Back then, I intended to combine them into some sort of “anthology” that I wanted to publish, but never did.

There once was a time, in my early 20s, when I was proud of these little notes on life. They were written by a young Social Work grad-student who was figuring things out (often the hard way).

I am now entering my 30s, and am able to look back with my heart open to my younger self in hindsight—with the comfort of knowing how things ended up working out.

These were meant to be shared eons ago. That’s why—-in lieu of my usual Sunday photography share—-I’m posting a few here today.

my illness

is the rain

that waters

the garden

of my soul

my illness

is the music

to your ears

stand tall and fear not

courage through truth

requires no thought

atlas never physically shouldered the world

atlas held the crushing weight of his own future

headache comes, we take a pill

wash it down, the numb and chill

second nature; resume the day

sip your coffee; discomfort fades.

why condemn those who do the same

with darker things that rack their brains?

retire accusations, dismiss the shame

we all need something to numb the pain

i believe in ghosts that haunt

they follow me in my daily jaunts

invisible, but frightening still

exorcism comes in a purple pill

my ghosts are dead but never died

they transport me back to troubled times

a scab will form, but they dig the cut

scarring rarely amounts to much

my ghosts, they speak to me in code

i bend to their demands, but they are mine alone

some nights they render me possessed

ghosts: both stable and transient

so much of the pain

that i’m holding

is not mine to shoulder

Adults are

merely children

from different eras

In it, I chronicled all of those small tasks that I didn’t want to complete, and shared how in completing them, I cared for myself.

The other day, I was washing some dishes and noticed some movement outside of the window above the sink. It was a tall shadow.

At a glance, I assumed it was a person: that the neighbors from next door came to the other side of the fence to grab their soccer ball, a usual occurrence.

To my dismay and minor horror, it was not a person who had encroached on my kitchen window. It was a tall, resilient weed.

Months ago, I’d taken a weed whacker to that very patch of bramble in the hope it would become orderly: more pleasing to my eye or the eyes of neighbors or visiting friends. I cared for myself by doing so, then, before everything else in my life had piled up and buried my free time beyond recognition or existence.

Awash with shame, I stepped away from the kitchen sink. I didn’t look at the evidence of my neglect again until days later. I made sure to really look at it: not through the lens of what others thought, but through my own eyes. I tried to see what was really there.

As disorderly and unintended as the collection of weeds had become, I struggled to cut them down. Small purple flowers had bloomed atop the stalks risen from those giant-leafed plants I once mistook for Rhubarb.

Between those purple blooms, reminiscent of the Lorax, bumblebees flew: bouncing from one flower to the next. Pollinating. Surviving in a world of Ajax and pest control.

***
Through my adventures with chaotic weed growth, I learned that sometimes, when life gets the better of you, other things may sprout from the surface. When those unintended sprouts grow into mighty stalks—it can be cause for panic.

Or—on some occasions, panic is not necessary. Sometimes, when we let go of control—when we set aside our staunch discipline, our need for order, our hypersensitivity to how things appear to the outside observer—something else blooms.

And what comes, might be of greater benefit to the world around us. In the end, By extension, the benefit finds us as well.

A few months earlier, I moved from a rural area to a city I’d only been to a handful of times to work as an in-home social worker in the various urban neighborhoods.

I lived with 5 roommates this time, in an apartment that sometimes felt like it had a revolving door.

Tensions were high, times were not easy. I wrote poetry and songs to make sense of it all.

The bolded text include notes I wrote to myself on days I needed encouragement.

it’s shaping up to be a long, long winter

the apartment is colder than the refrigerator

landlord told me he’s out of the country

looks like tonight this artist is starving

It amazes me that there are people

Who tred through their existence

With eyes and ears shut

They refuse to experience

the depth of the emotion

That lurks beneath the surface

They spend their hard won energy

Shoving it back down instead

They pretend they never felt in the first place

We cannot harmonize

if acceptance of difference

Applies only to you

and does not also extend to me

Don’t focus on doing it right. Focus on doing the right thing

You fill my life with joy

Like tiles in a mosaic

Slowly

One small piece at a time

I’ve written songs for others

Frequently

But yours’ was the first that was

Written for me

Music soft as the light

Drifting over

The three-story dwellings

Their colorful hues meant

To counteract the drab nature

Of this urban experience

The dirty and littered streets

and sidewalks speckled with waste

The lost and the never found

And the dreams somehow realized

In spite of the constant resistance

Attach to the process and have compassionate detachment from the result

My legs are restless

Eyes are heavy

Set me free

From this feeling

I now know is discontent

i was never really broken

I was irreparably bent

the church doors

shuttered

In a time of suffering

And so the people

Fell to their knees

In the distance

It’s not about making no enemies. It’s about making the right enemies.

Sometimes I am kind

Even when the words

Taste like acid

In my mouth

you were born in misery

and you dwell in misery

and you will die in misery

just to keep them wishing you well

I delve directly into your truth

You cannot handle it, can you?

A year of hiding indoors

Masked and afraid

A time of desperate begging

For forgotten better days

We treat success like a destination, as if once we reach a certain bar, all our problems will be solved. The truth is that success doesn’t relieve us of life’s troubles. It reveals them to us and begs to solve them.

