because I am a summer baby. Maybe I just need a heating rock. But I love the heat, the long days, and the particular magic of summer that makes you feel like anything is possible. Like the days are longer on purpose, just to give you more room to live.

Every year I give the summer a theme Last year it was Summer Sweetness. This year is no different. This year, the theme is The Sweet Pursuit of Summer.

Why the sweet pursuit of summer? Because summer is sweet. It is the briefest, sweetest season we get. And most of us spend it the same way every year. We wait for it to arrive, and then we mourn it once it is gone. We let it slip through our fingers while we are busy being responsible.

Not this year. This year I am pursuing it. Catching it. Collecting it. Tasting it. While it is still here.

I will be honest with you. I have been waiting for this. I long for the buds on the trees in spring, because I know summer is right behind them. Summer, to me, feels like a warm breeze and a linen dress. Bare feet in the grass. A kiss on the collarbone. Warm nights under fairy lights on a balcony, talking with the people I love until it is late and nobody wants to go inside.

I used to envy the teachers, like my sister, who get the whole summer off. All that free time to choose. To be free and do as they please. But I have stopped waiting for the perfect open calendar. With the hours I have before and after my 9 to 5, and the weekends that are mine, I am going to pursue the sweetness summer has to offer. On purpose. With intention. Like it matters. Because it does.

I have stopped waiting for permission.

So this is a journey. And I am welcoming you on it.

It will not always be easy. I already know the villain of this story, and I will introduce you to him properly soon. For now, just know this: something in me wants to talk myself out of the joy and back into the practical things. I am choosing not to listen. This summer, I want the joy to be the work, and the summer itself to be the proof.

This pursuit was never only mine to take.

So come with me. Chase the beautiful things. The golden hours. The side streets, the detours of delusion and whimsy, the slow mornings and the laugh you have not had yet.

Let’s go find the sweetness. While it is here.

Darling, I can’t wait to hold your hand and pursue this summer with you.

With sweetness,

Jordene

Follow the pursuit as it unfolds, day by day, over on Instagram at @ok.jordene. New jars, golden hours, side quests, and the occasional Purrdy detour.

It has been a bit. I thought today was Thursday, that’s how wobbly I’ve been feeling I have had this sitting in my drafts for about a week, unsure whether I was alone in feeling that something is different. Nothing has visibly collapsed, and yet something feels thinner, less stable. What I believed was up is really down and what was right was actually wrong.

The streets are the same. The paths we take each day have not changed. Our routines continue. And yet the headlines refresh before our feet even touch the floor. The blue light of a phone glows at 2 a.m.(Please take off notification, I had to) Conversations carry more edge than they used to. Reactions rise faster. Certainty feels brittle.

It is not always dramatic. Sometimes it is subtle — a tightening in a grocery store line, a pause before someone answers a simple question. A sense that something beneath the surface has shifted and is shifting.

The structure that once felt unquestioned feels unsettled.

A little unstable. I have found myself wondering, is it just me, or do you feel it too?

The poet W. B. Yeats once wrote, “Things fall apart; the center cannot hold.” He spoke about upheaval after war and illness, but the line endures because it names something deeply human like the quiet disorientation that comes when the systems outside of us no longer feel steady.

When that happens, we search. I know I have been searching.

I have been looking for something firm enough to stand on. Something strong enough to quiet the tremor beneath ordinary life.

And as I have watched and listened, I have begun to notice that in moments like these, two kinds of energy move through the world.

One amplifies panic. The alarms feel constant. Urgency spreads because anxiety is contagious. It escalates, multiplies, feeds itself.

The other energy is quieter.

It does not deny what is happening. It does not pretend the world is simple. But it refuses to add fragmentation to fragmentation. It steadies rooms. It lowers the temperature of conversations. It answers heat with clarity instead of more heat.

It becomes a center.

And that is when my searching shifted inward.

Instead of asking only what is happening around me, I began asking who I am becoming in response.

It’s not what the world can do for us.
It’s who we decide to be within it.

And that decision begins in private.

Before the conversation. Before the reaction. Before we step into the room. It begins in the way we speak to ourselves when no one is listening. In the way we regulate emotion before it spills. In the way we refuse to let our internal unrest become external damage.

For me, that realization settled into a quiet commitment I carry, a personal motto, a declaration to the me in you:

I either meet you and leave you the same,
meet you and leave you better,
but never meet you and leave you worse.

Not as performance. As stewardship.

Because fragmentation spreads in small ways. A sharp tone. A careless comment. A reaction passed forward. Disorder multiplies quietly.

But so does order.

A pause instead of a flare. A steady cadence in a tense room. A refusal to escalate what does not need escalating. These things seem small, but they are not. They create micro-order, and micro-order matters.

When larger systems feel unstable, people do not first crave arguments. They crave coherence. They crave steadiness. They crave the feeling that someone, somewhere, is anchored.

What I have come to believe is that what is missing right now is not intelligence. It is not information. It is not even passion.

It is mature self-love.

Not indulgence. Not vanity. Not self-absorption. But reverence.

The kind of self-love that recognizes the Creator within. The quiet understanding that if something sacred designed us, then something sacred lives in us. That we are not accidents, but intention. That the same Divine Designer who shaped the world shaped our inner being with care.

And if that sacred imprint exists in us, it exists in one another.

When someone does not recognize their own worth, they leak insecurity into every room. When they are at war within, they wage that war outward. But when a person knows they carry something sacred, they move differently. They do not degrade easily. They do not escalate carelessly. They do not need to dominate to feel significant.

Self-love, in its mature form, is structural. It stabilizes the nervous system. It anchors identity. It prevents projection. It quietly says, I am responsible for the atmosphere I carry.

Perhaps the center feels weak because we have been waiting for it to exist somewhere outside ourselves — in institutions, in leaders, in systems.

But the center is not lost.
It just needs acknowledgment that you are carrying it within you.

When we recognize that, something steadies.

Even one grounded person can recalibrate a room. Even one regulated nervous system can slow a spiral. Even one person committed to leaving things as steady as they found them can alter trajectory.

This is not grandiosity. It is multiplication.

History is shaped by repeated behavior. Systems are built by individuals. Structures are reinforced by daily choices. If enough of us choose to become stabilizing centers, panic loses momentum. If enough of us practice reverent self-love, projection decreases. If enough of us decide in private who we will be in public, the atmosphere shifts.

And perhaps the systems we rebuild will be different. Firmer. Rooted in something steadier than fear. Rooted in responsibility. Rooted in reverence.

There are people who feel this tremor more than others. The ones who instinctively soften their voice when the room grows loud. The ones who sense tension rising and choose not to add to it. The ones who build even when nothing feels stable.

If you feel that pull — that instinct to hold something upright — it is not accidental.

The center is not lost. It simply needs acknowledgment that it already lives within you.

And if we each carry a commitment — a motto, a discipline — that guides how we enter rooms and how we leave them, we do more than steady a moment. We lay foundations.

So I carry this:

I either meet you and leave you the same,
meet you and leave you better,
but never meet you and leave you worse.

If enough of us carried something like that, perhaps the course would bend differently. Perhaps systems would be rebuilt on something firmer. Perhaps one day a poet will write a different line — not about the center failing, but about the center holding.

Because we chose to hold it first.

With love.

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I’m not sure if you are feeling this way, leave a comment on how you are holding your center, or if you don’t think the center is falling apart share your insight.

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Maybe you made resolutions. I did.
Maybe you built a vision board, wrote out goals, and bought new calendars and journals. (I bought a huge wall calendar — it still hasn’t arrived — inspired by the Big A$$ Calendar.)

I haven’t looked at my goals since writing them. The Shame!!!
And that new intention I had about “eating healthier”… well, I’m currently questioning the choice of the coffee cake I just inhaled. (It was good though.)

But here’s what shifted my perspective:

A coworker in the breakroom, looked at me and said,
“You can always start again tomorrow.”

