The week seemed so promising. Events lined up, supposed to blur the ache I carried. If the memories I was making were loud enough, surely they could drown out the pain.
But like a roller coaster, there was no knowing the drop until my body was in it.
Grief boomed through every cell while joy and excitement tried to smother what was still there.
Less rest. Less sleep. No appetite or perhaps more.
Eat more. Sleep more. Laugh more. Do more. Feel less.
Almost there. The end of the week.
Nobody saw how much the fire burned, how deep those burns went. Healing seems impossible when I am still wondering whether the flames will take the little bit of soul I have left.
Grief pulls the strings.
Smile for the people. They don’t know what to do with this either.
So many questions. No answers. Just, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Almost sounds funny.
Are you sorry for my loss, or at a loss for words, hoping to find the ones that will make this conversation go away?
For the longest time, I thought my favorite part of traveling was arriving.
Standing in a new city. Feeling a different breeze. Watching strangers live lives completely separate from mine.
But somewhere along the way, I realized my favorite part actually begins months before I ever leave.
It starts with opening a dozen tabs on my computer, wondering what the weather will be like.
It starts with saving places I’d love to visit, restaurants I might never make it to, bookstores hidden on quiet streets, museums that somehow found their way onto my list.
Then comes the budget.
The puzzle of making everything fit.
Flights. Hotels. Transportation. Food. The little souvenirs that somehow become memories you can hold in your hands.
There’s something strangely satisfying about piecing it all together, knowing every dollar set aside is quietly becoming an experience I’ll never forget.
The anticipation becomes part of the journey.
Every countdown. Every itinerary. Every late-night search that begins with “What should I do in…” and somehow ends three hours later with twenty tabs still open.
Happiness for my soul
By the time I zip up my carry on, I’ve already traveled there a hundred times in my imagination.
But here’s what I’ve learned.
The places are beautiful.
The photos become keepsakes.
The sunsets eventually fade into memories.
What stays with me isn’t always what I expected.
It’s the conversations with strangers I’ll never see again.
The quiet moments sitting alone with a coffee, watching the world move around me.
Getting lost and discovering something I never would have planned.
Realizing how small I am in this enormous world and somehow feeling more connected because of it.
Every destination has quietly handed me something I didn’t know I needed.
Not souvenirs.
Pieces of myself.
With every trip, I come home carrying a little less fear, a little more wonder, and a reminder that life exists far beyond the routines I can so easily get trapped inside.
Maybe that’s why I keep feeling called to go.
Not because I’m running away from my life.
But because traveling reminds me how deeply I want to live it.
Wanderlust was never about collecting destinations.
It was always about collecting moments that made my soul feel awake.
Making moments count
And every time I return home, I bring back another piece of myself that I didn’t realize I’d been searching for all along.
Between work, life, writing, therapy, family, and trying to remember what day it is half the time, my brain felt like it had twenty tabs open and all of them were playing music.
So naturally, instead of doing what I was supposed to be doing, I ended up scrolling Instagram.
And that’s when I found an art installation called Clinamen.
Down the rabbit hole I went.
One post became another. One hidden place led to the next. Before I knew it, I had a list of places around NYC that I desperately want to visit this summer.
Maybe you’ll want to visit them too
Clinamen at Park Avenue Armory
This is the one that started it all.
At first, I was drawn in by the visuals. Hundreds of porcelain bowls floating across water, drifting into one another and creating patterns that are never quite the same twice.
Beautiful.
But what really got me was the meaning behind the word Clinamen.
It’s an ancient philosophical concept describing the moment something slightly deviates from its expected path.
Just a series of small turns that somehow lead us somewhere entirely different than we expected.
Next we have The Nicholas Roerich Museum
How have I lived in New York this long and never heard of this place? Hidden inside a brownstone on the Upper West Side, the museum is filled with mystical paintings inspired by the Himalayas, spiritual traditions, and landscapes that honestly look like they belong in another world. The best part? It’s free. The older I get, the more I appreciate places that allow you to slow down and just exist for a little while. This feels like one of those places.
Como Volverse Caudal (How to Become a Stream)
Even the name pulled me in.
This installation uses water, sound, sculpture, and movement to create an experience that feels more like meditation than an exhibit.
