I didn’t set out to create a journal. I set out to survive. There have been seasons in my life where the only thing that kept me grounded was writing.
Not pretty writing. Not polished writing. Just honest words on a page that helped me figure out what I was feeling when I couldn’t say it out loud.
That’s what 7 Days of Alignment is born from. It’s a seven-day guided journal for anyone who is in the middle of something grief, change, becoming, all of the above.
Each day gives you one affirmation to hold in your body and one prompt to take you deeper. No experience required. No perfection expected.
Will you take the challenge?
Just you and the page.
I’ve been working toward this for a while, and I won’t pretend it didn’t feel vulnerable to put it out into the world.
But if even one person picks this up on a hard day and feels a little less alone because of it, then it was worth every bit of courage it took to hit publish.
So check it out HERE if you are ready to give yourself 7 Days of Alignment.
Funny how it feels like time is slowly shifting, but still moving slow.
Not gonna lie at first I thought it was just the season. All that glum, grey cold weather. The seasonal heaviness that was becoming a storm I couldn’t escape. I told myself that if we could finally get some warm sunshine, it would solve everything.
Finally, March arrived. The trip I’d planned with my youngest to the Botanical Garden to kick off the month was a go. Color, warmth, making memories with my little girl. It was gonna be a win-win.
But life had other plans.
Friday night I had a slight cough but I also have asthma, and my body was achy from a long hard work week, so I brushed it off. Saturday arrived with a headache and that same cough still hanging around. I said nope, took a vitamin C, and even went for a run. Had to stop midway. I told myself I just hadn’t run in a bit and the cough wasn’t helping, so I went and got a pedicure instead. At least I’d do something good for myself to set the mood for the fun time ahead.
But once I was done, I felt my body say: are you done?
I’ll admit it, I’m stubborn. I took some cold meds and more fluids and kept the plan alive in my head. I got up early Sunday after doing asthma treatments through the night. That should’ve been my sign right there. Maybe going into the city wasn’t a good idea.
But I mustered on, got dressed, and we headed out only to turn back midway because I got sick on the train.
From there it snowballed into a whole week of missing work. I was that sick.
And I still couldn’t see it. Couldn’t see that my body was trying to tell me to slow down.
That is when we need to stop and listen. Or at least that’s when I need to stop and listen.
You see, I have a lot of things on my plate. I admit I want them all done ASAP. But that’s the thing about life it doesn’t care about your timeline.
Again, we are not in control no matter how much we plan. Sure, sometimes that works. But when it won’t, it won’t.
You can have everything mapped out, color-coded, scheduled down to the hour, and life will still walk in, pull the tablecloth, and watch everything slide. Not to destroy you. Maybe just to remind you that you are not in charge of the pace.
Sometimes the pause is the plan. And your only job is to rest inside it until it’s time to move again.
I’m learning that no matter how carefully I plan, life will always have its own version of events. And maybe that’s okay. One moment at a time is still forward motion.
Today, I learned something in my journal therapy studies that didn’t feel new it felt remembered.
It wasn’t about fixing anything.
It wasn’t about digging deeper or analyzing harder.
It was about re-connection.
There’s a concept in therapy called a Corrective Emotional Experience.
In simple terms, it’s when an old emotional pattern gets met differently with more safety, awareness, and choice than was available the first time around.
That’s what clicked for me today.
So much of what we carry emotionally isn’t happening in real time. Our bodies and minds are often responding to old moments, old meanings, old survival patterns that once kept us safe. Journal therapy doesn’t ask us to erase those experiences it invites us to gently re-associate with them in the present.
To come back to them as who we are now.
What struck me most is this:
Healing isn’t always about release. Sometimes it’s about re-meeting.
Meeting the part of yourself that learned to cope.
Meeting the version of you that didn’t have language yet.
Meeting the moment where something got frozen in place not to relive it, but to witness it with compassion and clarity.
Writing becomes the bridge.
On the page, we slow things down enough to notice:
What am I feeling and when did I first learn to feel this way?
Is this emotion happening now, or is it echoing from then?
What meaning did I attach to this moment that no longer belongs to me?
This is where the corrective experience happens.
Not by force. Not by positivity.
But by presence.
When we stay with the feeling and remind ourselves that we are safe now, the nervous system begins to soften.
The body updates the story. The memory loses its grip not because it disappears, but because it finally gets a new ending.
Not because the past was wrong.
But because we are no longer the same person who lived it.
Today reminded me why I’m drawn to this work.
Why writing has always been my way home.
Why the page doesn’t judge, rush, or demand it simply holds.
Sometimes healing looks like breakthroughs.
Other times, it looks like sitting quietly with your pen and saying,
I want to take a moment to say thank you to Bad Bunny to Benito, really.
The Super Bowl halftime show was layered. It wasn’t loud just to be loud. It wasn’t spectacle for the sake of spectacle. It was intentional. Cultural. Personal. And full of messages that landed differently depending on who you are and where you’re standing in your life.
There were messages for the youth. Messages for people who come from somewhere and had to fight to be seen. Messages about pride, language, roots, and refusing to dilute yourself to be accepted. All of that mattered. Deeply.
