winning at life?

slow avalanche of grief

Hi friends,

This is me and everyone who has ever struggled to leave the house lately. I am here, waving from under the rubble of the past few months with messy Teletubby hair and cozy sweatpants. Life has felt like a very slow avalanche of grief. The past few years have been intense—some days tender, some months heavy, most of them stretching me in ways I didn't expect. I've been quieter than usual because I've been learning to sit with uncomfortable silence—the kind that teaches how to stay...

With myself.

With heartache.

With the not-knowing.

How can you feel everything while still making the bed every day?

How can we be in the in-between, where healing isn't linear and being present is its own kind of courage?

How do you grieve and keep houseplants alive?

How do we live in the in-between?

I'm not sure who I am on the other side of this season yet, but I know I'm still the complex me—the one who feels deeply, questions often, and is still learning to trust and show up with an open heart. I still cry during animal documentaries. I still love complicated conversations on impulsive road trips. I still carry books and have yet to write or finish half of one.

I still want to believe that people can change—and that I can, too.

There's a quiet shift happening in my life—less about reinvention and more about re-rooting. I'm exploring new directions and thinking a lot about ethics, power, consent, and living with integrity.

I don't have much figured out, and some days, connection feels like a faraway place—but I'm here, slowly and tenderly relearning how to live for myself fully alive, wildly honest, and deeply present. If I asked you readers if you were with me, I sense there would be a lot of clapping.

Hands down - I'd love to hear from you if you're in your own in-between.

Even if it's just a hello.

More soon,