Through the window
She stares outside
Indents on her forehead and nosebridge
From pressing into the blinds 

Unblinking lids
Focus on nothing 
And everything 

Thoughts about nothing 
And everything 

February, April, June
Months flit by
Like the bumblebee over clovers
Oh look, a dog

On her left
The radio plays 
On the other side of glass
Nature grows 

The world cycles
And she remains behind the blinds
Standing 
Unchanging 

Can you see her eyes as you pass by?
Watching, fighting
Scanning for meaning
Looking for light

Eyes that would certainly hide
And move quickly out of the slits
If you were to step up to meet them
Can you see?

Or does her dark cloud cover her 
In shadows

A few other poems you may enjoy

Thank you so much for being here.

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While in an ADHD-esque deep dive into the chronology of Jesus’ life after a binge-watch of The Chosen, I came across the dazzling way astrological/astronomical events connected to the entire mythical arc of the Bible.

Various theological theories draw the sky and cosmos as a celestial picture book outlining God’s plan for our evolution on this planet. How star patterns serve as a grand narrative. God’s art, story, work, laid out in the skies above us through glimmering specks of light on the most expansive canvas in our Universe.

“Only their creator could arrange the stars and time the orbits of the moon and planets to tell His story. A reason God made them was for signs (Genesis 1:142). A meaning for the word sign is a picture. The stars form pictures that we call constellations.”3

Our art connects us to our inner God. When we create art in this world, we are included in a participation, in a glimpse of God creating the Universe. When we appreciate our art, we feel a glimpse of God looking at God’s creations. And when we encounter breathtaking art, intricacy, or beauty in our world, we experience a glimpse of how God sees it all.

This is our soul, our God-part, experiencing itself through our humanness. Through our eyes and emotions and wonder. Through the stardust that swirls around branches and breath and brushstrokes.

Our cells are built of the same elements as the galaxies. A divine story within as with-out. All one.

Art is made in the image and likeness of the artist. Your art is a mirror of your soul created manifest in the world. Just as your soul is art—a mirror of God created manifest in the world.

The greatest artist and Its highest form of art, creating and experiencing this story in symphony for eternity.

A few other pieces you may enjoy

Thank you for reading. If my work resonates with you and you’d like to support this space, upgrading to an annual or Founding Angel subscription also supports my Impact Corner, with 10% going toward ocean conservation through Ocean Conservancy.

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When you open the space to deeply confront your shadows, they aren’t sitting across a candlelit table with a smile on their face and a hand out to shake, ready to have a calm, rational conversation over a nice dinner.

You are the dinner.

Nobody tells you that you must meet your wounds from inside them. When you are ready to greet them, they say hello by swallowing you whole. They take you so deep that you can no longer separate yourself.

You are them. They are you.

It doesn’t feel like healing. It doesn’t feel like there’s a way out. It’s all there is; it’s all you can feel. You are seeing through their eyes.

Blinding. Suffocating.

And it feels like what I imagine hell on earth might—eternal, existential despair.

We look at our shadows. Analyze them. Wave at them. Get looped into hellish cycles with them. Sometimes we even experience them deeply.

But do we ever allow ourselves to be eaten whole by them? To fully embody them—as if they’re taking over every cell of our being?

How else are we meant to help ourselves, help others, unless we can viscerally understand what we’re working with?

Capacity exists on both ends of the spectrum. Meeting and excavating the dark clears room for more light.

Real wound work isn’t observational; it’s immersive. And at some point, you will get swallowed.

It is terribly frightening. Not knowing if the light is gone forever is worse. But so is living with the monsters inside your head for your entire life.

Let them come out and swallow you. Allow yourself to meet your wounds from the inside.

And then turn on the flashlight in there. Illuminate the belly of the beast.

That’s where alchemy lives.

“…the more challenging or threatening the situation or context to be assimilated and affirmed, the greater the stature of the person who can achieve it. The demon you can swallow gives you its power, and the greater life’s pain, the greater life’s reply.”

― Joseph Campbell, The Power of Myth

A few other pieces you may enjoy:

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I’ve been waiting, in some quiet way, for most of my life, to feel good without caveat. Today, I started to see what it might look like when something begins to come back to life.

Less than a 10-minute drive from my mom’s house, far up a side road, with a little lot and sign you’d otherwise pass by, is my personal, secret1 wooded oasis.

It’s a peaceful, forested area—secluded enough that you’d never guess the road is just through the trees up the hill. The trail isn’t long, per se; once you hit the turnaround from the north side and head back, it’s probably a little over a mile total.

But during that mile, you’re walking right along a roaring brook, the sound and sight of running water following you like a sensory companion the whole way. Water moon sign heaven. Small waterfalls and big mossy rocks accent the powerful flow. Nature bathers wade in on warm days. Standing on a boulder jutting into the water, my mind screams: NANTS INGONYAMA BAGITHI BABA.

The trail is more worn and marked in some places, but the best spots and more fun adventures require navigating a few rock ledges and lesser-traveled paths. Don’t they always?

For me, the last year or so has been one hellish, concentrated dark night of the soul chapter2. I got a swift kick in the ass off the cliff edge I have been teetering around for most of my life. I decided to finally sit in the shit, not run to another country, as per my modus operandi, and let it all erupt together—trusting my system’s built capacity, over years of resilient death and rebirth self-work, to handle the seismic and continual booms.

Navigating the waters of heartbreak, cheating, reactivated emotional abuse trauma, flaring chronic illnesses, debt, unemployment, familial suicide, further spiritual expansion, chaotic left-field situations, severe depression, hypervigilance, anxiety, and newer formal (though longstanding) diagnoses of CPTSD, panic disorder, ADHD, dysmorphia, and OCD—a girlie’s got all the letters, and you’d most likely never be able to tell. Working with nature has been a necessary liferaft.

I familiarized myself with this particular set of woods over the dead of winter while spending more time than usual at my mom’s place, since my doctors and practitioners are closer to her. I started to notice slight shifts in its energy each time I visited. After months, I became accustomed to its winter identity—the bare trees, the brown, dead leaves carpeting the ground, the sometimes angry waters after record amounts of snowfall, and the peacefulness of no other soul on the trail.

I guess a part of me assumed it would always be that way. I didn’t mind. It was beautiful to me, nonetheless. Maybe because I saw myself in its barrenness.

On an unseasonably warm 80-degree April day, I visited my favorite oasis again for the first time in a couple of weeks. And in the aftermath of a long winter’s death, seeing the woods begin to bloom back to life was like a sort of magic.

Little buds, almost still imperceptible on some branches, start to form on the trees. What looks like a black rock near a congregated pool of water is actually a real-life turtle out for an afternoon chill. I decide to name it Larry or Gertie (sex dependent).

Green sprouts push their way through the carpet of dried leaves, and mycelium grows along fallen trunks, almost as if death has fertilized their birth. Yellow and magenta wildflowers pop up along the paths in areas that, before, looked like nothing lived. What used to seem like barren sticks in the ground along the shallow areas of the river turn out to actually be little plants. Different bird calls ring through the sky, and other humans intermittently dot the trail and rocks. Life has started to return to these woods.

Next week, I begin an intensive round of ketamine infusion treatments. After decades of fighting invisible battles, spending incalculable amounts of time, money, and effort on trying to get to the root of everything I struggled with physically and mentally, a list of lifelong health complications that make even the most experienced doctors’ eyes sort of bulge, working with modalities, holistic/clinical practitioners of all kinds, and cyclical deep rock bottom states, the journey has brought me here. To a sort of Hail Mary-type pass. A treatment for those for whom no other treatments have worked.

It’s a scary step. It’s scary to think this might be one more thing on the never-ending list of things that were a failed false hope. And it’s just as scary to think it might actually work. I don’t remember a life where I wasn’t fighting to survive. Where even the “happier” emotions and times didn’t carry an undercurrent of something darker.

The idea that I could be entering a brand new, completely foreign reality, and potentially pretty quickly, is a bit hard to comprehend. But like these woods, I’ve never been more ready to come back to life. Lighting candles for the girl I once was. Praying for the woman I will become3.