But one moment stayed with me more than anything else.
When he said, believe in yourself.
And then without overexplaining, without drama he handed the Grammy to his younger self.
That moment stopped me.
Because that wasn’t performance. That was acknowledgment. That was healing. That was a grown man looking back at the version of himself who probably doubted, struggled, felt unseen, and saying: We did it. I didn’t abandon you.
Make your inner child proud
There was something so powerful about watching someone honor not just their success, but the work it took to get there. The quiet nights. The moments of being misunderstood. The choice to keep going without losing who you are.
And the pride in his heritage unapologetic, woven into the fabric of the performance, not explained or translated was beautiful. Not because it needed validation, but because it never asked for it.
Ironically, or maybe not ironically at all, that message felt like it was meant for me.
Where I am right now in my life, I’m doing a lot of looking back. A lot of reconciling with earlier versions of myself. A lot of asking whether I believed enough, trusted enough, stayed true enough. Seeing that exchange between present self and younger self felt like permission to be proud of how far I’ve come, even if I’m not “done” yet.
So thank you, Benito.
For reminding people especially the ones still becoming that believing in yourself isn’t arrogance. It’s survival. It’s continuity. It’s how you make it back to yourself without losing the thread.
And sometimes, the most powerful thing you can do is turn around, look your younger self in the eyes, and say: I carried you with me the whole time.
I move through cities the same way I move through memory slowly, observantly, noticing what most people rush past. I don’t just want to go places. I want to understand where I am, and I want to leave a trace for myself.
Which of these will you use first?
These free apps have quietly become part of how I explore, wander, and document. Think of them as modern tools for curiosity little digital companions that help turn a walk into a story and a moment into a keepsake.
This app is for the curious soul who knows the best places are rarely the loudest ones.
Atlas Obscura maps the strange, hidden, and often overlooked corners of cities forgotten monuments, unusual museums, secret staircases, quiet landmarks with history baked into their walls. It’s perfect for wandering without a rigid plan. You open it, see what’s nearby, and suddenly the city feels layered instead of flat.
It’s not about checking things off a list. It’s about discovering what was already there, waiting.
It mimics old-school photo booth strips four frames, one moment, no overthinking. There’s something intimate about it. No filters competing for attention. No pressure to perform. Just presence.
A photo booth has always been a form of proof: I was here. PocketBooth lets you do that anywhere alone, with friends, mid-walk, mid-life.
It allows you to document moments in a raw, almost analog way short clips that feel more like fragments than finished products. I use it when I don’t want polish. When I want truth. When the moment matters more than how it looks.
Some memories aren’t meant to be curated. They’re meant to be kept.
1SE captures just one second a day. I use it as a quiet form of documentation by the end of the month, I can see my days unfold, second by second. It’s a reminder that even the smallest moments count.
Bloomberg Connects gives access to museums, cultural spaces, galleries, and landmarks, while clearly breaking down what’s free and what’s not. It removes the guesswork and the intimidation that sometimes comes with cultural spaces.
I love that it makes exploration feel accessible no gatekeeping, no pressure, just information so you can choose how you want to engage.
Why I Keep These on My Phone
Together, these apps do two things: they help me discover, and they help me remember.
Exploration without documentation disappears.
Documentation without meaning feels empty.
These tools let me move through cities and through life with intention. Paying attention. Leaving small records behind. Honoring moments without trying to control them.
choose one creative practice and return to it every day for 100 days.
There are no requirements around skill level, materials, or outcomes.
Your practice can be anything writing, drawing, movement, photography, noticing, or something entirely your own.
How it works:
Choose one thing. Something small enough to repeat daily and flexible enough to grow with you. Commit to a short daily practice. Five minutes is enough. More is welcome, but not required.
Show up for 100 days. Not to perfect your craft, but to build a relationship with it. Share if you want. Sharing is optional.
Many people document their process publicly, others keep it entirely private.
The project isn’t about productivity or performance.
It’s about consistency, curiosity, and allowing creativity to exist without pressure.
The next cycle of the 100 Day Project begins on February 22 (2/22).
Will you join in?
The days leading up to it are a preparation period a chance to reflect, explore ideas, and decide what kind of creative practice you want to commit to.
Tomorrow, I’ll share what my own 100 days will look like.
A lid slapped on top of a life we don’t have time to sit with.
But today was different.
Today, I made my coffee at home.
In my own cup.
At my own pace.
Do you fill your cup?
I walked around in my slippers, no destination, just presence. I stood by the window while the icy winter weather wrapped itself around the streets, everything slowed and hushed, and for once, I didn’t feel late to my own life.
I thought about what’s coming.
About what I want.
About what I’ve been avoiding by staying in survival mode.
And it hit me just like I took the time to make that cup, I have to make my future. Deliberately. Patiently. With my own hands. No rush. No shortcuts. No “to-go” version of the life I actually want.
This week marks the return to what I was always meant to be focused on. Not scrambling. Not reacting. But tending.
Because I can’t bloom properly if I’m always running.
Honest storytelling as a form of healing. 