I agree with him — not because procrastination is cute — but because every day we wake up, we are handed another opportunity to make tiny design choices that lead to a life that affords happiness.

Not perfection.
Not performance.
Not a flawless year mapped from January 1st.

Just small design decisions, repeated.

Below are 12 Design Choices that I genuinely believe afford more happiness when practiced — not with rigidity, but with curiosity, consistency, and mercy toward yourself.

12 DESIGN CHOICES FOR A LIFE THAT AFFORDS HAPPINESS

01. Protect the Morning

How you begin determines how you belong to your day.
Create a ritual that is yours — prayer, stretching, reading, silence, sunlight, or simply not rushing.

How I’m doing this: I say my prayers of worship and protection (which I saved in my Notes app). After my alarm goes off, I open the app and say my prayers — placing Higher Authority first.

02. Curate Your Inputs

What you consume becomes your interior world.

Books, music, media, and conversations are not neutral — they filter in and contribute to who we are becoming. We think we’re just being entertained, but entertainment is still an input.

Choose inputs that build you, nourish you, and raise your interior frequency.

03. Move Your Body With Devotion

Not as punishment.

Move because mobility is freedom, because energy is currency, and because your body remembers what you forget.

I need to do more of this, but I consider running for the train and climbing subway stairs a part of moving my body (city girls will relate). Also, this over-40 body needs warming up before moving, so stretching in the morning counts as devotion.

04. Speak Kindly to Yourself

Your self-talk is a home you live in.

I’m learning to talk to me better — smiling at myself in the mirror, reminding myself that if I cannot love and extend kindness inward, how will I give it outward?

Research backs this up. Studies suggest that talking aloud to yourself — especially with compassion — can reduce anxiety, boost confidence, and help regulate emotions.

Renovate your inner dialogue with tenderness and truth.

05. Practice Chosen Slowness

Hustle is rarely synonymous with happiness.

Beyond happiness — elegant women are never in a rush. Not in how they talk, not in how they walk. My aim is to be an elegant woman, so I’m allowing myself to move slower, because time is an illusion and observation is key.

In quantum physics, the double-slit experiment shows that the act of observing changes outcomes — a powerful metaphor for mindfulness.
Presence makes life feel real.

06. Rest Without Guilt

Rest is not a reward — it is a resource.

If we thought of rest and sleep as investments, we’d guard them like gold. The body repairs itself during sleep: tissues regenerate, memory consolidates, hormones balance, and the immune system strengthens.

Protect your rest.
Your wellness is your wealth.

07. Let Curiosity Lead

Read more. Ask more. Learn more.

We should never stop growing — and part of growth is learning. Honestly, when you feel stuck, it’s often because you stopped learning. Like I would like to take a class on negotiating and selling. Why, because we do this everyday and the better we come at it, I think it would enhance life.

Curiosity keeps the mind young and the spirit awake.

08. Edit Your Environment

Your home should be a sanctuary, not a storage unit.

But also — think about your work desk, your car, your inbox. These are environments too. We spend a lot of time in places we don’t think to curate.

Clear spaces create clearer thinking.

09. Tend to Your Relationships

Say “I love you” while people are here.

I saw a podcast once that said: think of how old your parents are and how often you see them. If they’re in their 80s and you see them twice a year, you might only have six more visits left. That hit me hard.

As John Donne wrote:
“No man is an island.”

Text back. Check in. Spend time.
Connection is medicine.

10. Forgive Quickly

Not for their peace — for yours.

One day I realized I was using up so much RAM space trying to remember how someone hurt me. Then I saw them again and they weren’t even thinking about the incident. Meanwhile, I’m carrying a file folder labeled “Receipts.”

Forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting — it means taking responsibility for not being hurt in the same way again. Sometimes that means boundaries. Sometimes that means distance.

Unforgiveness clutters the interior world — and since you are a mirror, your outer world will reflect that clutter.

11. Go Outside

Nature regulates what the mind complicates.

In the summer, no problem. In the winter? This one is hard. But walking on my lunch break clears my head and resets my day.

Walks are therapy with no co-pay.

12. Choose Beauty on Purpose

Wear something you love.

I’m no longer waiting to wear things. If I buy it, I’m popping the tag. (This might seem dark, but I’m not leaving a closet full of unworn clothes because I was waiting on a “special occasion.”)

Waking up is the special occasion.

Light a candle.
Buy flowers — I get a fresh bouquet from Trader Joe’s every week. Since my color this month is white, I’m two bouquets in of white roses.

Aesthetic care is emotional care. It took me awhile to let go of the guilt, but I love beautiful things — beauty lifts my frequency.

THE QUIET TRUTH

A year is not transformed in dramatic peaks — it is shaped in the dailiness. In small choices. In habits. In micro-decisions nobody sees but you.

When you are designing a life that affords happiness, the question becomes:

What are you choosing repeatedly?

Inputs become rhythms.
Rhythms become identity.
Identity becomes a lifetime.

A GENTLE REMINDER

If you haven’t stuck to your resolutions — welcome to being human.

If your goals are sitting untouched — same.

If you’re eating coffee cake at 9 AM on a Thursday — same.

But tomorrow, or even 20 minutes from now, you get to choose again.

Happiness is not accidental.
It is designed — through attention, discipline, curiosity, and care.

And the beautiful thing about design is:

You can always revise.

If this Substack resonated with you, please share it with your favorite person.

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What are you going to design for your life, this new year? Leave a comment sharing your design.

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Hi Darling,

It is Thursday, and is today the day I start or do I wait for Monday?

I know I often treat my life like a project I’ll start once the "supplies" arrive. Not sure if you are like me, but if you are, we wait for the first of the month, the perfect Monday morning, or the moment the house is finally quiet and the laundry is done.

The laundry is not done!

But a new year doesn’t need a Monday. It doesn’t need a perfect moment. It doesn’t need permission.

It needs obedience.

To be honest, obedience used to scare me. It felt like I had to sacrifice my desires for someone else’s agenda. But as I design this life of balance, I’m realizing that obedience is actually the ultimate form of alignment. It’s not about giving up my wants; it’s about ensuring those wants are rooted in a purpose that won't fail.

There is a life living inside your heart right now; there is one living in me also. It’s the one that makes me a little anxious—not because it’s wrong, but because I am not living it fully yet. I’ve been postponing the "design and the sharing of it” because the timing hasn't felt ideal.

There is a popular adage that suggests people only change when the pain of staying the same becomes greater than the pain of the change itself. For me, I’ve realized that I dislike the anxiety of not living this great life more than I fear the perception of being disliked. I’ve finally reached the point where the uncomfortableness of my current reality is greater than the fear of the unknown.

But today is Thursday. And if not today... when?

Defining the World: Onyx & Milk + Ok. Jordene

As we step into 2026 together, I want to reintroduce the two pillars of the world I am building. I believe that a life of balance is a curated blend of the physical and the spiritual.

• Onyx & Milk: This is the canvas. It is a commitment to bring you thoughtful, grounding, and beautiful content that helps you design a life of balance, a life that affords you happiness, intention, and peace. It is where we curate the environment for your best life to unfold.

• Ok. Jordene: This is the heartbeat. It is the personal journey, the reflections, and the voice behind the design. If Onyx & Milk is the house, Ok. Jordene is the warmth inside the rooms.

I’ve realized that this life is far better shared. This Substack is the bridge between the two, a space where the aesthetic meets the soul.

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The Foundation of our Design

As I pick up my pen and open my planners, I must remember the Scripture that anchors me. The ideal time is not "later." The ideal time is now. But before I plan here, I pray.

“Commit to the Lord whatever you do, and He will establish your plans.” — Proverbs 16:3

In their hearts humans plan their course, but the Lord establishes their steps.” — Proverbs 16:9

A Prayer for the New Year and a New You

God of wisdom and order,

I commit this year to You. I hand over my ideas, my hopes, my quiet longings, and even my fear. I ask that You establish my steps and align my desires with Your will. Teach me to move with faith instead of delay, and obedience instead of perfection. Go before me. Dwell within us. Let what we design be rooted deeply in You.