After we reach one bar, our sights shift to a new goal— a new would-be solution to all of our woes. It is so close, but just out of our grasp.

Success requires us to realize all we have accomplished along the way.

Success can be questioned by lesser minds. It can be taken away. It can be contested by those who do not understand what it costs, how it’s earned. It can be set back by our own self-sabotage, our own moving of the goal posts. Success can fade with time.

Success is often inequitable. It can be hard won. It can seem to be gifted.

Regardless of how it is acquired, it is important to note that success is not mutually exclusive.

Another’s success does not indicate our own failures. Someone else’s failure does not indicate our success. Thinking this way—trapping oneself in a competitive binary—is the real indicator that failure is on the way.

Success shows the way. It lifts others to the same conclusion.

Success bends to lend a hand to those on the rungs below, to pull them upward on the same ladder. Success is each and every step in pursuit of fulfillment, prosperity and purpose.

Success is the humility to accept a hand if it’s offered. It is the resilience to chart one’s own course if help is refused.

Success is stepping into the light while finding a way to amplify it. Success is most potent when shared.

Success is continuing on when we’ve stumbled. It is brushing oneself off without feeling the need to cover another with the dirt and grime we were covered with while on the ground.

Success is the freedom from the envy of those who have reached those higher rungs before us. It’s the absence of the assumption that the clean clothing was never dirtied by defeat. It’s asking them how they got there, instead of trying to pull them down.

Success is a series of steps forward and backward. Sidesteps and side-quests and insights gathered along the way. It’s imperfect and unpredictable by design.

Success is the courage to keep walking toward whatever it is that we most value, no matter where it is we are headed.

Success, in some capacity is possible for all of us—but only if we never surrender our resolve.

Your writing is good, because it does not sound like you

You are not palatable, you aren’t soft

You aren’t flowery like other women are

Your words are like bullets and that’s why they hurt me so

You make me fragile, so on second thought

Shut up

I feel nothing but empathy

I understand and placate and excuse

That is why i am a husk

When you stand alone

The spotlight sears

Why do i feel punished for standing up for myself

(I must have forgotten I’m a woman)

I’dliketoreachoutandapologize

ForallthespaceItookup

AllthethingsIrespondedtointheheatofthemoment

Didithurtyourfeelings

Doyouthinklessofmenow

amitooemotionalortooreactiveortoodefensive

imsorryimsorryimsorryforbeingtoomuch

Have you ever apologized

Just for being a man?

I’m so grateful, I’m so glad

For all you learned at my expense!

I don’t know the person you thought you met

Showing acceptance toward oppression

Is the definition of learned helplessness

My third degree was in empathy

I mastered it quite painfully

I shined the light in all the dark

I waded through the painful parts

And I wade and wade and wade

and wade and wade to this day

…suddenly,

a pen name

made so much sense

“If we have had the seven-years’ itch, we have not seen the seventeen-year locust yet in Concord. We are acquainted with a mere pellicle of the globe on which we live. Most have not delved six feet beneath the surface, nor leaped as many above it. We know not where we are. Beside, we are sound asleep nearly half our time. Yet we esteem ourselves wise, and have an established order on the surface. Truly, we are deep thinkers, we are ambitious spirits.”

― Henry David Thoreau, Walden or, Life in the Woods

If you skimmed through that dense quotation—I don’t blame you. Thoreau sure had some time on his hands out there on Walden Pond. In simpler terms, he’s reflecting on life, and how it is lived.

Your resident Creative Writing Grad Student is here to help you unpack—at least a little bit.

(Confession: I tend to gravitate toward dense quotes like this one, since it’s really easy to discuss for fifteen pages. Rest assured, I won’t be doing that here… I hope.)

When Thoreau says: “most have not delved six feet beneath the surface, nor leaped as many above it,” he’s talking about what it means to die, and arguably worse—what it means to experience death while alive.

He laments on this further, sharing the powerful sentiment: “We know not where we are. Beside, we are sound asleep nearly half our time.”

The words ring true, even a century into the future. Thoreau never experienced the World Wide Web or the smartphone takeover. He might vomit on sight if he ever encountered the likes of Tik Tok.

We tend to be so glued to our devices—our day to day pleasures and issues—that we forget what planet we’re even on.

He even goes further, pointing out how “we esteem ourselves wise, and have an established order or the surface.”

Thoreau is specifically calling out these day-to-day routines. He’s throwing shade on the fact that we tend to believe that by engaging in these routines, we are no longer lost.

Humans believe that by gathering power, they’ve mastered the world.

When in reality, as Thoreau says, “We are deep thinkers. We are ambitious spirits.”

In other words, we need more than surface level monotony. We need more than the social order in his day—or likes and follows in ours’. There’s more to humanity than pursuit of power and control. Something deeper.

There’s far more to be said, or to analyze when looking at this passage, but I’ll save you the dissertation.

Since I happen to live a fifteen minutes’ drive from the fabled Walden Pond, I traveled there in search of clarity. Perhaps, among the trees where Thoreau once roamed, I might find some direction amid the seven year itch.

It was too bad, that when I got there, the park was “closed until the crowd thins.” Thoreau rolled in his grave. I drove away.