In her essay on this week’s astrology, writes:

April 17th is not a fresh start. A fresh start implies you are returning to zero, wiping the slate, beginning again as if nothing came before. That is not what is happening. What is happening is that everything that came before — every lesson, scar, every failed attempt, every realization that arrived “too late” — is being gathered into a single moment of forward motion.

You are not starting from nothing. You are starting from everything you have already survived. And the point of no return is simply the moment where what you already know becomes action, because you are no longer willing to remain where you are.

The woods and I fight back to life through the remnants of what already was.

On my way out of the woods, my shin scrapes the top of a rock, slicing through my skin. No matter, I think. A wound from nature, to honor the ones I’ve carried for decades. A final mark.

Then, a piece of paper hidden among some trees catches my eye. As I walk closer, I see a bunch of child crayon-drawn numbers. I flip it over, and on the other side I find the word “mstereis” (mysteries). A love letter written by the innocence of childhood and delivered to me by the Universe.

What a little curiosity for life’s mysteries can bring you.

I hope to find many more “mstereis” and sprouts of rebirth on the other side of this journey.

A few other posts you may enjoy:

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What seem like personal, natural, and astrological coincidences might actually be a highly sensitive system that’s finally attuning to the rhythms that flow through this realm with less resistance. I’ve found I’ve been existing more in coherence with the outer world. As within, so without. As without, so within.

“It’s kind of rad,” my kinesiologist said, someone who has seen me over the years spiral up and around through countless, severe downs. He’s right; it is kind of rad to notice larger coherence happening. But this doesn’t mean beginning a return to cyclical alignment is all sunshine and light.

Astrology goes through detriments. Nature dies, too.

It’s easy to fall into the existential despair trap during winter when life feels stagnant, everything is internally and externally dark, and you’re in a (very long) death part of a cycle with the season.

But movement and motivation will return, even if only briefly, to start. They come without needing to be forced, as the wheel spins. The spark begins to ignite in little moments. A flash of creativity and just enough energy to get it out into the world. A desire to put on your workout clothes and move your body in a soft way for the first time in a while. Motivation to begin short meditations some mornings, again. A bit of fresh air and sunlight that boosts your system 10%. Joy in a great decaf1 iced latte and sunshine with a friend, because one day the weather was finally acceptable enough to drink it outside.

Cycles don’t require our effort to restart; they restart when the system is ready.

It’s one of the most difficult but important reminders in the dark seasons, when we are discouraged by stagnation, feeling shame about “lack” of movement and success2, and all we want to do is push ourselves to make something happen. Trusting that our souls will innately start us back up the spiral when it’s time. There’s really nothing for us to try to figure out during these periods. And no pushing, forcing, or negotiating with the universe will get us out of that place any quicker.

Trust yourself. Trust your body. Trust your spirit. It has brought you this far, hasn’t it? It’s already helped you survive everything you’ve faced with a 100% success rate.

Sometimes the dark days feel endless. And sometimes they last much longer than just a winter season. They leave, they come back, they spiral around and around. Such is life.

Allow yourself to be tired. I’m exhausted. The spirals have been tight. Intense, consecutive internal death and rebirth, and the liminal space after, is hard. Fighting against it—even harder. And trying to force the wheel before it’s ready to turn, trying to assert a sense of control over a human-understanding-level senseless time—it all makes you more tired.

Decide to let it go and let whatever larger force you believe in take it off your hands. Radical suggestion: maybe we also decide to stop caring so much about the external beliefs or implications of what our times underneath the spiral “say” about us. Doesn’t that feel like a weight lifted?

Underneath the spiral, when everything feels hopeless, when life seemingly isn’t moving, when you can’t get yourself to do more than the necessary basics—how can you remind yourself, in a way that truly sticks to your innate knowing, that your spirit WILL move you when it’s ready?

Thank you for reading. If my work resonates with you and you’d like to support this space, upgrading to an annual or Founding Angel subscription also supports my Impact Corner, with 10% going toward ocean conservation through Ocean Conservancy.

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Lined up next to our section were all the young girls with their basketball teams who got to high-five the players as they came out. I watched them in their personalized shirts, with last names and numbers that made you feel like you belonged to something, jump around, wave to parents in high sections, and goof off with their friends. Wonder in their eyes, and smiles wide at the chance to interact with their athletic heroes. Being fully themselves with no hesitation.

A strange feeling happened in my chest.

Nostalgia mixed with grief.

Witnessing these girls and their innocent joy made me so nostalgic for that age. I was them. I used to be them. Wishing for a time machine, I could feel my younger self yearning to be carefree again, to join them in their youthful revelry. I could almost remember what it felt like. I wanted to scream CHERISH THESE DAYS.

And then, there was the part of me that grieved for not having had the chance to fully be that childlike free, without barriers. I sat, with pressure in my chest and a faint smile on my face, buried under the crushing weight of anxiety and a life that has been far too heavy for someone who is only 30 years old to have carried.

Recently, my mom has been sending old pictures to my sister and me of days I don’t really remember. I see the young face of someone who I logically know is myself, but there’s a disconnect. I think, maybe there always was, inside of me, back then. And there’s empathy, a tear for her pain, a disbelief that anyone could have ever made this beautiful, innocent girl feel unworthy. A tugging in my heart and a wish to go back and talk to her through what I know she was feeling.

I have good memories, of course. I could list many. Laughs with my best friend, whom I’ve known since Kindergarten, hiding in the closet when our moms tried to separate us. Adventures and holidays that my mom filled with magic for my sister and me. Our driveway concerts, basement Barbies, and inside jokes—the things only sisters think are funny. Creativity and nerdy passions that seemed to flow out of me like a waterfall. Shooting hoops and cheering on my favorite team with my dad. Grandparents who, while gone too soon, embodied unconditional love. The list could go on. I’ve had many beautiful moments. I don’t deny that.

But a lot of what I remember looking back on those years, and the decades that have followed, is wrapped in pain. Pain of not belonging, of not being accepted, of being singled out. Pain of rejection, of severe bullying. Pain of feeling too deeply, of being misunderstood, of inner confinement, of perfection. Pain of performing, of masking, of constant internalization and minimization. Pain of wanting to be enough, and doing everything possible to be. Pain of abuse, of betrayal. Pain of an unstable home environment. Pain of a body that has consistently fought against me. Pain of swallowing pain.

Whether my vision is warped or not, my memories are imprinted with it. Complex trauma will do that to you.

Walking back up the aisle, one of the girls kept her gaze glued to the ground. When she glanced up, she made eye contact with my dad, a reserved, timid, good girl smile on her face. I saw myself in her. Internal. Innocent. Probably carrying more than she should be.

A part of me misses that age. Or maybe, I moreso miss the chance to feel the unburdening that age could have provided.

Then I zoom out and think, maybe I’ll miss this age one day, too. Maybe one day I’ll be in my 80s, remembering the innocence and naïveté that comes with being 30. Even though my adult years have so far been riddled with hard times that I still fight every day to claw out of. Holding a similar empathy and sadness that it all felt so heavy on her. She was so young, so beautiful, so big-hearted, she didn’t deserve to go through all of that, I’ll think to myself, yet again, decades from now, about this version of me. If only it were so easy to implement that feeling about our current selves in this moment, not just years later in hindsight.

There are days I wish I could go back to my childhood just to experience it one more time. I’m sure I’ll feel that way about this chapter. There’s something beautiful we’ll remember from every age we make our way through.

I hope and pray life is gentle on these young spirits as they grow up. What a shame it is for any of us to lose that childlike joy. A joy, an innocence, a lightness, which is my biggest hope to discover for myself as I continue through this journey.

I’m nostalgic for the years I didn’t get to innocently experience. I grieve for the versions of me who have struggled more than lived. And I send hope for a future in my life that will shimmer back with innocent light.

Thank you for reading. If my work resonates with you and you’d like to support this space, upgrading to an annual or Founding Angel subscription also supports my Impact Corner, with 10% going toward ocean conservation through Ocean Conservancy.

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Today, Monday, February 23, 2026, I lost my main and last consistent freelance income to a change in business structure.

What a failure it feels and looks like to write those words down. I don’t know what’s next. I’ve been unsure for some time now. I struggle with feeling unsuccessful, lost, stagnant, confused. And especially with letting other people see that.