Amen.

I have written this prayer in the beginning of my planner and mor journal for my plans are not mine.

✨ Before we plan, we pray.

✨ Before we build, we commit.

Welcome to the year of intentional living. Have a A great 2026. I'd love to hear from you in the comments: What is one thing you are choosing to be "obedient" to today, even if the laundry isn't done? And mine is not done.

With love and intentionality,

Jordene

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Hello Darling,

The year is drawing to a close, and if you’re like me, you’re already in that peculiar space in-between—the quiet moment where reflection meets the nervous energy of anticipation, a bit of regret, a tid bit of fear and if you are paying attention to world, a heave dose of doom.

It’s in this silence, in the moments of inspiration that the inner voice starts to turn up its volume.

So I’m doom scrolling, switching between the app where time literally ticks away and the app where the aspiration life we think we are missing out on. The beautiful lady had a whole video that I was not fully paying attention to but I know she achieved something great personally, when she offered a beautifully plain challenge: "Why don't you see where courage can take you?"

I immediately felt inspired. I closed the app and opened my notes app, filled it with thoughts, and the inclination to write this post was was born.

But then, Doubt walked in.

She’s been doing this a little more than I would like lately, which is why I haven’t posted anything since September. Even my brilliant Aunt said she won’t become a paid subscriber until I post consistently! She told me I was a great writer, but if you’re like me—and I deduce you are, since this newsletter resonated with you—you sometimes scoff at loving nudges. You feel you must do things in your own time.

I held onto that idea... until I realized I was simply leaving my legacy on the table.

She didn't storm the room; she simply pulled up an armchair—maybe that velvet one you inherited—and sat down. She propped her chin on her palms and just watched.

(If you’re a visual person, I picture it exactly like this.)

The Silent Watcher

She doesn't even need to speak, does she? That intense, indifferent stare alone is enough to make my inner dialogue start babbling: I know, I know. I can’t spell. I’m not important enough. Who will want to listen to me? Who wants to read what I write?

I bet you know her, too.

The great trick of Doubt is that she tries to convince you that courage is a grand, heroic event reserved for other people. But that is simply untrue.

For us—the ones committed to designing a life of balance that affords happiness—courage is a small, quiet, powerful practice. It’s a tool of soft power we must deploy daily. Like posting this piece.

So, before we take that first step into the new year, let’s sit down and truly unpack the essential questions about the kind of courage that actually changes your life. When I approach any overwhelming task, I always employ the simple architecture of who, what, where, why, and how. I know it seems simple, almost childlike, but that is intentional. Thinking like a designer means taking a complex problem apart with foundational questions so you can find the most elegant solution.

5 Questions to Design Your Courage

1. What is Courage?

It is not the absence of the critic in the armchair. Courage is the active, gentle choice to value your inner purpose more than her opinion. It's the silent commitment you make to keep typing, to press 'publish', or to set that boundary, even when she is watching with those judgy eyes.

2. Why is Courage?

Because courage is the mechanism that turns a beautiful vision—your blueprint for a balanced, happy life—into a tangible reality. It is the engine that drives Curiosity, our most powerful resource. Without courage, we stay comfortable, but stuck in the same spot, like how I found myself doom scrolling. And the lie I’ve told myself? I tell myself I'd rather waste my own time than have someone else waste it. But the truth is, I do this because, on some level, I haven’t developed the courage to simply be disliked. (By the way, that was a great book. You should read it.)

3. How is Courage?

The "how" is found in the smallest details. It’s the consistency of showing up. It’s not a single leap; it’s a thousand tiny, brave steps. Courage is built by taking a breath and choosing vulnerability over perfection. Oh, how I rolled my eyes when I typed this, because I have not been consistent.

4. Where is Courage?

Look for it in the marginal spaces. It lives right up against your deepest insecurity, thriving in the in-between moment of decision. The moment you feel resistance, that is your GPS pointing directly toward the next courageous choice.

5. And Most Importantly: Who is Courage?

Courage isn't a gift you receive; it's the core of the self you are designing. It’s the part of you—whimsical, forward-thinking, and wise—that knows a life of deep fulfillment is waiting, and you are worthy of it. Courage is simply you, darling. Courage is me.

The Invitation to Step Forward

As the proverbial New Year is upon us, I invite you to stop seeking permission from the critic in the armchair. Say yes to you, and if you need permission I’m taking the liberty to grant it to you now.

Where can courage take you?

The only way to find out is to take that first small, wobbly, perfectly imperfect step. This week, let your courage be the gentle force that guides you to a life that affords happiness.

Ok Jordene for Onyx and Milk

P.S. I would genuinely love to hear this: What is the one small, simple act of courage you are going to commit to this week? Let me know by sharing your thoughts in the comments! And if you would like actionable steps to take you can get to build courage, click on courage.

Did summer fly by for you too? And now, just like that, here comes September.

I’ll be honest, she was never my favorite. September always carried that “back to school” energy, which for me meant endings and pressure. But now that I’m older, I’m learning to see her differently.

If September knocked on my door, she wouldn’t come empty-handed. She’d be holding sunflowers in one arm, a cozy cardigan in the other, and she’d say, “Why choose? Take both.” Because that’s her gift: endings braided with beginnings, summer still humming while fall clears its throat. I can see her now with all that wonderful golden light on her face that September sun gives. That’s how I’m choosing to welcome her in now.

The other day, I was on one of the apps (as one does when time is ticking away) and stumbled on a video about time. It was explaining how the Eurocentric idea of time is an illusion and maybe the very thing creating all the stress we carry. As I was writing this, I actually thought it was September 1st. I was beating myself up, convinced I’d missed the “right” window to post this. I even put something on my stories. Luckily, with my small-but-mighty Onyx & Milk community, almost no one saw my blunder. (Blessings in disguise, right?)

Anyway, that tangent led me to the comments section, which is where the real magic always lives. Someone mentioned the Japanese word Ma. It means the pause. The space between things. Not empty, not wasted, but alive with possibility. And instantly, I thought: Yes. September is Ma. A soft place to rest. A fertile place to dream.

So here’s what I’m doing: I’ve started a little September Journal. Nothing fancy, just a scratch pad, a brain dump, a place for plans, where I can spill out what summer left behind and sketch the seeds of what might come next. It’s not about polished sentences or perfect planning. It’s about giving joy a place to land.

And because everything is better together, I thought we could do this side by side. Every evening this month—at 7pm—I’ll be sharing one journal prompt on Instagram Stories (over at @onyxandmilk). Thirty prompts in all: gentle invitations for a life, a home, and a table.

If you’re on Instagram, come join me there. If you’re not, send me a message here and I’ll make sure you get the full set, so we can still do this together.

Because September whispers: be here now. Maybe that’s enough. Maybe the future gets written when we stop hurrying past the present. September is the in-between.

Shall we?

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Jordene

It was my friend who said it first, this gem of a line: “Sometimes you have to waste your time to not waste your time.”
We were walking to Hobby Lobby after work, a fifteen-minute trek through warm summer rain. Our feet got wet, but I didn’t mind. The kid in me still loves a walk in the rain, it feels like permission to play.

I told her right there, Don’t be surprised if that ends up in a Substack later this week.
Because it was true. And it was exactly the thing I’d been circling around for months without naming.

I was on a diddle-daddle, a tag-along. She was on a side quest.

We arrived damp but not cold, with the smell of rain still clinging to us, ready to wander with no goal in mind. We started in the floral section, arranging blooms for a project she was doing purely out of the goodness of her heart. She wasn’t being paid, something that, if I’m honest, made me bristle.