I’ve spent seven years in the Social Work profession. As I’m coming to the end of my Creative Writing degree program—I started to feel that very itch. Every seven years, our cells completely die off and replenish themselves. It’s no wonder that at about this time, we might start to reevaluate.

Who am I, now, with this new regeneration?

I certainly am not the same person I was when I was twenty-three, moving across state with an ancient 7-seater van full of used furniture into an apartment shared with five strangers from the internet.

Now, I live in a home with my partner, and two cats. It’s quieter. More orderly. More mundane, I suppose, but in a way that is sought for.

I’m not the same iteration who flung myself into a frontline hospital role during a pandemic because I felt that I wasn’t able to help others enough as a therapist over zoom. She’s the foundation I built my life upon—but after a while of carrying the weight of the world, even she got tired.

At the end of the day, I realized that it does not matter what profession I have, what tasks are on my to-do-list, or even what my five-year-plan consists of.

I am a creative.

This part of me will always regenerate. At each point in my life, I have not ceased and will not cease in creating. In expressing. In sharing.

Through my various iterations, I’ve found different paths in which to live creatively—but I have nonetheless, remained an artist to my core.

Thoreau says: “We are acquainted with a mere pellicle of the globe on which we live” —and as humbling as the sentiment may be, it instills a lasting hope.

There is far more to discover. A multitude of souls to meet. Dozens of shores on which to wash up.

There is so much that my cells, though they evolve every seven years, ache to understand.

Perhaps, this discovery is the crux of the seven-year itch.

We all deserve closure, nonetheless.

What is uncertain is whether we have the luck or wherewithal to achieve it.

It could be simple, in an ideal world.

If we’re wronged, we deserve an apology. If we err, we deserve to make amends and forgive ourselves. If we’re confused, we deserve the answers to our questions.

We deserve to feel cared for. Considered. Held. Appreciated. Responsible. Accountable for whatever race we are running.

With sadness I concede that we live in a messy world.

It’s an inequitable world.

A world that can be sometimes callous and uncaring while wearing a mask of benevolence. A world where there are times when nothing and no one feels free.

We live in a world of ghosts.

A world of build-ups and let-downs. Of wins and losses and competitions. Of sky high hopes and shattered expectations. Of unanticipated broken hearts. Of bushes to beat around. Of truths to conceal or warp.

There are conversations we never want to have. We have funny and dreadful ways of sidestepping them.

We shrink from the messages we don’t want to hear. We avoid the words we do not want to say out loud. We save our hides at the expense of the others.

Moving on without closure feels like treading water.

It feels like trudging through the waist-deep muck of ambiguity with no real end in sight. This can last for seconds. This can last for lifetimes.

Daring as it may be, I wish you all of the closure you deserved and never got.

I wish you the answers to your questions, even when truth is inconvenient.

I wish you an apology when its warranted, and the strength to come clean when it’s called for.

Most of all, I wish you peace in all of the ambiguity—as you wade through the inevitable closure that never comes.

If you can, I hope you settle the score with yourself. That’s all you can do.

Sooner or later, that tab might be reconciled.

Not today, but perhaps.

Without further ado, please enjoy my trip to Skaket Beach, on Cape Cod, at sunset in July 2026.

I had a great time working toward that perfect shot. It’s difficult to shoot sunsets due to the need to balance the exposure triangle just-so in order to capture the darks and lights correctly.

It turns out, capturing birds in flight has become one of my favorite pastimes.

It took some patience and timing to capture this kite, flying above the sand below. I had to wait until it flew closer to the ground to ensure I caught the full breadth of colors in the sky.

I really wanted to capture the texture of the water and the dune grass, while also bringing out the delicate and striking colors in the sky.

Thanks for checking out my latest trip to the Cape. I hope you enjoyed these small artifacts! :)

-All photos taken on a Canon T5i DSLR Camera with a Tamron 18-300 lens. -

Back then, I intended to combine them into some sort of “anthology” that I wanted to publish, but never did.

There once was a time, in my early 20s, when I was proud of these little notes on life. They were written by a young Social Work grad-student who was figuring things out (often the hard way).

I am now entering my 30s, and am able to look back with my heart open to my younger self in hindsight—with the comfort of knowing how things ended up working out.

These were meant to be shared eons ago. That’s why I’m posting a few here today.

Please read these poems with the knowledge that a few years after they were written, I met the person I was meant to be with all along.

Like something out of a movie, he showed up at my first city apartment with a friend during the pandemic lockdown. I’d never met anyone so kind or genuine in my life. We’ve shared a brain cell ever since.

With all that out of the way - enjoy the deep cuts.

midnight at the lake

as if we were sixteen

i gave you the answers to the trivia night

you never invited me to

he said:

“I don’t believe in weddings.”

“I don’t think I’ll be a dad.”

“What do you think of city hall

and a party with our friends?”

“I know I’ve had a speckled past.

To you, I’ll confess anything.”