The vulnerability is painfully sharp. The fear of it even moreso. And that’s how I know it’s worth sharing.

This last consistent project kept me going for a while, though I knew it wouldn’t go on forever. It wasn’t fully aligned with the direction I have been consciously and subconsciously moving in, and it wasn’t even completely sustaining me financially.

And at the same time, it was the last piece of my old identity still holding on. And while it still hung on, I was okay, I was comfortable, and maybe I could keep going this way for the time being.

God knows, every day I fight a decades-long invisible battle with and for myself. To help my mind and body function even semi-well. While also being my own enemy. For as long as I can remember. So why not allow something to be okay, even if not perfect, while I worked tirelessly to get other parts of myself up to capacity?

Today marks the end of that chapter. Finding out the news felt like the last nail in the coffin of what my old life was. The last shred of identity connected to the old me is vanishing like a ghost in the wind. I’m watching her fly away.

When something is taken, it makes room for bigger. Maybe what’s coming for me couldn’t fit where pieces of my past self were still clinging on, taking up space. I’ve asked for more. I’ve asked for a bigger, better, fuller, healthier, aligned, abundant, safe, loving, wealthy, joyful, purposeful life. But could I truly step into this next version of myself with lingering strings keeping me tethered to an old frequency? An old timeline, an old story?

As someone all too intimately familiar with the cycles of the phoenix, I know this moment will become another step in the story of my journey rising from the rubble. Reaching for more. Divinely never allowed to settle.

So many aspects of myself have burned to ashes, time and time again. Within the last year, wildfire engulfed every fragment of my old identity, the stories built on foundations of trauma and pain. So I bid adieu to this final string that bound me to her, and I let it light up in flames. Space needs to be cleared. Energy has been changing; I have been changing.

My ground has been tilled, and dug up, and broken apart. I let the tears fall like rain on the open soil where she lies. But isn’t this what is needed for seeds to grow? Come spring, her grave will be a garden of wildflowers.

Thank you for reading. If my work resonates with you and you’d like to support this space, upgrading to an annual or Founding Angel subscription also supports my Impact Corner, with 10% going toward ocean conservation through Ocean Conservancy.

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Hello, my friends!

I loved writing haiku when I was younger. There’s something simple and beautiful about distilling a moment into a 5-7-5 syllabic story. And in the spirit of continuing to expand myself creatively, I figured, why not take on a mini creative challenge of writing one daily haiku to capture a feeling from each day of my week? No overexplaining the moment, no title to describe what was happening, simply three lines encompassing a feeling from that day. And maybe some that could also hold a multitude of meanings for whoever else connects with the frequency. Some days were lighter, others were heavier. And that’s just life, isn’t it?

I kept the traditional haiku restrictions on natural themes a little loose, as I wanted to have some creative freedom and fun with it, and it was a different, fairly simple, and unique way to capture memories outside a general journaling practice. A handful of these were mentally illustrated in the shower (as many creative ideas are), and others, I had no idea what to write until the next day, after letting the full 24 hours pass. But at the end, I now have a week of little moments captured in 21 lines.

I’d love to see your “moments in haiku” capturing small feelings from your weeks as a soft creative challenge to add to your days. Tag me in your posts if this practice inspires you!

Welcome to these moments from my week of February 16-22, 2026.

Monday, February 16 
“It may not last long”
he hands me the punching bag
“with the way you hit”

Tuesday, February 17 
This ride can’t be rushed  
the shedding took all of me
my skin is still raw

Wednesday, February 18 
Breathe in and breathe out 
school dance she is twelve years old 
we cry together 

Thursday, February 19 
A bookstore window
chai and Moroccan lentil 
warmth in the winter

Friday, Febraury 20 
Sat around the couch  
thirteen years pass in their voices 
time bends and refracts 

Saturday, February 21 
It’s 2016
laughter screaming "Money Trees" 
years melt together  

Sunday, February 22
The mirror and me 
my reflection betrays us
eyes of a critic 

Thank you for reading. If my work resonates with you and you’d like to support this space, upgrading to an annual or Founding Angel subscription also supports my Impact Corner, with 10% going toward ocean conservation through Ocean Conservancy.

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The other week, I received two rejections within an hour from lit journals I submitted some of my unpublished poetry to back in the fall. It was the first time I had ever submitted writing to a journal, much less any poetry, where I’m really shooting in the dark as a novice.

Yet, I noticed with each thanks for submitting, but not today, that I read, there was a normal momentary pang of sadness, but in no way, shape, or form did it negatively emotionally impact me further than that.

My system basically said okay, shrug, and off to the work folder they went to live as evidence of trying. To look back on that imminent day when my work does get accepted somewhere. Or better yet, when I publish it myself. No longer waiting for anyone else’s approval. And on I went, no worse for the wear.

I used to be someone who was so scared of being seen for the reality of her messy depth, her flaws, her imperfections, that she would never have submitted raw, personal poetry for potential public sharing (or polite rejection) in the first place. Someone who would have taken each rejection of her art, and therefore herself, as a knife to the heart that went so deep it came out of her back. And who probably would have defeatedly agreed they were right, her work was crap.

To noticing that afternoon, I had quietly become someone who felt so grounded in her work’s worthiness, and therefore maybe even her own worthiness by default (though this is still a day-to-day hill), that she was totally unbothered by someone’s personal opinion about it at that time.

And here I am now, almost with pride, writing about my “failings” publicly to you all on Substack. Younger me would have been horrified.

My composed exterior throws many off the scent that I really have nothing figured out. I’m about a solid mile away from having anything remotely close to figured out.

A composed exterior similar to the one many of you have grown over the years. Like a second skin, a shell of protection, a mask that hides our often dumpster fire interior. Far away from anyone getting access to, or gasp, the horror, of potentially judging the imperfect, messy, really unsure, parts of ourselves and our lives.

But what I’m learning to be more comfortable with is this: it’s okay to let people see you try.

The sheer bravery of choosing to be vulnerable, of showing and allowing yourself to be seen in the messy middle, is what gives others the permission to do the same. Be the change you want to see in the world. That includes being authentically unsure, not put together, raw, real, and honest about what you’re experiencing. Answering the truth when someone asks how you are, instead of the classic glossed-over I’m fine usually employed when the truth might be too heavy or too uncomfortable for someone else to hear.

I’m not saying trauma dump on everyone you come across. Use discretion with who you let into your inner world. But what I am saying is it’s simply okay to admit right now is hard, I don’t really know, I’m trying.

We’re scared of coming off as too much, too emotional, too difficult to handle. And if that’s how someone feels about you for being real, then so be it. Let them stay caged within themselves as slaves to the fear of their own emotions. If you have the depth to feel and honestly express it, you want to attract those who can mirror the same. Otherwise, you’ll never feel fully satisfied in any of your relationships. Let the people who can’t or won’t meet you there fall away.

We’re human. No one is fine 100% of the time. But how will others ever feel comfortable being vulnerable about their reality if you don’t set a safe stage for that yourself? Be the one to take the first stance that opens the door for everyone else.

Now, I’m not necessarily advocating for public yodeling of your deep inner wounds and all your failures on our time’s version of the town square. Unless, of course, your system feels safe doing so, and it seems aligned with the way you’re moving. Plenty of perceivers from my past lurking in the Instagram shadows would absolutely love nothing more than to see me flounder and fail. I’m sure we all have some version of that.

Privacy is huge. A lot of what I experience, some of the darkest depths I’ve waded through, all happen behind the scenes, and may be pieces of me that only those closest to me ever know about. Some I even still keep to myself from those people. I think it’s extremely important to work and grow in silence. And there may be pieces or chapters of life you are still trying to navigate and understand that aren’t ready to be summarized into an overarching, bigger meaning for others, yet.

But it’s also okay to let people see you try. To help yourself learn: you don’t have to always hide in the background during your unsure beginning or messy middle, waiting to present only the final, polished, shiny package. You’re a perfectly imperfect human, not a silver tea set.

Thank you for reading. If my work resonates with you and you’d like to support this space, upgrading to an annual or Founding Angel subscription also supports my Impact Corner, with 10% going toward ocean conservation through Ocean Conservancy.