I’ve spent my own time and money giving my creativity away for free. I’ve told myself it’s fine, that it’s love, that it’s generosity. And sometimes it is. But that’s another Substack for another day: Knowing Your Worth: and how just because something comes easily to you doesn’t mean it isn’t valuable.

After the flowers, we wandered toward Christmas decorations. Yes, in August. Hobby Lobby exists in its own eternal holiday calendar. Somewhere between the faux garlands and glittered baubles, we chipped a glass Christmas tree. In our defense, it was on an awkward shelf with not nearly enough clearance. (If anyone from Hobby Lobby is reading this, you know exactly the one.)

We picked up ornaments we didn’t need, laughed at the over-the-top ones, and set most of them gently back. Then it was on to the back-to-school aisle, where we admired pencil cases and gel pens for lives we no longer lead. We got lost in each other’s creativity, and just as often, we pulled each other back from impulse buys that didn’t belong in our homes—though I’m still thinking about that neon white heart light. It would have made for a great Instagram photo, which is exactly the problem.

That’s the thing, isn’t it?
We’re living in a world where every moment, every object, every experience is weighed against its potential for content. Will it get likes? Will it play well in the algorithm? Will it generate a return, monetary, social, or otherwise?

And in that world, time without a metric feels like a luxury. A guilty pleasure. A thing to be justified after the fact.

But maybe wasting time is part of the point.
Maybe you have to try the hobby you won’t finish, take the class you’ll abandon, start the project that never sees completion. All in the effort, just to know.
To know what you love. To know what you don’t. To know yourself.

When we left the store, we were hungry. The candy aisle beckoned, but the huge bags just hit differently when you’re forty-ish. No one needs that kind of blood sugar spike. (Hobby Lobby, if you’re listening, smaller bags of candy—two for three bucks—would be a public service. Especially for the ladies wandering your aisles on weeknights.)

My hands felt a little dry from touching everything. My hair still held the faint memory of rain. My heart felt full.

We didn’t leave with much. But we carried out something better: inspiration, shared laughter, and that hum of being seen and known by someone who doesn’t need to measure your worth or your afternoon.

This is what I mean when I say: Sometimes you have to waste your time to not waste your time.
Because if you never wander, never play, never chase the frivolous, you risk losing the compass that tells you when something is truly worth your time.

So here’s what I know:

• The things we don’t finish still finish something in us.

• Friendship is one of the most undervalued returns on investment.

• Inspiration rarely comes from efficiency: it comes from living.

Part of designing a life of balance that affords happiness is giving yourself permission to live outside the algorithm, to resist the constant pull toward proof and productivity.
To sit in the floral aisle arranging something beautiful for no reason at all.
To laugh at ornaments in August.
To buy nothing and still leave full.

And maybe, to waste your time—deliberately, joyfully—because you know that one day, you’ll look back and realize it wasn’t wasted at all.

I’d love to know, when’s the last time you “wasted” an afternoon, and what did you carry home from it?

If you like pieces like this, forward it to a friend who understands the art of a good diddle-daddle.

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Onyx and Milk is here to remind you: You don’t stumble into joy. You create the conditions for it.

It’s a few days before my birthday, and I’m sitting quietly on my balcony with book, iPad, phone in hand. Pens, paper. The usual tools of a writer, a dreamer, a maker. But my mind? It’s not on what’s in front of me. It’s still glowing from yesterday.

Adria and Ruthie took me to a pottery class, and something unexplainable cracked open. Mind-blowing. Heart-expanding. The kind of alive I hadn’t felt in a long, long time. Not because I created something perfect, but because I caught a glimpse of myself—clear, innocent, capable. Possibility poured in. The kind that doesn’t need to be written down to be real, but it should have been.

I don’t always write what I want. Sometimes I get lost in trying to phrase it just right, or I stall out in the swamp of cleverness, crafting the “perfect” sentence instead of trusting the raw idea itself. So the vision stays stuck. Maybe in my mind. Maybe in my Notes app. Maybe nowhere.

But this time was different.

Before the class, I had a vision. A bowl with a fish inside, simple, sweet, specific. I didn’t try to write a poem about it. I didn’t try to make it deeper than it was. I just drew it. Two little sketches—side view, top view—on a wrinkled yellow sticky note with a black pen. Then I folded it up and tucked it into my pocket. Not for safekeeping. For believing.

By the time I left work, I was bubbling with excitement—the kind only a four-year-old knows. The kind of joy where you have to show someone what you made. I met Adria outside of Insomnia Cookies, pulled out the sticky like it was a secret treasure, and said: “LOOK! I drew this. I want to make this!”

We climbed the stairs to the studio. Aprons on. Names signed. And then I found the instructor, Riley. “Can I make this?” I asked her, wide-eyed. She looked at the paper, then at me. “Yes,” she said, smiling. “We can definitely make that.”(And look, maybe she was trying to sell me a pottery membership—but also? She called me a natural. And I believed her.) When I have the extra money and time for a new hobby Pottery Studio is going to be where i spend lots of time. So I took the clay, sat down at the wheel, and asked it to hold my vision. Riley told me clay has memory—that it holds intention. That some people even talk to it. So I named mine: Sparkle. And I whispered to her what I wanted to create.

Clay is not as easy as it looks. It spins, resists, shifts under your touch. But somehow, with Riley’s guidance and my own hands, the bowl started forming. Then came the fish. Four tiny bubbles. Ripples of water where the creature had risen to the surface. And just like that—what I had drawn became real. I couldn’t stop smiling. Still haven’t.

I hugged my friends. I felt… home. Not just in the studio. But in myself. Because lately, I’ve been wondering if I’d lost me. And maybe I had. But yesterday, I found her again—clay-covered, sketchbook-hearted, still full of wonder.

The timing? Divine.

In a few days, I turn 44. 44 is a master number in numerology. In this lineage of numbers, 44 is the number of the Master Builder, someone here to turn dreams into form. Someone who doesn’t just imagine, but constructs. Someone called to make the invisible visible. It’s not just about manifesting. It’s about grounding what you know into what you do.

And so it feels perfectly aligned that, right now, as I cross the threshold into this new chapter, I remember:

• I am allowed to create before I have the words.

• I am allowed to trust my vision even when it feels small or silly or sketched on a yellow sticky note.

• I am allowed to live the life God envisioned for Himself in this iteration of me.

So no, maybe it doesn’t always have to be written to be real. Sometimes all you need is intention, hands, and a little courage to say:

“I want to make this.”

And then, make it.

The scriptures say: “Write the vision, and make it plain…” (Habakkuk 2:2). But who says “writing” only happens in words? Maybe you’re someone who sees in pictures. Maybe your prayers come out in pencil. Maybe your blueprints are stick figures or brush strokes or dream collages made at 2am.

This small act of sketching a bowl on a yellow sticky note expanded my belief in what I could manifest. It reminded me that what I see, I can create. It’s not only the written that shall come to pass. It’s the envisioned. The felt. The trusted. The drawn.

Maybe it’s your turn.

Maybe you can draw the life you want, on whatever is available to you. A napkin. A sticky note. The back of a bill. Don’t wait for perfect words. Sketch the vision.

See what comes to pass.

A story about presence, hot chocolate, and one very opinionated flower.

You know that voice—the quiet one. The one that wakes up with you when you dare to wear white and drink anything stainable. The one that whispers, “Maybe not today.” This morning, it was clear as quartz: “Be careful. That hot chocolate is going to spill on you.”

But I was in a mood. A “Carrie Bradshaw meets quiet luxury with a side of rebellion” mood. I wore a starched white cropped button down shirt, pressed just so. A pleated, puffy skirt in the color of golden butter—soft as sunshine, strong as intention. And at the waist: the brooch. My brooch is a crystal flower—five petals, cut like diamonds. Delicate, but never fragile. She catches the light and throws it right back. A prism of sparkle, wherever she goes. She’s a symbol of what I aim to be: soft but unshakable. Reflective. Grounded. A little glam. A little guardian.