He pretty much said it all except

“What size is your ring?”

south county streetlights glowing

your friend pulled me to the side

said: “I’ve never seen him look

the way he looked into your eyes”

i thought you returned like Saturn

so i surrendered

you didn’t have the spine to end it

you promised truth, you hinted marriage

i was never uninvited

(so i showed up unrequited)

I must have fucked up

in my last life

your friends were bewildered

stuck there with me by the lake

said: “we never saw this coming

but thanks for coming anyway”

you rode off into the sunset

with your lover and your baseless claims

that i couldn’t let go of who you were

and you were driven far away

fireworks are different

watched through tears

remind me again:

what was your excuse?

i never changed the number

i had way back in school

you wormed your way

into light of day

Then acted like i stalked you anyway

i saw your mom at the coffee shop

i took her order

i pretended i didn’t know her

wonder if she understood

standing at the concert with a look of longing

as if there’s something you wanted to say but refused

my friends know when i act like i’m the party

these days, i’m only acting

i hope you saw me there and almost died

i hope you sat awake all night and cried

i hope your guilt is eating you alive

you told someone your life’s goal

was to get me to sleep with you

good to know i was a worthy conquest

you didn’t want me.

you wanted somebody.

but i’m not just anybody.

i’m extraordinary.

fool me once,

i’ll be fine.

fool me twice,

shame on me this time.

my fingers feel the trauma too

they strike the sharp strings and bleed

they strum the chords as i sing for relief

you’ll never apologize

so i apologized to myself

———————————————————————————————————
(R.I.P. 22-year-old Sarah, you would have loved the bridge in “Nobody’s Son” by Sabrina Carpenter).

Growing up in a sleepy part of New England, some of my earliest memories involved clouds.

I used to lay on the carpet in my bedroom staring up at the sky—watching patiently as each one lumbered across the backdrop of blue. I was fascinated by how a cloud could pass by the sun and cast the world in a temporary darkness.

I remember coming home from a county fair in pre-school with a purple balloon: my favorite thing in my favorite color. While my mother was unlocking the door to our house, I let the string slip out of my hand. Through my tears, I watched as it flew up, and up, and up over the towering pines behind our house. I tracked the tiny speck until it was was gone.

I convinced myself that balloons can float all the way to heaven. I assumed that soap bubbles could then, too. I started whispering small prayers into each bubble that I blew hoping that they could reach a dead relative or a higher power.

In kindergarten, my science teacher taught us the names for the clouds. At every opportunity, I would point to the sky and identify a puffy cumulus cloud, a wispy cirrus, or a cover of stratocumulus.

I have fond memories of overnight summer camp—out in the woods where there was no cell service, but it was as though you could see every star in the sky. Huddled on the banks of the lake our camp was set beside with a group of friends, I was amazed the first time I looked up and saw the milky way.

I learned the constellations—and even when it wasn’t summer, I realized that whenever I looked out my bedroom window, the Big Dipper would be there, looking back at me. Everywhere I went, I learned to seek out the Big Dipper as if I confused it with the North Star. And everywhere I went—to college, to my crowded, first city apartment—it followed.

When I was very little, I used to be afraid of thunderstorms. Whenever I would see the flash of lightning: hear the rumble of thunder or the rain coming down in buckets, I would cower and cry. My parents would tell me to stay away from the windows.

Later on, I replaced this fear with fascination. There was a short time when I dreamed of becoming a meteorologist—until, of course, I realized how much math this career path required. I would count the time between each lightning strike and thunderclap and would guess how long it would take for the storm to arrive.

As a teenager at softball practice, when the sky would darken, I’d watch the clouds. I’d sense a storm by the way the humidity in the air felt—the tense way the wind would pick up. I’d survey the horizon to examine the churning in the sky.

If the dark, fast-moving clouds began to rotate, or extend toward the tops of the Berkshire Hills—I’d wonder if I had the rare opportunity to witness the formation of a tornado.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped looking at the sky.

Things got in the way as they always do: light pollution, career ambition, the stressors of adulthood. I dragged myself through school, a move to an unfamiliar city without a dime, and a global pandemic as a healthcare worker.

Maybe I took the sky above for granted: knowing it would always be there, even if I never acknowledged it.

Perhaps I should no longer ask what happened to staring up at the sky. Instead, I should ask: “Whatever happened to me?”

Back then, I intended to combine them into some sort of “anthology” that I wanted to publish, but never did.

There once was a time, in my early 20s, when I was proud of these little notes on life. They were written by a young Social Work grad-student who was figuring things out (often the hard way).

I am now entering my 30s, and am able to look back with my heart open to my younger self in hindsight—with the comfort of knowing how things ended up working out.

These were meant to be shared eons ago. That’s why—-in lieu of my usual Sunday photography share—-I’m posting a few here today.

why did you suddenly reappear

out of the blue?

i’ve lived one thousand lives

since the time i knew you

meet me downtown

we will illuminate each storefront

with the wild sparks of all we do not confess

i do not have time

for anything

but i will create time

for you

grasping at straws

is no fun

but it does seem

to rush the sun

as i speed through the hilltowns

fire beneath my wheels

i curse whatever clown

who proclaimed that ‘distance heals’

did you mean what you said?

and when you left me for dead

was it the way you imagined?

we are not star-crossed

unless your definition

consists of me, blindsided, and seeing stars

you said: “why would you censor yourself?

words are all we have.”

i disagree.