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I don’t want to borrow happiness from the arms of another
That seems like fragile ground to stand on
It is never really yours

So one of us will take the darker path 
And it is me
I’ll greet my moonlit shadows 
The trees my protectors
Though they, too, cast more 

I’ll howl into the black night 
A lone wolf
Screams met only by their echoes

Water rushes over shattered pieces on the shower floor
I will place back together myself 

Because when light finally bursts through the cracks
And happiness is at my door 
I’ll know—
it belongs completely to me  

Thank you for reading. If my work resonates with you and you’d like to support this space, upgrading to an annual or Founding Angel subscription also supports my Impact Corner, with 10% going toward ocean conservation through Ocean Conservancy.

You can also help add to my flight fund ;), buy me a coffee, a book, or a little treat at the overpriced farm store I love to go to every day.

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Last month, I started a self-directed holistic curriculum so I could add a bit of structure and purpose to a season of life where I was otherwise flailing about in a dark abyss. I wanted to continue learning. Expanding my mind. Caring for myself in more disciplined ways. I’ve always loved to read, though I stick mainly to “beach read” novels and mindset/spirituality books these days. A part of me has been calling to go back and read “classics” I hadn’t explored yet—a huge category I had all but written off enjoying, because even though I was an English major in school, I recently realized we never really studied many (or any) female authors. More like a bunch of unrelatable middle-aged white men from past centuries. And it’s a wonder I thought I disliked “classic” literature.

So enters Sylvia Plath—an author whose name I heard rumblings of over the years, mostly for the infamous oven experience, but unbeknownst to me, was actually a fairly contemporary writer and not some 1800s woman in a big-skirted dress and headscarf who shoved her face in her cabin stove while her kids watched from the table (really embarrassing to be an English major and not have been taught anything substantial about this woman).

The more I studied her personal life, the more I felt seen. A writer and creative who spanned genres and refused to be put into one box, who wrote to alchemize her ache. An American in London (my favorite place where I’ve also lived), she was 30 when she died (the age I am now, and also at a rock bottom of yet another death and rebirth cycle), and a woman who struggled throughout her life with relatively invisible mental turmoil. Suffice it to say, The Bell Jar resonated now in a way that maybe it wouldn’t have ten years ago.

Was I Sylvia Plath reincarnated? The similarities began to get a little too ironic. I laughed at the pedestrian thought I’m sure thousands of other unseen women have shared in the past. It was more likely that I had actually found an artist whose work and personal life I could finally relate to, much like I do with Taylor Swift. Two women who refuse to shy away from the harsh reality of trauma and the darker sides of the mind through a female lens. Topics usually avoided or glossed over in favor of a world where everything is rainbows and unicorns, and women have nothing to say about their personal experiences unless it’s light and easy. Women who went through the dark and alchemized the pain into works of art greater than themselves. Who allow room for the darkness and the pain to be encompassed in the fabric of who they are, but maybe not all that they are.

September’s curriculum also served as another personal lesson in alignment and trusting that we’re led directly to the things we’re meant to. The day I went to pick up Sylvia’s books, I scoured the “P” section, but The Bell Jar was nowhere to be found, despite the library system confirming it should be on the shelf. So, I chose a random help desk and asked the employee working behind it. “Oh, The Bell Jar,” she smiled, “It was just returned it this morning. I was on duty checking the books back in, so I know where it is.” She led me down to carts of books yet to be reshelved, and sure enough, it was exactly where she remembered seeing it hours before. Thank you to the literature and library gods.

Similarly, the album my friend intuitively chose for us, Blue by Joni Mitchell, is known for setting a new standard for raw emotional honesty and vulnerability in music, a different yet seemingly invisible string of similarity tied to the work of Sylvia Plath. A confessional album that explored love, loss, and transformation. The theme of this chapter in my own life. Written on the road while traveling, this quest to find herself again amid heartbreak resonated with my own nomadic life and how travel acts as a salve to wounds.

And now, here we are in October. This month feels like a breath of fresh air. Even though we are “later” into the year and the days are getting shorter, which we are told means something is coming to an end, I’m feeling the opposite. There’s a sense of possibility, magic (hello to my fellow witches), and beginnings.

Who is to say spring and fall are “transitional” seasons, as if that makes them somehow secondary or more unstable than the “base” seasons of summer and winter? I’m going to have to wholeheartedly disagree and say that spring and fall are actually just as much (if not more so) base seasons—more stable, more enjoyable, and temperate, more room for possibility, and less extreme than dramatic summer and winter. This month, we’re opening our windows, we’re letting in the fresh air and light, we’re cleaning out our closets (physically and metaphorically), and we’re finding our way back to ourselves.

A new month, a new curriculum. Same foundation, different art. As explained in last month’s article, it’s not necessarily homework, but a set of touchstones for the mind, body, and soul. I try to think of it as a framework for exploration, not a checklist to keep up with. Each month, I will share what I am personally exploring, and invite anyone who feels called to do the same.

There is a little structure to anchor you, but the pillars are soft enough to make your own. You are welcome to follow my exact plan or fill in the areas with art, aesthetics, and topics that resonate with you. Maybe my chosen author or album isn’t your vibe this month. Find another that stretches you. No need to finish their entire catalog. Just pick one or two of their works that feel right.

The point is to keep exploring and tend to all parts of yourself in a more holistic way—mind, body, and soul. You don’t have to finish everything to “do it right.” The curriculum becomes a way to explore and grow different parts of yourself by reading, listening, moving, creating, and reflecting.

Here is October.

Monthly Curriculum (this framework will remain the same every month)

One classic author or different genre exploration, one music artist or album exploration, a movie or two that make you think, a deep dive on a niche topic or work through a course, something for the senses or aesthetics, movement six days a week, spend more time scrolling inspiration on Pinterest and long form essays or thought pieces on Substack, journal entry every day, something creative and meditation or nervous system regulation tools as often as possible.

~~~

October🍂
it’s giving winding journeys that transform life and bring us back to our own light
*aesthetic: more open windows and fresh air, less ac/heat*

Author
Anaïs Nin 
* The Diary of Anaïs Nin (Volume 1)
* Delta of Venus
* A Spy in the House of Love

Artist
Daniel Caesar
* Freudian (2017)

Movie
* Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

Niche Topic
Native American history of Rhode Island

Some photo vibes from September

Explore September’s curriculum here:

Thank you for reading. If my work resonates with you and you’d like to support this space, you can help add to my flight fund ;), buy me a coffee, or a book, or a little treat at the overpriced farm store I love to go to every day.

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I always loved going back to school. Being someone who is an avid learner, a new school year always felt exciting—before the monotony of the repetitive winter days set in, of course. Recently, my younger self (and also my future self) has been calling to dive back into learning. There’s a current trend on Substack of creating your own monthly curricula, and the second I heard about it, I knew it was what I had been looking for to get myself out of a mental stagnation rut.

When we’re younger, all we really do is learn. Besides summers off, we’re in school every single day learning. But as adults, we often get overwhelmed with day-to-day life, work, expectations, obligations, “shoulds". And since I’ve been out of school (for quite a few years now), and haven’t put a conscious effort towards it, I realized I wasn’t learning much of anything new. I wasn’t really stretching my brain. I feel like this is partly what has kept me in a rut creatively, as well.

I also fall victim to starting a habit and then veering off the rails, usually pretty quickly. The fact that I completed the entire self-directed 12-week Artist’s Way program a couple of years ago is something I might have to put on my headstone. I don’t know if it’s because I’m a Gemini and can’t stick to something past the point of boredom, or if it’s ADHD, or a symptom of burnout, or just an underdeveloped sense of self-discipline (maybe all four combined?). But holding myself accountable in staying disciplined, following through on things that many days just feel annoying to do, is something I’m working on.

So, I put together a monthly curriculum. Not necessarily homework, but a set of touchstones for the mind, body, and soul. I try to think of it as a framework for exploration, not a checklist to keep up with. Each month, I will share what I am personally exploring, and invite anyone who feels called to do the same. One of my best friends @madleigh is also doing it with me. An accountability buddy, and even better if it’s someone who can expand on an area that you know less about, makes this ten times more enjoyable. She is the albums to my books.

There is a little structure to anchor you, but the pillars are soft enough to make your own. You are welcome to follow my exact plan, or fill in the areas with art and aesthetics and topics that call to you. Maybe Sylvia Plath isn’t your vibe this month. Find another writer who stretches you. No need to read their entire catalog. Just pick one or two of their works that feel right.

The point is to keep exploring and tend to all parts of yourself in a more holistic way—mind, body, and soul. You don’t have to finish everything to “do it right.” The curriculum becomes a way to explore and grow different parts of yourself by reading, listening, moving, creating, and reflecting.

Some days, some seasons of life, it just feels too heavy to do. And if you’re in one of those seasons, having a couple of small daily checkpoints helps you feel like you’ve completed something. I find that using this monthly framework keeps the fatigue of daily decision-making to a minimum. Getting to intuitively choose art to check out each month also taps into creativity, exploration, and re-strengthens our connection with our intuition (which usually falters a bit during difficult periods) because we see how we’re directly guided to exactly what we need. It’s added some lightness back to a darker time. There’s a larger sense of purpose and accomplishment that comes with continuing to grow, even in the quieter, static-y seasons of life

With that being said, here is my personal September curriculum, and the framework for you to build your own.

Monthly Curriculum (this framework will remain the same every month)

One classic author or different genre exploration, one music artist or album exploration, a movie or two that make you think, a deep dive on a niche topic or work through a course, something for the senses or aesthetics, movement six days a week, spend more time scrolling inspiration on Pinterest and long form essays or thought pieces on Substack, journal entry every day, something creative and meditation or nervous system regulation tools as often as possible.