I don’t dress for the male gaze. They’re not my demo. I dress for the under-10s and the over-60s: the little girls still learning the rules, and the women who’ve finally stopped caring about them. For the young girls: You can live outside the box and still build a beautiful life. For the wise women: You can wear sequins at breakfast and dignity in your posture—both look good on you.

At work, I made my ritual cup—my favorite Swiss hot chocolate from a Kerring pod, with extra milk because that’s how comfort tastes. First sip: perfection. Second sip? Disaster. Right down the front of my pristine white shirt. It was theatrical. Rich brown on blinding white, like life had called “action” on a silent film moment. One coworker gasped. Another froze. A third offered help from her desk like it was a mission. The stain was dramatic, and so was the silence. But I didn’t flinch. I calmly walked to the bathroom, where the hand soap and cold water became my tools. I scrubbed quietly, almost outside myself—watching my hands do the work. My shirt clung damply to me, revealing the outline of my leopard-print bra beneath. A cheeky contrast, totally unplanned. But somehow, I didn’t feel exposed. I felt… centered.

Five minutes later, the stain was gone. When I returned to my desk, the shirt was wet but spotless. The petals of my brooch still glimmered. And in the slow minutes it took for my shirt to dry, something clicked: When you don’t panic, you stay in your power. When you stay in your power, things lose theirs over you. That spill didn’t happen to me. It just happened. Or maybe—if I choose to believe the best—it happened for me.

Because here’s what I know for sure: I didn’t get dressed to impress. I got dressed to feel good. And when I feel good, I treat people better. I make better decisions. I hold space without leaking energy. The point was never perfection. It was always presence.

So yes, the stain is gone. But the lesson stayed:

You are not the mess. You are the grace that cleans it up.

You are not the outfit. You are the light that fills it.

You are not what lands on you. You are what you reflect back.

And that voice—the small one that warned me? That’s not fear. That’s intuition, tuned to the frequency of care. It’s the voice of something bigger that wants you to listen—not so you’ll avoid life, but so you’ll walk through it awake. Like my brooch: strong, sparkly, and absolutely aware of where the light lives. Dress with intention. Sip slowly. When it spills, clean it up and keep going. This is the practice. This is the balance. This is the joy.

For a moment, I wondered if it was just me feeling this strange heaviness beneath the holiday noise. But then, scrolling through TikTok, I saw it everywhere. That same weight. That same quiet question: What are we really celebrating, when the future feels so uncertain?

If “I am” is a mental instruction, and the future is the time unfolding from what we speak and write, then the words we choose are not just tools—they’re architects.

I am tired. I am stuck. I am nothing.

I am strong. I am ready. I am becoming.

Each phrase builds a corridor. One leads to retreat. The other, to revelation. “I AM” is not only your internal declaration—it’s the name of God Himself (Exodus 3:14). To speak “I am” is to echo the voice of the Creator. When we choose greatness for ourselves, we choose God. We level up.

And God—the original designer—left us blueprints. “Write the vision, and make it plain…” (Habakkuk 2:2). What is not written is easily lost. But what is written? It roots. It rises. Even fiction has foretold reality. Even dreams scribbled in journals have turned into mornings you now live in.

I know this because I’ve lived it. The other day, I stumbled on an old journal—ink-smudged dreams, early versions of me. Some of what I wrote then has bloomed now. Quiet proof that the pen, powered by belief and aligned emotion, can tilt reality in your favor.

Florence Scovel Shinn said, “Your word is your wand.” She meant it. Words don’t just describe—they declare. Myles Munroe reminded us that the future doesn’t happen to us—it’s waiting for our instructions.

A few nights ago, I sat at a round table with a group of women. It was a birthday, a celebration. The restaurant was softly lit, the air warm with laughter and ease. But more than that—it was charged. In that circle, I saw something: a future. Not just mine. Ours. Women aligned in vision and light. I thought of the verse:

“For where two or three are gathered in my name, there am I in the midst of them.” — Matthew 18:20

God was there.

And it made me think—if others are gathering behind closed doors, writing futures that fracture, futures built on fear and scarcity—then we must gather too. But our ink must be love. Our meetings, alignment. Our mission: to speak and write a future where more can flourish.

This is what community can do. It’s what writing can do. What speaking life can do.

Let’s land where we began—with the word future. According to the dictionary, it is:

“The time or a period of time following the moment of speaking or writing; time regarded as still to come.”

Let that sit with you.

Every time you write or speak, you’re reaching into what has not yet happened—and placing your fingerprint on it.

So here’s your quiet call:

Pick up your pen.

Pause before you speak.

Imagine you’re designing something sacred—because you are.

And if you’ve ever written something that later came to life—a wish, a prayer, a goal—share it below. You never know who might need the reminder that what you say, and what you write, still matters.

“The game of life is a game of boomerangs. Our thoughts, deeds and words return to us sooner or later, with astounding accuracy.” – Florence Scovel Shinn

If this piece stirred something in you—share it with someone whose light you want to keep lit.

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Let’s build a future worth writing.

Hey Darling,
We’re six months in. Half the year is gone. The other half is still ahead of us, full of possibilities, fueled by summer energy and light.

Sometimes scrolling inspires. Today, it did.

I came across something that nudged my subconscious. It touched on a few pieces of designing a life that I hold close. The areas that quietly shape us: family, friendships, love, and work. It sparked something in me, and light like that is meant to be shared. I’m definitely considering myself a flame holder.

So here we are. You and me and just like you, I’m thinking of where and what I have been doing the last six months and I have been existing a bit(a tiny bit of guilt).

It’s not too late though.
To choose differently.
To choose deliberately.
To choose you (me, these Substacks are letters to myself).

Not in a Pinterest-perfect, vision-board kind of way. I mean the real kind. The radical, reverent decision to live like your life actually belongs to you.

Because what if every time you choose yourself, you are choosing God?

What if the purpose planted inside you isn’t just yours to ignore or delay, but a piece of the divine asking to be expressed through you?

We say we believe in God, in plans, in purpose. But when we ghost our own intuition, when we shrink, settle, or silence what we know is real, we’re not just betraying ourselves. We are saying no to the divine choreography already unfolding inside us.

And here’s where it gets gritty. This is where it all gets real:

Romantic Love: Will You Trade Yourself Just to Feel Chosen?

Attention isn’t affection, but it can be a convincing decoy. You’ve been there, haven’t you? I know I have been. When the standards you have —blur. Loneliness gets loud. Suddenly "maybe this is enough" starts sounding noble.
Spoiler: it never is.

Family: Will You Sacrifice Peace of Mind for Peace on the Surface?

Maybe it’s birthdays or Sunday dinners. Maybe it’s the way you become a quieter version of yourself just to keep things “normal.” But when harmony comes at the cost of your truth, it is not peace. It is performance. I know life is a stage, but not like that.

Career: Will You Put Passion on Hold to Feel “Secure”?

You’ve chased dreams under moonlight. Up late fiddling with an idea that the muses whispered to you. You've felt the thrill of alignment. Then come the other whispers: be sensible, be realistic, be safe you can’t make it on your own, you need this job “Go to sleep.” But the question remains, safe for who? Existing is not the same as living. Someone may have needed this Substack, what if I just left it in my Notes App, only if you knew how many ideas I have in there, and I know you do to.

Friendships: Will You Shrink to Make Others Comfortable?

You start glowing a little brighter. Someone winces. And just like that, you wonder if it’s too much. If you are too much. But darling, you didn’t come here to edit yourself. You came to expand. Please shine bright, they can buy some shades. I have done this so many times and I have regretted each time I did. Take the job, excel at it, wear that dress, it was made for you. True friends bask in your light, they never put up the proverbial hand to block the light that you give off.

So here’s the real plot twist.
Choosing yourself isn’t selfish.
It is sacred. Sacred work is never easy. You have to get very comfortable being disliked and misunderstood when you are doing this kind of work.