sometimes, we communicate with their absence

i want to write a letter to you

… but this assumes that you would read it

you and i wove a fantastical story

we were larger than life

the story of us

was a hell a tall tale

your betrayal

feels like a needle to a blister

it stings and oozes

until one day it hardens

we’re all searching for a crutch to bear our weight

it turns out

love is just as heavy as hate

and when everything

floated to the surface

i realized

that i am too genuine

for you to conceptualize

a warning:

the belief in

a magical, consuming love

only opens the door

for mistreatment

welcome back to reality

it’s a bit of a mess here

but at least it exists

This idea was much to the chagrin of my strict and straight-laced orchestra teacher, who was quick to publicly dismiss those of us who dared to play out of tune. She had arranged for us to see Black Violin in concert at a nearby theater, and beforehand, collaborated with the group’s members to engage in a master-class of sorts.

As a last-chair second violinist who hardly practiced —(and had become accustomed to surviving frequent banishment from class by watching real-time episodes Dance Moms on a school issued iPad, feet up on an out of tune piano, while shoveling cheese-balls from the vending machine into my face)—a workshop built on improvisation and centered on the idea of creative mistakes was a pleasant and welcome surprise.

While I did forget whatever melody my violin shrieked out that day, I never forgot the sentiment of the day, nor the advice given.

From a passing glance, I might have seemed lazy or careless back then.

In reality, I was the exact opposite. I was driven to a fault: waking up before 6am for school, coming home from softball practice or games between 8 and 10 in the evenings, and staying up until midnight to get my homework done. I also had some gigs as a singer-songwriter sprinkled in there.

During that time, there’s no doubt I learned how to be disciplined, how to prioritize tasks, how to push myself even when burned out or exhausted. These are all things that have helped me in my later pursuits.

However, during this time, I also learned to be ruthlessly perfectionistic and critical of myself in the service of making it through the day. In survival mode, my dreams went by the wayside.

If someone had asked me what I wanted to spend my life doing when I was eleven years old, I would have told you that I wanted to play Division 1 softball for the Arizona Sundevils, or be the right-handed version of Cat Osterman, the lefty pitcher.

When I was seventeen, I might have told you that (despite my record in orchestra class) I was headed to college to study music, and I was going to spend my life putting out albums and traveling the world.

Neither of these things ended up coming to fruition. I ended up becoming a Social Worker—which, by the way, is what everyone really wants to be when they grow up.

I went to college like I’d planned, but instead of studying music, I went in undeclared. I tried out for the softball team, but I quit after less than a month of off-season training because a nagging sense of dread that hinted at a lack of intrinsic desire which had been quietly building for some time.

It took a few years of experimentation to get to know myself enough to hear my own voice: to realize what kinds of things I liked. What kinds of friends I wanted to have. What kinds of clubs I wanted to join. What classes I wanted to take. I tried as many new things as I could in the hope I could understand what gave me a sense of purpose.

This exploration went into overdrive when in my sophomore year. In late fall, I witnessed the unpredictable and sudden death of a loved one with whom I was close. My world was torn off of its axis, and any semblance of surety of my future I thought I had was thrown out the window.

Having come face to face with the fragility of life spun me into an existential crisis. I was haunted by life’s brevity and unpredictability. It was something that was in the forefront of my mind at all times for quite some time.

As a result, I cut off friends who mistreated me. I quit clubs with too much drama. I dropped classes that might have sucked the life out of me if I stayed for the semester: Intro to Philosophy, I’m looking at you. I spoke what was truly on my mind (sometimes to my detriment), and learned that a genuine apology can go a long way. I met with a therapist for the first time and decided I wanted to become one.

All throughout this exciting and meandering time, there was a panic in the background. A low, but omnipresent hum of: “What happens if you make the wrong choice?”

Sure, I made my mistakes like anyone else. I could list them here, but I’ll spare you the trouble. (Instead, see: You Learn by the musical goddess, Alanis Morrissette).

I didn’t end up a star softball player or a beloved musician—but I do believe, that in the end, I made it to where I was meant to be. As a therapist, I get to use my creativity, my curiosity and my disciplined work ethic each and every day.

As fate would have it, I was even able to take my partner to see Black Violin at a venue a ten minutes’ drive from my house. (Even after 13 years, they still shred, by the way). I ended up briefly joining a local philharmonic orchestra. I practiced everyday—not because of the external threat of public humiliation, but because of the internal desire to master the notes on the page and to perform as a part of a team.

As I look back, I recognize that the times that I was the most anxious—the most afraid of uncertainty, I was able to remind myself that the path reveals itself as we go along. I learned through experience that I shouldn’t feel overwhelmed by all of the doors available to me—or afraid I’ll pick the wrong one.

The truth is, there is no wrong door.

Each door leads to more doors, and at each threshold, we are the ones who make the decision to step through. We are allowed to be proud of the choices that we have made—even if they weren’t the choices we originally set out to make. We can proceed, even if they are choices that don’t align perfectly with what everyone around us wants for us.

We’re allowed to step through a door, only to let the next door take us on a roundabout path back to where we started.

There’s no rules to this game. There’s only chance and circumstance, and a calculated amount of influence that we hold. It’s up to us to keep going, and to make it up as we go along. To face whatever shows up in our path with creativity, openness and resolve.