~~~

September☕️
it’s giving dark academia self-discovery menty b library vibes
*aesthetic: more warm lamps and candles, less overhead lighting*

Author
Sylvia Plath
* The Bell Jar
* Ariel
* The Unabridged Journals 
* The Collected Poems

Artist
Joni Mitchell 
*Blue (1971)

Movies
* Good Will Hunting
* Everything, Everywhere, All At Once

Niche Topic
* Early history of Yves St Laurent 

October curriculum coming at the actual start of the month ;)

Thank you for reading. If my work resonates with you and you’d like to support this space, you can help add to my flight fund ;), buy me a coffee, or a book, or a little treat at the overpriced farm store I love to go to every day.

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Today I am feeling a bit melancholy. I don’t know if it’s the rain, or the full moon, or just one of those days memories seem a bit heavier. I am sitting on the front porch on a rocking chair, a hot mug of coffee on the railing with the steam rising into the rainy air. Journaling in a cozy sweater and blanket across my lap, like fall is around the corner. And yet, even as this perfect scene of a calm experience, or something my future self would be doing in my idealized versions of her, I don’t feel settled. I don’t feel inherently, deeply peaceful. I don’t feel like how I would want to in this picture.

The memory, or more so the pain, of him is heavy today. What he did to me. The movies my mind can’t seem to press pause on. Of him having sex with those other girls. Of feeling pleasure from them. The sounds he probably made. It haunts me. It makes me feel sick.

How it’s very possible he’s already just so easily replaced me with this new girl. This latest good girl he doesn’t want to mess around on. Lie to. Decided he now wants to be better for. As if I wasn’t her a year and a half ago. That he’s going to easily be able to tap into that well of deep love for her—because it’s still on the surface from me. That I’m not going to be unique and special anymore. It all hurts.

I don’t know what he’s doing. If he’s put away that painted mug of our initials, I watched him place on his dresser over Facetime just weeks ago. Or the box of my letters and old perfume he kept next to him, even during our breakup. If he still gets into bed every night with the little stuffed Husky dog, sitting there watching him, hopefully judging him—and does he think of me? Does he regret any of this? Or is he just blasé, moved on, indifferent already.

The final ending really fucked me up. And I don’t know if how it played out is indicative of his deeper feelings, or if it was just a wall of avoidance put up between our screens. I’m sad. I feel discarded and easily forgettable. He hurt me.

And I just have to go on. Accepting the fact that it’s very possible, I have already been replaced. She’s sitting in my seat in front of him, between his legs, leaning back into his arms, while they watch the sunset on the beach with their friends. What used to be our thing. The scene, he said, he already imagined me in, in his mind.

Like maybe he didn’t want me, he just wanted something. And when something that seemed nice and cool and fun, and came with no baggage, no dirty past mistakes to clean up, was right there, maybe that was enough.

And I’m sure she’s great. But she’s also not me. And I have to hope, have to believe for my own sanity, that the difference won’t be ignoreable. That even if she is great, there’s still a depth where I used to live in him, the space he said I created, that she’ll never be able to get to.

And maybe that’s what he wants right now, saying he wanted something simple. But after months of apologies and declarations of undying love and promises of a lifetime of fixing what was broken, proclaimed to get me back, I don’t fully believe that. Once you’ve been in the depths, the surface will never feel enough again. At least not for long.

So even if she is great, even if he is able to pull some feelings from that ocean of love I created for her, I have to believe my space isn’t just refillable like that. And I have to believe the corners of emptiness that are left will scream at him again one day. That no one can truly fill them the way I did. That there’s always going to be gaps of darkness where my light once was.

Because I created the mold. And in the way he tried to break it, tried to pretend it was fillable with someone else, those hollow spaces are never going to be quiet.

Thank you for reading. If my work resonates with you and you’d like to support this space, you can help add to my flight fund ;), buy me a coffee, or a book, or a little treat at the overpriced farm store I love to go to every day.

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Far be it from me to try to understand the male psyche. So, when pondering why there always seems to be more women solo traveling, or traveling in general, than men, I can only come at it from a woman’s perspective.

It’s a woman’s world, which is becoming increasingly apparent through the “summer of girlhood” we just experienced. With the rise of all things “girl,” from “girl dinner” to the Barbie movie to T Swift’s Eras tour, we’re becoming less apologetic for what we love and what we love to do.

Historically, travel stories have highlighted the many adventurous men who climb big mountains or fly planes across the world, with the notable exceptions of female figures everyone knows, such as Amelia Earhart and Cheryl Strayed (read here for more inspiring female travelers).

Well, here’s a bit of storytime for you. Let’s journey back to the year 381 AD, where we find Egeria, a woman whose contributions to travel literature mark a significant milestone in the history of literature. Egeria’s adventure was not just wandering down the block, but a three-year trip, including scaling Mount Sinai like it’s a walk in the park. And where was she heading, you ask? Nowhere crazy, just on a pilgrimage from what might be Spain or the Rhone Valley all the way to the Holy Lands.

Egeria didn’t just conquer mountains; she also conquered the art of documenting her adventures. She penned letters on her journey that are now known as the original travel memoir, the first of its kind. That’s right, some of the world’s earliest travel writings? They’re hers. And why am I, an avid female traveler, and probably many of you, just finding out about this extraordinary woman? I’ll leave that question open-ended.

Women have been solo traveling around the world for longer than we’re given credit for. A bit of research will pull up some inspiring travel writings from women in the 18th and 19th centuries. Yet, the image of women as household fixtures for many decades has historically lessened the number of women traveling, or maybe just hidden it better. The responsibilities of life, childbearing, household-keeping, and career-climbing (while being paid less than their male counterparts) had burdened women for much of the 20th century, with little time to breathe, much less travel.

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Fearless and Unapologetic: The Essence of Solo Female Travel

The times they are a-changing. Millennials are getting married and having children later, and those in earlier generations are now finding themselves empty-nesters or going through divorces. Women are reclaiming their lives for themselves, and a large part of that is through travel. The stats don’t lie: 64% of travelers worldwide are female, while only 36% are male. The solo travel numbers tell an even more drastic story, with 84% of solo travelers being female.

Freedom and independence are among the top reasons that women hit the roads and skies alone. Group travel is also taking off, with women-focused travel businesses popping up left and right, probably because the industry is finally catching wind of women’s enormous control, with a staggering 80% of travel decisions made by women.

Solo travel is not just a vacation; it’s a proclamation of independence. While society might still be catching up, the data doesn’t lie. The search volume for ‘female solo travel’ has skyrocketed by a jaw-dropping 62% in the last three years. We’re not just flipping through travel magazines; we’re making our own headlines.