It is the most honest way to honor the life force within you and the God who placed it there. It is not ego. It is alignment. It is not indulgence. It is devotion.

Every time you choose yourself, without guilt or apology, something in the universe shifts. You level up. You stop auditioning. You start arriving. You stop waiting. You start living. Most importantly, you stop getting caught up in a loop. You and I both know what I mean, you just asked yourself recently “Why does the same thing keep happening to me?” If you choose you, it goes away.

That is not just growth. That is returning to the truth of who you are.

Why It Matters

Because when you don’t, you lose track.
You contort. You people-please.
You blend into the background of your own life. You exist just a bit.

But when you choose you, even quietly, even trembling and afraid, you rewrite the script.
The story starts sounding familiar again.
You remember the point of it all.

You were never meant to live a life of avoidance.
You were meant to live on purpose.
As if your life is sacred, because it is.
As if you are carrying something holy, because you are.

Six months left.
Time enough to build a life that fits like skin. A life that you designed.

Not selfish. Sacred.
Not a detour. A return.

And if this stirred something in you—if it sparked a memory, a dream, or a quiet yes—then share it. Let someone else feel the warmth too. Light is meant to travel. Keeping it to yourself? That’s the selfish part. But choosing you? That’s devotion. Remember that.

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It was a TikTok scroll-and-stop moment. One of those accidental soul punches from a stranger with a little too much wisdom for a Tuesday.

“Don’t be the one to tell you no.”

A counselor told him that. He was just passing it along. And now I’m passing it to you because it lit something up in me.

You know what I’ve said “no” to? Too much.

A new job.

A bold outfit.

A bigger paycheck.

A better room to stand in.

Things I wanted. Things I dreamed of. All vetoed by the tiny committee of self-doubt in my own head.

But summer does something strange to time. It opens up. The days stretch their arms wider. Possibility lingers in the air like SPF and jasmine and “what if?”

What if this season, we stopped playing defense on our own dreams?

What if we said yes to things that feel a little out of reach, a little too shiny, a little too loud? A pottery class. A new city. That business idea. That cute human you keep making eye contact with. What if you chased it like it might actually say yes back?

Because people are out here doing wild, wonderful, extraordinary things. Not because they were the most qualified, the prettiest, the richest, or the most ready. But because they didn’t tell themselves no.

Today, one of my directors looked at the little stack of quotes I keep on my desk — the ones that remind me who I am when I forget — and added this:

“Don’t let your fear be bigger and stronger than your faith.”

That one might go on the wall. Or maybe tattooed on the inside of my ribcage.

So hey. Let this be the summer you don’t shut the door on yourself. Let it be the season of small audacities. Of gentle risk. Of big, delicious yeses.

Because the only thing worse than failing is never letting yourself start.

Darling, it is summer. Why not share this with a friend?

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If you want to go fast, go alone.

But if you want to go far, go together. What are we going to say yes to today? Well for me is carving out my own space on Substack.

Let’s go far this summer, saying YES!

Summer didn’t just arrive quietly this year. She kicked in the door with a heat wave, a glass of wine, and a playlist ready to play on loop. And on this, the Summer Solstice—the longest day of light in the year—we honor her entrance.

The Summer Solstice has been celebrated across cultures for centuries. It’s a moment when the sun stands still, a sacred pause where light stretches longest before retreating. It’s a time of expansion, clarity, and setting powerful seasonal intentions. We lean into warmth, into joy, into the rhythm of the Earth.

If you know me, you know I’m solar-powered. A Leo, born to bask. I usually crack the blinds first thing in the morning and whisper to myself, “Time to let the Jesus light in.” Because truly, there’s something divine about that early morning glow touching your skin, whispering that you made it, that today holds something new, something good.

At Home: Let the Season In

This morning, as the sun crowned in full power, I sealed my front door to welcome abundance, light, and alignment for the season ahead. I do this every solstice, and here’s how you can too:

How to Seal Your Door for the Summer Solstice:

1. Clean your threshold and sweep away any debris or stagnant energy.

2. Make a blend of bay leaves, rosemary, cinnamon, and sea salt.

3. Add a few drops of Florida Water (or a favorite cleansing oil) and lightly sprinkle the mixture along the doorframe or threshold.

4. As you do this, say a quiet intention like:
   May only joy, warmth, protection, and prosperity cross this threshold. May this summer be one of light, laughter, and peace. I also said the 91st Psalm(God need to be in everything)

This ritual sets the tone. A spiritual and sensory boundary. An energetic RSVP to everything you want more of.

Design tip for your solstice home:
Swap out your heavy curtains for sheer, airy panels. Linen or voile works best. Let the breeze flirt with your living room. I purchase light curtains every year from IKEA called LILL. I usually triple the amount of panels I need per side of rod, to help with privacy. Let the light linger longer. Let your space feel like summer has a key to the front door.

Add textures like rattan, ceramics with soul, and maybe a citrus bowl you rearrange daily just for the fun of it. Your space doesn’t have to shout summer. It can whisper it.

At Life: This Season Is Yours

Summer, in all its brightness, asks us to remember we’re alive. Not just existing. Alive. And yet, life gets loud. Work demands, timelines stack, the idea of “doing nothing” becomes something we have to justify.

But here’s the truth: joy is sacred. So this summer, we create a life that lets joy in without guilt.

Your Summer Bucket List, Darling:

• Watch the sunrise barefoot with a hot cup of something.

• Host a dinner party where nothing matches except the people.

• Go to a new park and do absolutely nothing.

• Start a new hobby.

• Fall asleep by the pool. Dream about something wild.

• Keep a “silly summer joy” journal. Track the absurd, the beautiful, the soft.

• Learn a dance move. Use it often.

• Take a class, learn something new, just for you.

This is your season to bloom without asking for permission. Let it be deliciously imperfect. If you want a bucket list of ideas you might want to try this summer just send me a message, I’ll send it to you. Just say Bucket List.

At a Table: Feed the Summer Soul

The table is where joy lingers a little longer. Meals don’t have to be fancy to be sacred. This summer, we keep it real, flavorful, and full of feeling.

Here’s what I’m craving:

• Salmon Fish Cakes: Crispy on the outside, tender with herbs inside. Perfect with a side salad and something fizzy.

• Trinidad Mango Chow: Semi-ripe mango, garlic, lime, cilantro, pepper, and a kiss of sea salt. It’s spicy, tangy, unforgettable.

• Grass-Fed Burger: Keep it simple. Salt, pepper, a hot grill, and quality beef. Add tomato, arugula, and maybe a homemade aioli if you’re feeling yourself.

Set your table with intention. A linen napkin, a bowl of something bright, music playing low. Eat like every bite is a thank you.

Final OM Thoughts

You don’t have to chase the summer of your dreams. You can design it.

With soft mornings, full tables, open windows, and rituals that root you. With balance, intention, curiosity, and moments that feel like sunshine on bare shoulders.

So here’s to the doorways we bless, the meals we savor, and the lives we are designing. With every day that stretches long, with every laugh that shakes your belly, remember:

Darling, it is Summer. And you deserve every drop of its goodness.

If you want to share the sunshine of this post with someone, please be my guest, the more the merrier.

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With light, love, and lemon-scented air,
— Jordene

And what an OMG, eye-opening, plot-twist kind of day I had.

I claimed this morning was going to be amazing. Proclaimed it, actually. Told my cutie neighbor on her way to school like, twice. I was practically manifesting it into her backpack.

Then came the mad dash up the subway stairs. No huffing, no puffing. That’s progress, thank you very much. When the train notification says 2 minutes, let’s be honest… you really have one.

I get on the train, ready for my usual ritual: some I Am affirmations — I am worthy, I am always on time — a quiet prayer for protection over my family. Then I pop my headphones in…

No sound. Nothing. Nada.

That little satisfying ding that says “connected”? Nothing.

I open the case, I take them out of my ears put them back in the case, close the case.pop them back in. Nothing. Rinse and repeat. Still nothing.