After all, as a wise musician once said: “There are no wrong notes.”

Back then, I intended to combine them into some sort of “anthology” that I wanted to publish, but never did.

There once was a time, in my early 20s, when I was proud of these little notes on life. They were written by a young Social Work grad-student who was figuring things out (often the hard way).

I am now entering my 30s, and am able to look back with my heart open to my younger self in hindsight—with the comfort of knowing how things ended up working out.

These were meant to be shared eons ago. That’s why—-in lieu of my usual Sunday photography share—-I’m posting a few here today.

_____________

a twisted ankle;

a momentary discomfort

rest and breathe

and walk it off.

a miscalculation;

a temporary misstep

close your eyes

and forgive yourself

_____

a quiet kind of love

which is known

rather than proclaimed

-(wish list)

____

love is blind.

we were

the blind

leading the blind;

but we did not see love.

____

it was always you and her and me

but i’m not into isosceles

____

my therapist asked:

“do you intend to live a tidy life?”

i paused;

a deer in the headlights.

I counted the rocks i hid beneath

in the name of safety.

i will classify each as a place

where i will no longer allow myself to dwell

____

perhaps the challenge in being young

is expecting the best from everyone

____

in your life you will be taught

in the most unexpected ways

at the most unpredictable times

by the most unexpected people

_____

i hope

my future children

grow up to acquire

a healthy sense of disillusionment

____

ride the wave

do not fight

the confluence

of your own existence

(everything is unfolding as it should)

_______

i am powerful

because i see past shadows

and embrace the light that cast them

____

It was my second injury in the span of a year, after I fractured my 5th metatarsal, a teeny tiny bone in my foot the previous July while trying to get into a car. (In the epic battle of curb vs Sarah’s coordination, the curb won).

Fast forward to the spring. A friend of mine started taking Learn to Skate lessons at the local rink.

In 2021 as a direct result of Covid Cabin Fever, I learned to figure skate, starting at the age of 26. By the age of 28, I made it through Freeskate 6 and was learning the final single jump —the Axel.

It had been about 2 years since I’d last skated, having hung it up about 6 months before my injury. Life got busy. I moved, I started a degree program while working full time. I went to, like, 12 weddings. (I’m exaggerating… maybe?)

As I laced up my skates, I thought it would be like riding a bike. I could show my friends my 3 turns and C turns. Heck, maybe I could even throw a few axel drills.

In mere seconds, those dreams came crashing down. I’d taken one step onto the ice, and my ankle was done. My body plummeted to the surface of the ice, leaving a deep pothole where my blade had just been.

My friend rushed over, and though I told her I was okay, a violent wave of nausea hit. I was seeing stars. When I tried to bring myself to my feet, I was unable.

This is just a trauma response, I assured myself. I was certain that since I broke my foot months ago, I was simply conditioned to believe every fall resulted in a fracture. When I was dragged into a nearby Urgent Care, I told the doctor that I thought I bruised my ankle—sprained it at worst. Nothing dramatic.

I hobbled to the x-ray table like a brave little soldier. I waited to be cleared by the results with a calm optimism.

Those results never came.

Instead, the overburdened Urgent Care doctor dealt the blow. Two broken bones. The tibia and the fibula. She told me to see an orthopedic surgeon in the next few days, and no, she couldn’t tell me whether or not I would need surgery.

She gave me an orthopedic boot and instructions to not take it off, even while sleeping. I thanked her and let my partner wheel me to the car in lieu of my new steel crutches. I called my orthopedic surgeon and scheduled a meeting four days out.

My entire world was in freefall.

Once secure in the passenger seat of the car I could no longer drive, I let it all out. My usual humor was replaced by panic as the reality sunk in. Every little thing in my life had just become more difficult. Harder to reach. Further away.

I struggled with taking time off from work. Not because my employer wouldn’t let me—but because I thought I could somehow minimize the disruption to my life. Being unable to walk, I found myself bedbound.

I felt useless. I felt in-the-way, a burden on everyone else’s time and energy.

My friend who witnessed the accident sent me well-wishes and books. My employer let me take my training time instead of coming in. My parents, even living across the state, sent a care package of my favorite foods. My partner let me borrow his Switch 2 and his copy of Pokopia for a whole week right when it came out. My cats spent most of that week at the foot of the bed, watching over me.

This is my life now. The thought hit me like a ton of bricks. I knew things would get better slowly, and gradually they did. However, the quick fix I wished for was nowhere in the realm of possibility.

I learned to take things step by step by step—especially when each step was small. I went to the orthopedic surgeon, who on inspection of my x-rays, informed me that only my fibula had been fractured. I would not need surgery. I returned to work in my boot, using two crutches until eventually I could bear enough weight to only need one.

I started Physical Therapy twice per week. I learned to balance on one foot again. I brought my 8 one legged heel raises up to a consecutive 30. I learned that the only way to gain strength is through resistance.

Two months later I jogged a block for the first time in months and cheerfully sent video evidence to all of my friends and family.