Now, let’s address the burning question: why are women dominating the solo travel scene? It’s not because we’re trying to outdo men; it’s because we’re unapologetically embracing the thrill of the unknown. Solo female travel isn’t just about visiting exotic locales; it’s a journey that requires strength and resilience — navigating unfamiliar territories, making split-second decisions, and conquering fears.

A part of it may also have to do with how women process the world and their emotions. Women are often (though not always) more reflective than men. With travel becoming more and more about self-realization and finding inspiration and passion, women searching for meaning or their path in life may be more apt to turn to travel rather than hitting the gym or burying themselves in work. Riding solo appeals more since being with friends or a significant other might dilute the personal growth journey.

The idea that self-care is a solo act and travel is the ultimate form of self-care has triggered a surge in women booking solo flights. Forget mere sightseeing; women are treating travel as a serious investment in themselves. When a trip becomes your personal therapy session, hitting that “buy ticket” button suddenly feels like the most natural thing in the world.

Shifting Perspectives: Why Not Men?

While the surge in solo female travelers is undeniable, it raises the question of why men might be less inclined to embark on solo journeys. Societal expectations, perhaps, still tether men to traditional roles, creating a hesitation to step into the unknown alone. Breaking down these stereotypes and encouraging men to embrace the solo travel experience could lead to a more balanced representation in solo exploration.

The location of travel could also impact the number of men you encounter. Friends with solo travel experience mention noticing more men in certain cities or countries than others. For example, the number appears to be higher in places such as Southeast Asia compared to Europe, where solo female travelers are more likely to visit. Yet we love our male solo-traveling friends, regardless of the destinations they flock to.

Some of my closest friends from traveling are incredible men who are brave enough to take the leap, discover who they are, and explore independently. The world needs more men like that.

Following Her-story

A common thread that ties the millennial generation and every traveler together is the desire to fill our lives with meaningful experiences rather than material possessions. Funnily enough, this is a theory I focused on as part of my Thesis in college. Little did I know back then that this “experience hunger” I was writing about would envelop my life the way it has — foreshadowing at its finest.

To Our Fearless Female Travelers:

Ladies, keep forging paths and scripting your solo narratives. Your stories resonate, inspire, and contribute to a growing industry of independent exploration. Let’s continue to create a narrative that celebrates the courage and curiosity inherent in all women.

For the Adventurous Men:

Men, the uncharted territories await you. Break free from conventional roles, challenge expectations, and venture into the world on your terms. Join the conversation and share your experiences. Together, let’s redefine what solo travel means for everyone.

Irrespective of gender, let’s question the norms tied to travel. What does solo travel mean to you, and how can we collectively foster an environment that encourages everyone to embrace the unknown? The world is vast, and so are the possibilities that solo travel offers.

The desire to explore the world has illuminated the hearts of many women, known or not, throughout history. And it still lies in many of us today. Our souls know what we yearn for, even when we aren’t mentally aware of it yet. If there’s an inkling or a faint whisper in yours that this is what it wants, embrace the leap and go for it.

This post was originally published in 2023 for a women’s travel empowerment site.

Thank you for reading. If my work resonates with you and you’d like to support this space, you can help add to my flight fund ;), buy me a coffee, or a book, or a little treat at the overpriced farm store I love to go to every day.

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A note I wrote about climbing out of a rough place and using your shadows to alchemize.

A comment from a man: manic depressive suicidal people trying to take up writing. Like, God forbid, writers use their own life experience as inspiration because they haven’t been doing that for thousands of years, right?!

Another note, making light of the situation, while also calling out the small-mindedness that it stemmed from: my first hate comment, go me!

And a response section that turned into a bloody warzone. (I’ll let you do your own digging on this one, but here’s a small preview of what ensued.)

One woman’s battle cry seems to bring the rest of the hateful men out of the shadows like a mating call.

And louder your cry becomes, so does the aggression that follows suit.

The army of entitled male keyboard warriors come out to defend each other, not realizing (or maybe not caring) they’re proving everything they’re so adamantly defending themselves against.

Like a woman calling out the bad behavior of a man is somehow the problem, instead of the bad behavior itself.

“The most rage provoking element of being a female is the gaslighting that happens when, for centuries, we've been just expected to absorb male behavior silently. Right? Silent absorption of whatever any guy decides to do. And often times when we, in our enlightened state, in our emboldened state now, respond to bad male behavior or somebody just doing something that was absolutely out of line and we respond, that response is treated like the offence itself.

There's been situations recently, somebody who's very guilty of this in my life, it's a person who makes me feel — or tries to make me feel — like I'm the offender by having any kind of defense to his offences. It's like, oh, I have absolutely no right to respond or I'm crazy. I have no right to respond or I'm angry. I have no right to respond or I'm out of line.

So you providing the musical bed for me to make that point that I'd been trying so hard to figure out, how do I say why this feels so bad?”

— Taylor Swift, Folklore: The Long Pond Studio Sessions

Is it my responsibility to respond to your hate in a soft way so as to make sure not to bump your fragile ego?

I’m an empathetic person. A forgiving person. I know that hate comes from someone who is deeply unhappy with themselves. I work hard to give grace.

But you can be kindhearted and understanding without getting walked all over. You don’t have to continue to take hit after hit in the name of agreeability. Is it easier to ignore it all? Brush it off? Not give people who act like that the time of day? Sure. Doesn’t mean you have to.

Does a scorpion sting when fighting back? Yes, Taylor, it does.

There is a very distinct difference between constructive feedback on someone’s work and hatred. And we don’t need to be crashing out, having childish outbursts online. Fully grown adults have the ability to regulate their responses. Hell, some children are better at it than what I’ve seen from this.

If you have enough time and energy to spread negativity on a stranger's Substack note, perhaps consider getting a hobby. Can I recommend painting, Pilates, what about taking a walk in nature? Or using your creativity to write your own content?

There are so many more important things we could be channeling our anger towards productively. How about poverty? People starving? The injustices against fellow humans? And instead, you choose to put more hate into the world.

I truly hope karma has a sense of humor. I think it does. And I’ll see every woman-hating-feminist-opposing man in the next life: as a woman.

As for me, I’ll no longer be silent. Because for too long, I was. Absorbing every blow, every misogynistic comment, every backhanded (and not so backhanded) slight like a sponge. No more. Your animosity will be put on display.

And I’ll no longer be silent for the women and girls who feel like their voice is still too shaky to speak for themselves.

To the wonderful women and men who have shown their kindness to a stranger: you are the kind of light that we need.

Now, I’d like to get back to my usual programming of relatable and hopefully inspiring vibes. My profile was poems, and reflective essays, and pictures of farmers’ markets. Substack should be a feel-good place.

But feminine rage is a fire. And it’s not women’s responsibility to keep it from burning down the entire world.

Thank you for reading. If my work resonates with you and you’d like to support this space, you can help add to my flight fund ;), buy me a coffee, or a book, or a little treat at the overpriced farm store I love to go to every day.

Simply subscribing, reading, and sharing what you think means the world.

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HEY YOU!

Yes, I’m talking to you.

I have something to tell you.

With all due respect and in the kindest way I can say this:

Get the fuck out of your hometown.

There is a reason you clicked on this essay. Because somewhere inside of you, something is yearning for more. And I promise you, brave soul, there is more.

So much more.

If you have dreams, dreams that maybe feel bigger than the spaces and people around you right now, I want you to know: you have them for a reason.

If you were meant to be the person who stayed near your hometown forever, you wouldn’t be questioning it. Your soul wouldn’t be incessantly craving expansion.

There wouldn’t be a fire in your heart and a wind at your back constantly pushing you towards something out there.

Yes, it’s scary at first. But isn’t everything that’s new? Isn’t anything worth doing or having just on the other side of the little nagging voice in our minds?

Fear is a sign that you’re in a new territory. It’s your ego trying to protect what feels safe and normal.

But is normal really what you want to be? I’m guessing not.

I’m not the person to ask if you’re looking for some comfort zone validation, questioning whether to stay or go. In a job, a relationship, in your hometown. Because I will tell each and every one of you: GO.