Four stops in, it hits me: OMG. No phone.

I became my own personal TSA agent, patting down every pocket like I’m hiding contraband.

Did I drop it? Is it gone? OMG, my life is on that phone. OMG, my phone is my life.

Honestly, I was mostly stressed about the fact that I don’t know any of my passwords. Especially iTunes.

(Don’t do that. You know you have them saved in Notes. Also… don’t do that.)

I held off full-blown panic until I got to my desk and called one of the only two numbers I actually know. (Note to self: memorize more.)

He answers. “Don’t worry,” he says, cool as a cucumber. “You left it in the car.”

Relief.

And just like that, the first silver lining of this so-called amazing day: I didn’t lose my phone… or my life.

Then came 9:16 a.m.

And 10:42.

And again at 11:07.

That twitchy little urge to reach for a distraction. To refresh. To scroll. To double-check absolutely nothing. To compare myself to others, to get a quick laugh.

But weirdly, blessings started to pile up.

I wasn’t pressed about the time. The day eased by after my brain and vagus nerve found calm.

I actually called my hubby. Four times today. I never call him. I never call anyone.

I will 100 percent send you a text before I call you. It’s a hard pass on the “CALL YOU.”

I got more done. (Productivity went up. Hmmm. Was it the phone?)

I didn’t die.

And in the strangest way, I felt kind of alive. Like a person. In the world. Unplugged, but not undone.

A little different. No anxiety.

You know that feeling like something’s watching? That’s my anxiety. “Something is Watching” by Doechii is always playing in the back of my brain.

Turns out, you can survive without a phone.

Turns out, the day was amazing.

Turns out, I might start “forgetting” it more often.

If this made you laugh, nod, or feel weirdly seen, you’re in the right place. I send more of this soft chaos, divine timing, and human absurdity to my subscribers.

Think of it like a little audio-free ding in your inbox. A sign from the universe. A permission slip to be messy and magical… and maybe, just maybe, find a rhythm that feels like balance. The kind that quietly lends itself to happiness.

So here I lay, phone in hand, asking you —

did you have an awesome day?

A letter to anyone who forgot they’re the designer of their own life

There was a time when happiness, for me, looked like people-pleasing. Performing joy instead of experiencing it. Curating moments for other people to feel comfortable, fulfilled, or inspired, hoping their approval would trickle back to me as my own satisfaction. It was fragile. Dependent. Fleeting. I used to say I was in pursuit of happiness. But pursuit implies something just beyond reach. Something out there. Now, I know better. I no longer pursue. I design. Because the life I want, the balance I crave, the joy I deserve, isn’t something I have to chase. It’s something I have the power to create.

The shift was quiet, but real

It didn’t happen all at once. It came in slow moments. From studying interior design and realizing the most important space I’ll ever create is the one within myself. From my love of black and white — the clarity of it, the calm — and learning that color doesn’t have to compete. It can complement. From understanding that the places and times I spend with myself matter more than anything I could present to the world. And from those times when life felt hollow. When I was creating not from joy or flow, but just to maintain and sustain. I was tired, uninspired, and wildly out of alignment. Until I stopped waiting for permission. Until I realized I’m not just an interior designer.

I am an interior designer.

You don’t have to chase joy. You can design it

A designed life isn’t about aesthetics. It’s about alignment. It’s about looking at every layer of your life — your relationships, your creativity, your health, your finances, your spiritual grounding — and asking, what feels good? What feels like me?

That’s what Onyx and Milk is about. Not a rulebook. Not a trend forecast. A sanctuary. A source of creative prompts. A soft invitation to turn inward and remember — you already know.

The world will decide for you if you don’t

Lately, it feels like everything is being curated for us. The clothes, the content, the colors, even our rights. We’re offered blueprints that were never meant for our lives. Experts design the next 100 years for their legacy. Meanwhile, we struggle to plan one aligned week. That’s not balance. That’s surrender. And I’m done with that. I don’t want to play defense anymore. I want to design with intention.

This is the question I ask now

Am I designing a life that lends itself to happiness, or am I just managing one I didn’t choose? Because if I’m not choosing, who is?

Let me leave you with this

If you’ve been postponing what brings you joy. If you’ve been waiting for the moment to start. If you’ve been shrinking your life to fit someone else’s rhythm. Let this be your invitation to stop.

Ask yourself:

What makes me happy?

And be brave enough to answer. Be patient enough to explore. Be disciplined enough to design around it

Start small:

A candle lit. A solo walk. A journal entry. A room rearranged just for you. It is not selfish to choose you. This isn’t about control.

It’s about creation.

Onyx and Milk isn’t here to give you a 5-step plan

It’s here to whisper. You already know what you need. You already have permission. You’re not behind. You’re just remembering that you’re the architect.

So please, stop rescheduling your happiness. Design it. Make room for it. Live in it! Because joy is not a reward. It’s a right. And you, my love, are the designer.

With care and creativity

Jordene

🖤 @onyxandmilk — creative sanctuary

🌸 @ok.jordene — real life, full color

If this sparked something in you, share it.

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Not to perform it

To remind someone else that their life is theirs to design too.

It’s been a while. Life has been… well, life.

But we’re here now. The sun lingers a little longer, the breeze smells like a memory, and I’m ready to begin again.

Welcome back to Onyx and Milk, where black and white are more than a palette it is a way of life.

They are rhythm and stillness. Depth and light. A contrast that reminds us that life doesn’t have to be loud to be full. The highs are high for a reason and the lows serve their purpose also, to make us more human.

What began as a quiet love for elegant simplicity of black and white has grown into something sacred. A creative sanctuary for those who crave thoughtful living, quiet luxury, and the kind of beauty that doesn’t need a filter.

If you’ve been here before, you already know.

Onyx and Milk isn’t just a moodboard. It’s a blueprint. One that is constantly evolving as we grow.

A framework for living with care — in your home, at your table, and most importantly, in your soul. The freedom to be the designer and avatar of your life.

And now, I’m soft-launching the season with a simple theme:

Darling, it’s Summer.

A nostalgic nod to the summers that shaped us. For I love summers, maybe because I am a summer baby, or I just love the warmth and the light.

Walks in the park. 7-Eleven slurpees. Flip flops. Short shorts. Well since I’m a bit grown maybe also a good maxi linen skirt.

The freedom of unscheduled afternoons and the magic of doing absolutely nothing ( "Il dolce far niente" is an Italian phrase that translates to "the sweetness of doing nothing"— just beautiful.

But also, this.

A reminder that you are already enough.

And everything you need to create a life of joy, balance, and beauty is already within reach and close than you think.

So, what can you expect this season?

☀️ Rituals to bring you back to yourself

🕊️ Design cues that make space for stillness

📝 Stories that stretch toward the sun but stay rooted in meaning

💭 Reflections that whisper: maybe this is the time to begin again

A bit of style, a dash of magic, a sprinkle of whimsy and a lot of love and light.

(This shift has even got me thinking about picking yoga back up. Hello, sun salutations.)

Follow the visual journey over at @onyxandmilk — the soft, slow sanctuary where it all begins.

And now… a new layer:

OK Jordene

You can follow that story unfolding here → @ok.jordene

If Onyx and Milk is the polished page, OK Jordene is the margin notes.

The iced tea-stained corner. The garden dirt under the nails. The real-life, color-rich practice of living the Onyx and Milk ethos.

On OK Jordene, I’m the full-color version of the philosophy.

The selfies. The meals. The trying-again-on-a-Tuesday moments.

It’s soft and human and joyful and honest.

Think of it as the “me too” space.

The one where you scroll and say,

OK Jordene, I feel that.

Or even better — OK Jordene, I’m doing it too.

Together, these two spaces hold a seasonal rhythm:

• Onyx and Milk offers the blueprint

• OK Jordene shows the bloom

• Thought meets practice

• Black meets white

• Structure meets soul

So whether you’re here to restyle your space, revive your rituals, dill dally, or simply remember what it feels like to be present in your own life, I’m so glad you’ve come back.