I learned to have a new perspective on work. I began to understand that my value and inherent worth as a person was and is separate from my day-to-day productivity. I learned that inevitably, things will happen in life that I can’t control, and these things will at times affect my career. This doesn’t make me a bad worker, or a lazy person (like society would have us all believe we are). It just makes me human.

I learned that allowing myself to recover is one of the most productive things I could do.

Most importantly, I learned to be generous by accepting help. I learned to thank my friends for their well wishes, small get-well presents, and well-meaning concern. I learned to appreciate my partner on a deeper level for the ways he sacrificed and cared for me. I learned to look at things in my life a little bit closer—to be thankful for the small things: my home, my cats, even working in an accessible building.

I wouldn’t wish injury on anyone—but I can’t say that I regret how things turned out. We can’t prevent bad things from happening in life, and we can’t pick and choose what those bad things will be.

We can only figure out how to respond when these small crises happen to us. Our true strength lies in our ability to recover. To mend the broken bones, and if we can, to bounce back better than where we began.

Unpredictability can be a hallmark of New England weather, particularly in late spring and summer.

With that said, there is nothing more predictable than stunning skies after a mid-June thunderstorm.

Come along with me as I took a walk around a wooded suburban pond, camera in hand.

The clouds looked stunning in contrast with the natural growth frame.

Focus on the reflection in the water, the lilypads in the foreground.

I really loved the depth of the dusk-blue color of the sky. You can still see hints of the cotton candy clouds below. My favorite part of the picture is the crescent moon above.

____

All photos taken using a Canon T51 with a Tamron 18-300 lens.

It’s from my family’s now-closed Italian-American Catholic church’s kitchen, and is labeled “please return.” It had been used for Antipasto before my grandmother started to fill it with loose change.

I guess I could say I inherited this relic. After my grandparents passed away, I found it in their house and decided to take it home as a joke. It was as if the “please return” jar full of pennies was some sort of symbolism.

I teased that it was a physical representation of the “scarcity mindset” which my Mom used to playfully remark “ran in the family.”

My grandmother was the child of Italian immigrants, and was known for being “frugal.” She passed this blessing or curse of frugality down to my Mom, who passed it on to me.

One of our favorite pastimes was bargain hunting on the weekends—and if we didn’t secure a deal, window-shopping was always a worthwhile consolation prize. Afterwards, we’d spend hours sitting at her dining room table, chatting and drinking tea.

For years, the jar was my reminder of how much things change. How much can be lost. Family churches that were closed. Loved ones who passed away. Childhood homes that had been sold. Pennies that went out of production.

I once saw the jar as a symbol of scarcity. Clear proof of deficit. Evidence of things once had, taken away. A warning that all that I currently had could be taken from me, too.

It was a surprise when one day, the jar of pennies stopped representing lack. As I grew into an adult, this forever-borrowed jar full of forgotten coins began to symbolize abundance.

It’s true that abundance can come from luck—some sort of windfall or inheritance or birth circumstance. When I used to think of abundance, I envisioned beach-front villas, fancy cars and trust funds. A charmed existence void from any kind of problems.

Over time, I realized that abundance doesn’t always have to do with money. There’s no correlation between wealth and lack of challenges in life.

Life is hard for all of us in different ways. If this is true, it must mean that we are all able to experience some kind of abundance.

We can find it in the people we are surrounded by. In hugs, and birthday cards and Saturdays spent searching for bargains and the fortunes attached to bags of tea.

We can find abundance in reminders of those we loved, memories of how much they loved us.

Abundance isn’t always sudden. We don’t have to win the lottery to achieve it. Sometimes abundance is collected over time, like pennies in a jar, one-by-one until it is finally full.

Abundance is seeing the value in the things that might not always be seen as valuable.

It’s an old mason jar from a former church with a “please return label.” A penny found at the bottom of a pocketbook. A pleasant exchange with a stranger. A favor from a neighbor. An evening with a friend.

In our materialistic and fast-paced world, we’re trained to see these things as insignificant, simply because they are not expensive.

Over time, if we’re lucky, we might learn to collect the smaller things in life. We may realize they are the source of our wealth.

This year will mark my first time being able to grow hydrangeas.

Aside from being chronically unable to spell “hydrangea” (trust me, I googled it), the place where I grew up in a higher elevation was slightly too cold for these emblems of coastal New England to thrive.

In early spring, I discovered that it’s possible to order plants online and have them shipped to home like a living-organism-Amazon-delivery. Needless to say, with this new information in hand, and bulk pricing from places like the Arbor Day Foundation, I went wild.

I was most excited for the classic, cyan blue blooms that have become symbolic of nearby places like Cape Cod. I wasn’t aware that hydrangeas can change color based on soil acidity—so these purple and pink petals were a pleasant surprise.

On closer inspection, there was one plant yet to unleash its full splendor.
When I saw the tiny hints of its blue coloring, I burst into excitement.

As it pertains to coastal new england vibes in my garden, it appears there may be hope for me yet.

A single, objectively helpful clip on how to respond to a common situation-specific workplace dynamic devolved into a downward spiral of deep, dark fears.

All of a sudden, gone were the kilted Scotsmen with bagpipes taking a turn on the Boston Cop Slide. They, and their joy, were banished with the swipe of a finger.