I tried the more “normal” path, myself. I moved to NYC all alone after college, was a 9 to 5 girly, did the big city chapter. No regrets at all. But as much as my childhood self thought a floor-to-ceiling windowed office with a view and a pantsuit with heels and a topknot was the ultimate goal, my current day self couldn’t be happier to have been so fucking off base about that.

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At 30 years old, I’ve traveled to 35 countries and six continents so far, many solo. Settled a bit longer-term in a handful of them. Made friends who come from tons of different nationalities.

I’ve spent a lot of the last six years (though covid really threw a wrench in there for a while) wandering around the world — and never feeling more direction and alignment than when doing so. I can say, with utmost conviction, that it was the best decision.

I’ve lived about 600 different lives. Done all kinds of travel — solo, group, work, volunteer. Some really, really random things.

Call it the Gemini in me, but adapting to new cultures, different clothing styles, being whoever you want to be in every new spot is exhilarating. It’s like unlocking different character versions of yourself in each place. You’re essentially your own Sim (Gen Z, I urge you to experience this Millennial-formative game if you haven’t already).

People don’t know you. You don’t know them. No one holds any underlying beliefs about your assumed story that you need to stick to. You don’t have to fall in line with your prescribed personality. It’s a constant opportunity for reinvention. For exploring different facets of yourself.

For becoming an even more layered and beautiful human than you already are.

As someone who feels so deeply but has struggled internalizing everything her whole life (hello, hella Scorpio placements), and never feeling truly safe to be herself in the spaces that were supposed to be the safest, it’s freeing in a way that’s hard to explain.

Your hometown, your college, your current environment are not the be-all end-all. If it’s feeling like a tiny little fishbowl, it’s because that’s exactly what it is.

And the people around you right now are not the only ones out there.

In college (alright, let’s be honest, also a lot of my 20s), I had situationships with boys who were so far below my league, it’s honestly laughable to look back on now, years later. The things we settle for when our self-worth is low, without even realizing we’re settling, are crazy. So many tears shed over literal losers.

There are wonderful boys out there. But trust me, girls, many of the guys who you think are the shit now, who are also treating you like shit, will be banging on your door 10 years later. Still in the same place you left long ago — physically, emotionally, and mentally, possibly trying to become a DJ, and way past their peak “cool boy” days.

And some of the girls in college and in their 20s, too — wow, don’t even get me started.

But at that time, at that age, and on a very small campus where many people’s maturity didn’t graduate high school with them, what was in front of you was what you had. And it seemed like that’s all there really was.

Let me tell you: it’s not.

Don’t get me wrong — it took ending up in a real low point in my own life to make the kind of shift from normal office girly to a more free spirit wanderer. Many called me crazy or irresponsible, questioning my sanity for completely changing course and leaving an “adult life” in NYC for the unknown.

I had no idea what the hell I was doing when I left. I was in my early/mid-20s, extremely sick physically and mentally. Lost and confused. My living situation was toxic. My room was a glorified closet with no windows in a converted mill building. Complete with passive-aggressive stranger roommates who loved to play loud music at all hours and invite friends over to chain-smoke cigs in the living room without shutting the bedroom doors. My job was even more toxic. A story for another time.

Many days, I was a walking picture of the cliché crying on the street corner in New York. Apparently, that’s how you know you’ve made it.

I didn’t have a good, or really any, support system there. I moved without knowing anybody; the friends I made weren’t always reliable, and if you ever attempted to make a good group of friends as an early-20s burnt-out girl in NYC pre-mega social media boom without having some there already, you understand the struggle.

I was trying to heal from a narcissistic, emotionally abusive relationship that messed me up badly, as well as severe, mysterious illnesses that kept putting me in the hospital. Juggling an underpaid, over-full-time job, freelance modeling on the side, a social life, a stressful living situation to return to after a stressful work day, barely being able to afford staying alive, and dealing with the everyday chaos of living in NYC. And add on top of that depression, anxiety, and unexplained illnesses that had been plaguing me for most of my life, that no one would diagnose for years and years.

After a while, my nervous system and most non-survival-necessary body systems completely shut down.

I left the city a year before the pandemic happened. I had zero choice. I had to do something, or I wouldn’t survive much longer. But these were still the days when office work was considered the standard for pretty much everyone, before covid had people reevaluating and questioning the role and importance of office jobs. An unexplained gap on your resume spelled professional suicide. So at the time, leaving a position without something else lined up was extremely abnormal. The shift was not easy.

But you will never be comfortable in a place you’re not meant to settle in. The Universe will keep kicking you in the ass until you realize something needs to drastically change.

And there will always be someone who doesn’t understand. Someone who gives you 101 reasons why what you do is an awful idea. This goes for life, business, and anything that might be slightly off the beaten path.

But we don’t take criticism seriously from people we wouldn’t want to imitate the lives of. That is their own fear speaking to you. Their projections are not your reality. And more often than not, it stems from a jealousy that you might have the courage to go after something they never allowed themselves to. Learn to discern this. Thanks for your opinion, and move on.

Regardless of outside static, you need to listen to your own voice.

I’m not saying leaving what you know will be easy. Change never is. And travel is inherently challenging, as is anything unfamiliar.

Trust me, it becomes a sort of second nature the more you do it. The airport, your second home.

But the reality of travel also is: there are always some kind of delays or missed connections, you’ll really never feel settled living out of a bag or two, and goodbyes hurt every time you leave a place and people you’ve come to love. There’s a serious need for resourcefulness and street smarts, you have to strengthen the ability to trust yourself to come up with a solution for a wild problem right on the spot, illness or injuries are common (I’ve seen one too many foreign hospitals), language barriers, extreme cultural adaptations, financial strain, missing family and friends, and sometimes loneliness and isolation when you’re going at it solo are all very real.

But listen to me: go anyway. And go alone. Take baby steps if you need to. A short trip. Something close to home first. A trip with a friend, if you can plan that. Build confidence and experience. Or dive off the deep end. Take a crazy risk; it’s what I would do. And who am I to limit you?

But do not wait for permission, do not wait for a travel buddy, do not wait to feel “ready.” You will learn along the way, just like with everything else in life.

And the “pitfalls” really don’t end up feeling like much compared to the life-changing experiences. They just become the crowd-pleasing anecdotes you can tell when people ask how your travels have been.

Yes, it’s hard. Some days you might feel sad, still. Scared, unsure. You follow yourself everywhere you go. It’s not a quick fix. It’s not an escape from your problems. But you also won’t find yourself in the way that you crave if you stay in a place that no longer fits like a home should.

Push through the challenging days.

The person you will become, the confidence you will gain to handle ANYTHING, the sides of yourself you didn’t even know existed, the growth — mentally, spiritually, emotionally, the new friends you will be forced to make who will understand you in a way maybe no one else has, the experiences you will live to tell, the spontaneity of following your own schedule and itinerary — it’s life-changing.

There’s laughter, and exploration, and love (I’m a sucker for foreign men with accents, what can I say). There are so many souls in distant places who will make those spaces feel more like home than the environment that’s confining you ever did.

There’s food to try. Sunsets to see. Cultures to learn about. Planes to catch. Life to live.

The stories I now get to carry in my memories of the crazy shit that’s happened in my travels — they knock the socks off of people from home. They’re shocked. Taken aback. Sometimes appalled. Pearls clutched.

But I just sit and laugh, because I love what I’ve done. I love my own little world of chaos, and risk, and exploration, and adventure. My life is colorful.

I can’t even imagine who I would have been today without the choice to let the wind push me so far away that my hometown, college, the life that maybe raised you (but is now holding you back), all seem as small as the world does from my window seat. With the way that I was headed, I honestly don’t know if I would still be alive if I hadn’t. And when I am back in old environments now, I’m not who I once was.

There isn't one person I’ve met on a similar journey who has a single regret about taking the chance to find something bigger. And you don’t have to disappear forever. Though that’s probably what my plan would have been if it weren’t for the 5638 friends’ weddings I’ve been blessed to be in over the last few years.

What you left will be there, waiting for you when you’re ready to return.

So listen to me. Seriously, listen.