Let this season be soft and powerful.

Playful and deep. Rooted and reaching.

Because Darling, it’s summer.

And everything and anything— is still possible.

With care,

Jordene

P.S. If this resonated, share it with someone who needs a soft start to their summer.

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And follow along on Instagram:

@onyxandmilk for structure, beauty, and inspiration

@ok.jordene for color, movement, and the everyday magic

I came home from Walmart, unpacked the necessities, and sat down to unwind. This is the message I was met with.

It feels like strange times. Well, to be honest, it’s been feeling a little off lately. I’m not the type to dwell on timelines or the planets aligning in my third house causing havoc in my relationships—but this ban feels different. It feels… unsettling.

I could lament endlessly about it, trying to decode why it happened. But why? What would that solve? There are those of us who were TikTok users and those who never stepped into its world. As I sat in my car, savoring the last videos like watching the final flicker of a candle’s flame, I peered out the window. I saw people untouched by this moment. Their lives seemed unbothered, unchanged. To them, the world hasn’t shifted.

But it has.

And when they do notice, I fear it may be too late. TikTok wasn’t just an app for dances, for laughs, for fleeting distractions. It was more than that. It wasn’t about holding up illusions or chasing unattainable dreams. As one user said, TikTok was a place to be real. A space to learn, to be seen, to be loved for your imperfections. For many, it was the last place they thought could save their lives—until it did.

For me, TikTok was a challenge. I wrestled with the fear of being seen and judged, tangled in the web of perfectionism. I don’t regret my limited participation, though—it was part of my journey. I needed to walk my own path.

As we navigate this altered world, we may find ourselves experiencing a range of emotions, akin to the stages of grief. Initially, there’s denial—a refusal to accept that something so integral to our daily lives could vanish overnight. This is often followed by anger—frustration directed at the forces that led to this loss. We might then find ourselves bargaining—hoping for a reversal or seeking alternatives to fill the void. Depression can set in as the reality of the situation sinks deeper, bringing a profound sense of loss. Finally, we reach acceptance—acknowledging the change and beginning to envision a path forward.

Reflecting on history, when India banned TikTok in 2020, millions faced a similar emotional journey.  The abrupt removal of the platform led to a collective grieving process, as users grappled with the sudden change in their digital landscape.

But now, as we navigate this altered world, we need to acknowledge the void. There will be grief—there should be grief—for this is a loss. And like any loss, it demands we move through it. After you’ve walked through the stages of mourning, I urge you: don’t stop there. Keep learning. Keep laughing. Keep being yourself. Seek truth. And above all, find your center. Hold tight to the things that bring you happiness.

When you find yourself again, decide—this time with intention—to take what you’ve learned and design a life. A life of balance. A life that brings happiness to you and those you love.

Remember the laughs. Cherish the shared experiences. Make that recipe you screenshotted. Take the vitamins that were recommended. Set up that LLC and living trust. Apply the lessons that resonated with you. Build your community. And most importantly, know this: you are better because you were part of the TikTok world.

As my mother always says: God is good, God is love, and it will all work out.

Happy Thanksgiving! My wish for you today is simple: may you be surrounded by the people, places, and moments that fill your heart with gratitude. And if this year doesn’t look quite like the Thanksgiving you’ve envisioned, remember—life is brimming with opportunities. With every breath, you are designing the life you dream of, piece by piece, moment by moment. Even if what you desire isn’t here yet, be thankful for it as if it already is. That gratitude sets the magic in motion.

For years, I’ve said “Happy Thanks for Giving” instead of the usual greeting. It’s my little mantra, my way of telling the universe: I see you, I’m thankful for your gifts, and I’m open to receiving more. It might sound quirky, and sure, people have looked at me sideways when I say it, but isn’t Thanksgiving the perfect time to own our little quirks and celebrate intention?

The past week that where i was missing in action, I took a pause to reflect, and I’m reimagining our newsletter to align with what I believe is at the heart of a joyful, balanced life. For me, it’s about balance in three key areas: At Home, In Life, and Around the Table. These pillars shape how we live, how we thrive, and how we connect. I’ll share more about this shift in the weeks ahead, but for now, let’s embrace the joy and gratitude of this beautiful season. Below you can find a diagram of what I’m thinking and what I am working on.

A Quote I’m Pondering

“Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more.”

– Melody Beattie

Here is the quote, save it and share it.

This Thanksgiving, let’s pause to notice the beauty all around us: the grand celebrations and the tiny, quiet moments. Gratitude creates balance between the joyful chaos of the season and the calm contentment of simply being.

At Home: Designing a Harmonious Environment

Your home is the heart of the holidays—a space where memories are made. Here are a few ways to bring warmth and balance into your Thanksgiving day:

• Clear the Energy:Start the day by opening a window to let in fresh air. Light a bundle of sage or your favorite candle, and set an intention for peace, love, and togetherness.

• Spark Gratitude:Set out a beautiful bowl with slips of paper and a pen. Encourage everyone to write down what they’re thankful for and share their notes over dinner.

• Set the Mood:Decorate with what you already have—those leftover pumpkins from Halloween, some greenery, or a scattering of candles. A cozy, imperfect table is better than a perfect one that leaves you exhausted.

Simple shifts can transform your home into a haven of gratitude and joy.

At Life: Finding Balance Amid the Holiday Hustle

Holidays can be a whirlwind—joyful, yes, but also a bit overwhelming. Here are a few ways to stay grounded:

• Take Mini-Breaks:Step away for a moment between tasks. Breathe deeply, center yourself, and remind yourself that it’s okay to pause.

• Say No Without Guilt:Whether it’s skipping a dish, holding a smaller gathering, or protecting your peace from a boundary-crossing relative, saying “no” can be the most loving thing you do for yourself.

• Focus on Presence, Not Perfection:The goal isn’t a Pinterest-perfect holiday—it’s laughter, connection, and being fully present in the moment.

Thanksgiving is about embracing the magic of “good enough” and letting yourself savor it.

At A Table: Wild Rice Harvest Bowl of Gratitude

This simple, hearty dish is perfect for Thanksgiving or the days after when you’re working through leftovers:

Ingredients:

• 1 cup wild rice (cooked)

• 1 sweet potato (cubed and roasted)

• 1 cup Brussels sprouts (halved and roasted)

• ½ cup fresh cranberries (or dried, unsweetened)

• 2 cups arugula and chopped romaine

• ¼ cup pumpkin seeds (toasted)

• ½ cup cooked turkey (sliced or shredded)

• ¼ cup red onion (thinly sliced)

Dressing:

• 3 tbsp olive oil

• 1 tbsp maple syrup

• 1 tbsp apple cider vinegar

• 1 tsp Dijon mustard

• 1 small garlic clove (minced)

• Salt and pepper to taste

Instructions:

1. Preheat the oven to 400°F. Roast sweet potatoes and Brussels sprouts on a baking sheet for 20–25 minutes, tossing halfway through, until golden and tender.

2. Cook the wild rice according to package instructions. Fluff with a fork and set aside.

3. In a large bowl, layer the cooked wild rice, roasted vegetables, cranberries, greens, and red onion.

4. Top with turkey and toasted pumpkin seeds. Drizzle with the dressing and serve.

A bowl full of gratitude, flavor, and seasonal goodness!

A Million Thanksgiving ago, i took this photo, but it holds lovely memories

What Are You Thankful For?

This year, I’m grateful for you—the women and men who bring magic, creativity, and laughter into this world. I’d love to hear what’s lighting you up this Thanksgiving. Reply to this email or share your reflections with the hashtag #okJordenethanks on instagram, you can follow me there also.

Here’s to gratitude, harmony, and joy.

Next week: “Balancing December: Creating Holiday Spirit and Happiness”

With love and gratitude,

Jordene

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