In their place, came:

10 Signs Your Boss Wants You Fired

3 Signs You Are Not on the Right Path

and of course, the perennial: 5 Ways Staying at Your Job Has Damaged Your Life Beyond Repair and Also your Career Itself and Everything Else You Hold Dear in this World. PS Everyone Hates You and You Can’t Fix It

As if that bit of *light scrolling* wasn’t enough, next came the tarot readers and fortune tellers of the internet.

I’m sure these card-carrying soothsayers of the virtual world bring comfort to a lot of people, but in my current state of constantly-on-the-brink-of-irrational-anxiety, hearing: “You were right to freak out. The Six of Swords says people are definitely plotting your downfall, but don’t worry, if you like and subscribe, your spirit guides will ensure that you win!” was not the most helpful.

No shade to my spirit guides, or anything, but it seemed like a concerning pattern was starting to form. Each progressive suggestion seemed to only feed my fears with more and more intensity. It was an onslaught inspired by my own anxiety, and I was beginning to get suspicious.

The pattern went on and on and on until one day I came to my senses and deleted the apps.

After a few days of cult-level deprogramming, I came to realize what was actually happening. It’s not hard to know that our algorithms spit out suggestions based on what we’ve previously interacted with.

I wondered, then, if this was also the way our own minds tend to operate.

Like a highly-complex and mysterious algorithm, our minds tend to focus on what we feed them. Each day, we’re flooded with hundreds or thousands of pieces of input. Some input is helpful, such as: this stovetop is hot, I probably shouldn’t touch it. Some input, like those inflammatory clips in my feed, should be ignored.

The problem comes when we become so overwhelmed with information that our overburdened psyches are unable to tell the difference between the input that is useful, and the input that is erroneous.

When this happens, it can help to take a step back. To a Millennial like me, this means I need to somehow unplug the thing and plug it back in again.

This can look like deleting the apps. It can look like taking a nap or a mental health day. It can look like changing up your schedule to get out of a rut or to incorporate more healthy activities like exercise or nutrition.

No matter how you unplug the thing, the goal should be the same: to bail out the floodwaters that have overtaken the ability to think straight. The ultimate way to reset the algorithm is to step back just enough that we’re able to see the picture more clearly, more objectively, and as a whole.

I’m not a tarot reader. I don’t have a direct contact of any of my spirit guides. I don’t own a crystal ball, and I can’t tell the future. I’ve come to accept that in times of uncertainty or stress, it’s human to want to fill in those blanks. It’s natural to want to know exactly what’s ahead in order to prepare.

That’s how we become susceptible to those fear-based or hope-based clips. That’s why we want to take their word as truth.

Accepting that we don’t know the answers does not feel natural. It feels uncomfortable and sometimes scary.

As uncomfortable as it might feel to acknowledge our short-term fears and uncertainties, in the long-term, we will find that by doing so, we’ve become more resilient to these challenges.

We’re not able to stop life from being difficult at times. We can only learn to weather the storms as they come.

(With all that said, make sure to “like and subscribe” … but only if that’s a thought you’re willing to feed!)

One evening in early June, I took a trip outside to my garden with my DSLR camera in hand.

Of course, there’s always a risk of suspicion from my neighbors as I traipse around my front yard with a bulky black lens, but the following shots made it worth it in my book!

Thank you for spending some time in my garden with me. I’ll share more of my photography adventures each week on Sunday.

I’m also a writer, so make sure to stick around for my reflective essays, which I share on Wednesdays.

The alarm has been triggered. Your brain launches into overdrive. One thought turns into two… into three… into five.

Instead of innocuous information, the thoughts are now tinged with fear, as if your very safety is at stake. You are now a sleuth investigating potential leads: as if you can preemptively predict potential ways you might be damaged.

You cling onto your fears as if by doing so, you are able to shelter from the worst of outcomes. You replay the scenarios in your head to ensure you will not miss a single iteration of how things could turn out, ways you could be burned, catastrophes that could ensue.

Perhaps most terrifying is the reality that none of your clinging or sleuthing or fearing has done you any good.

The one truth we fail to acknowledge is that we cannot predict the future nor prevent it. The only certainty is uncertainty, and that is what threw you into your spiral of worry in the first place.

To worry about the worst is to experience it twice, or to experience the worst unnecessarily.

With this said, if it were easy to circumvent our worries, no one would worry at all.

To worry is human.

At one point, the internal alarms that put us at so much dis-ease were the evolutionary tools that enabled our survival as a species. Put this way, we have much to thank our worries for; even if in the present day they’re the source of so much of our struggles.

However, the question remains: how exactly do we survive our spiraling minds?

First, we must accept that in our lives, there will be times of worry. This is natural and to be expected.

We must acknowledge this truth. We must stand up and stare our worries straight in the eye, as if to say: “I see you.”

We must take a deep breath, even if it sounds like an overburdened cliche. Take a walk. Take a nap. Take a break. We must learn negotiate with the fears instead of allowing them to trample us.

Most of all, we must learn to listen to our worries. Often times, what our fears alert us to are the best indication of what we need. If read correctly, our worries are the detailed map of where we should travel next.

We might never be able to say “no worries” and truly mean it—and that’s okay. The least we can do is try to live alongside them, to allow them to show us the way.