I don’t care if you’re 18, 38, or 78. Get out of your hometown. Move to that new city. Hop on a jet plane. Take the risk. Water your own garden. You owe that much to yourself to just try.

Explore this world. It’s so insanely beautiful. There is always a plane ticket back home. Keep that knowledge as a metaphorical worry stone in your pocket. But I can almost guarantee you, once you’re gone, you won’t be wanting to book it.

Thank you for reading. If my work resonates with you and you’d like to support this space, you can help add to my flight fund ;), buy me a coffee, or a book, or a little treat at the overpriced farm store I love to go to every day.

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My phone rings. 
I haven’t heard that much in the last week. 
Hidden under the blanket could it be? 

A first thought. A reflex.
A sound so familiar every night around this time. 
A call list still littered with your name. 

Maybe one day, it’ll be filled by others.

My heart raced along with the buzzing. 
But deep down, I knew it wasn’t you.

Thank you for reading. If my work resonates with you and you’d like to support this space, you can help add to my flight fund ;), buy me a coffee, or a book, or a little treat at the overpriced farm store I love to go to every day.

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Mornings are when I miss you the most. 
In the quietest way.
Not that any other time of the day is easier, but there’s something about waking up. 
To start my day with you, sleepily checking my phone as I open my eyes. 
To feel your warmth through the light of the screen morning nugget x. 
To smile, reply, fall back asleep. 
And fall into you. 

Maybe for you, nights are harder. 
The absence of Facetimes and AirPods and recounting your day. 
Who is the last person you say goodnight to now? 

Do my mornings feel like your nights? 

One day, I’ll wake up and not scroll through notifications hoping to see that heart-stopping familiarity— 
hoping that in those quiet London sunrise hours, while I’m asleep across the Atlantic, a piece of your heart had reminded you that you miss me in the mornings, too.

Thank you for reading. If my work resonates with you and you’d like to support this space, you can help add to my flight fund ;), buy me a coffee, or a book, or a little treat at the overpriced farm store I love to go to every day.

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I replay our conversations like that will somehow help me remember some long-forgotten detail to finally make it all make sense. Or at least something to soothe my worries for a little while. But how do I trust what I remember? Aren’t I my most unreliable narrator?

It’s a tornado in here.

Do you truly believe we will see each other again, that one day you will come and find me? Or are you now telling them that you’re relieved, that this was for the best — that in the pit of your stomach, you knew I wasn’t the one.

Are you sitting on that balcony with them, looking at the same skyline we used to watch from your bed, getting off your chest all of the thoughts you kept to yourself?

All of the honest truths you hid so you wouldn’t break my heart even more.

Was it all sugarcoated to make it go down easier? To make the harsh reality just a little bit sweeter?

Am I reading between the lines of reality or cutting myself with the shards of my overactive imagination? It’s blurred.

Part of me wishes you had just released the harshest pieces so I could begin to pick them up and throw them away, instead of just sitting here staring at the cracks — not knowing if they’re going to stay together or all fall apart.

How do I let go, being okay if the words you’re saying to them now don’t match the ones you said to me then? It’s 5:26am, and I’m no closer to the answers.

Thank you for reading. If my work resonates with you and you’d like to support this space, you can help add to my flight fund ;), buy me a coffee, or a book, or a little treat at the overpriced farm store I love to go to every day.

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Like many women, I've spent much of my young adulthood, and even childhood, if I think about it, trying to assert a false sense of control over my life. Which is just draining, to put it lightly. Working hard to become “successful,” whatever that actually means, like that would be my golden ticket to happiness. I always felt internal pressure to get good grades in school, then find the right job, climb the ladder, and make a large salary and a name for myself.

I found I was putting this control pressure on myself in my personal life, as well — burning out not just professionally but physically and emotionally. Keeping a mask of control on the outside but often flailing on the inside. Call that the Capricorn rising in me, or call it a symptom of the world we millennials have grown up in.

Still, the notion that we need to assert control, to be grinding constantly, that life and work need to be draining for us to be “successful” is a pervasive belief, especially in the US. And quite frankly, many women are realizing that this lifestyle is not for them.

A topic that’s becoming prevalent in many women’s healing journeys is the balance between masculine and feminine energies. Many of us live in our masculine without even realizing it. And it’s not our fault; it’s genuinely a byproduct of the professional and even dating culture that we’ve grown up in. We’ve needed to be in a logical, “doing” energy to assert ourselves, to be seen as serious and authoritative, or to counteract a lot of men who are in their feminine while dating.

While balancing both energies is important, and employing one side can be beneficial in certain situations, women are realizing that being in their masculine 24/7 365 is draining them.

The concept of living a “softer” life has been on the rise over social media, especially in the last year or so. Women are taking pride in slowing down — enjoying their “girly” activities, whether taking the morning off of work to do their face mask and meditation, or staying in on a solo Friday night for a bath and tart cherry mocktail. It doesn’t need to be go, go, go all the time. They’re allowing their feminine, a relaxed, gentle, and flowing energy, to be more present in their lives.

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Embracing the “soft” journey in travel

So, how does this cultural movement of a “softer” life translate to travel? Something I’ve been embracing over the last couple of years is the concept of slow travel. This type of traveling has been on the rise within the digital nomad community for quite some time, and now it’s finding its way into more mainstream travel styles.

Slow travel is saying goodbye to the crazy rush of ticking off touristy spots. It's more about soaking up the vibe of each place, getting cozy with the local scene, and forming a real bond with wherever you’re at — no more running around like a maniac to see every single thing on a checklist.

You take more time in each destination, and often, with this “softer” mindset, you’ve formed a lifestyle for yourself that allows you to be more leisurely, whether that’s through remote work, running your own virtual business, or having a job that gives you more time off.

If we combine the concept of slow travel with the emerging feminine energy, we could create a new little sector for ourselves. Slow feminine travel isn't a strict itinerary; it's more of a laid-back, mindful approach. It's about the power of the feminine — tapping into that intuition about where to go and what to do, allowing life to guide you, enjoying the small moments, and taking it all in without the pressure. There's a mood of embracing spontaneity, saying yes to detours, and being open to whatever comes your way.

Many women are solo traveling now as a form of self-discovery and healing, and slow feminine travel can become a personal journey that's all about finding your own pace, connecting with the world in a deeper way, and celebrating the flowing energy that makes the whole adventure feel uniquely yours.

Death of the “girlboss”?

Women in the generations before us worked tirelessly to gain equal wages and representation in the workplace. Watching women climb corporate ladders and establish themselves as leaders in some of the biggest companies in the world is a true accomplishment and an amazing development over the last couple of decades. This growth is something I hope will continue as the years go on, and that the women who are driven to be in this space keep on succeeding exponentially.

But I also want to acknowledge that this doesn’t have to be every woman’s professional goal in life. It’s perfectly okay if the corporate jungle doesn’t call you. It’s okay if you don’t want your life to be centered around your work (and it’s also okay if you do). The 9-to-5 office workday is becoming increasingly outdated, and stats like 63% of workers saying remote work is the most important aspect of their job prove just that.

Beyond this, we are also now moving into a time when people, and especially women in their “soft” eras, are building a different kind of professional path for themselves — one where there may be no office or a direct boss involved, where it’s acceptable to center a business around creativity, a slower pace, or more life than work. We are learning to tap into our intuition and follow the professional impulses that align more with our true selves.

The opportunities to create any type of niche you want, a niche that centers around who you are and your talents as an individual, are growing every day. A TikToker, who has gained a large following, created her own brand and business just by having the idea to sell a single bead and give it a personality, take it on walks around NYC before shipping it, or even add extras, like a black “bodyguard” bead to protect the little bead in the order. And she (@Elishacreations) is absolutely killing it.

She’s not in the office grinding 80 hours a week in the name of “girlbossing.” Yet, in a way, she’s still finding a way to give herself that title.

A “soft” girlboss, if you will.

Originally published in 2023 for a women’s travel empowerment site.

Thank you for reading. If my work resonates with you and you’d like to support this space, you can help add to my flight fund ;), buy me a coffee, or a book, or a little treat at the overpriced farm store I love to go to every day. Or simply subscribing, reading, and sharing what you think means the world.

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