Water droplets become music.
Objects move with the rhythm of flowing currents.
Visitors are encouraged to sit, listen, and simply be present.
Imagine that.
An entire exhibit built around something we rarely give ourselves permission to do.
One place I’m been having my heart set on visiting for a while has been The Morgan Library.
The first time I saw pictures of it, I actually stopped scrolling.
Floor-to-ceiling books. Ornate ceilings. Spiral staircases. Rooms that feel like they belong inside a novel instead of the middle of Manhattan.
As someone who loves words, journals, poetry, and getting lost in bookstores, this place feels like somewhere I could easily lose track of time.
I already know I’ll probably walk in, stare at the shelves for a few minutes, and wonder how many stories have lived within those walls.
Sometimes the places we visit don’t just inspire us.
They remind us why we started creating in the first place.
Last but not least we have TheHigh Line.
I’ve been here before, but some places deserve repeat visits.
A former railway transformed into a public park feels like the perfect metaphor for life.
Things don’t always become what they were originally intended to be.
Sometimes they become something else entirely.
And sometimes that something is beautiful.
Maybe that’s why I keep coming back.
What I love most about New York isn’t the famous landmarks.
It’s the unexpected places.
The hidden museums.
The art installations that make you stop and think.
The libraries that smell like stories.
The quiet corners that somehow make the city feel a little smaller.
Maybe that’s what I’m looking for this summer.
Not a grand adventure.
Just a few small deviations from my usual path.
Who knows?
Maybe that’s where the best stories begin.
Have you discovered any hidden NYC gems lately? I’d love to add them to my summer list.
There is a misconception that before we choose joy, creativity, adventure, or growth, we must first set down everything heavy. As if life hands us a clean slate and says, “Now you may begin.” That has never been my experience. What I am carrying right now is not light. There are bills that do not care how tired I am. A deadline that sits in the corner of my mind no matter what else I am doing. Early mornings that begin while most of the world is still asleep. Conversations that are still unfolding inside my life.
Questions that have not found answers.
Responsibilities that do not pause because my heart needs a moment to catch up. Some days it feels as though I am carrying an entire house on my back. Yet somehow, I keep choosing things. I choose the poetry class. I choose to sit among strangers and talk about words as if they matter, because they do. I choose to keep building Lines Between Living even when no one is asking me to. I choose to write blog posts before dawn. I choose therapy. I choose difficult conversations. I choose hope when cynicism would be easier. I choose to make plans for a future that has not proven itself to me yet. The strange thing is that none of these choices make the weight disappear. The inquiries still exist. The bills still arrive. The uncertainty remains uncertain. The grief still taps me on the shoulder when I least expect it. The tension lives on. Maybe that is the lesson I keep resisting. Perhaps life is not asking me to become lighter before I move forward. Perhaps it is asking me to carry what I must and choose what I love anyway. I don’t know if that is strength. I don’t know if it is stubbornness. Most days I cannot tell the difference. What I do know is this: Tomorrow morning the alarm will ring long before sunrise. The responsibilities will still be waiting. And so will the poem. Both are true. I am carrying one. I am choosing the other.
Today is the Summer Solstice, the longest day of the year.
While we are gifted more daylight, summer always feels fleeting. We wait for it through the cold, welcome it with open arms, and before we know it, the leaves begin to change and the winds of autumn remind us that another season is turning.
Perhaps that is why I love summer so much.
It reminds me not to wait.
My heart wants to experience more light.
More mornings spent outside before the day grows busy. More walks beneath blue skies. More moments feeling the warmth of the sun on my skin and the breeze moving through my hair. More reminders that life is happening now.
This season, I want to travel, explore, learn, write, and continue building the life I dream about.
I want to finish my Journal Therapy certification. I want to continue writing and creating. I want to collect experiences instead of postponing them for “someday.”
Because summer teaches us something important:
Nothing lasts forever.
Not the cold. Not the storms. Not even the longest day of the year.
So while the sun lingers a little longer, I intend to linger with it.
To enjoy every bit of light available to me.
To say yes to adventure.
To step outside more often.
To breathe deeply.
To be present.
My soul is calling for sunshine, fresh air, new memories, and the kind of joy that can only be found when we fully participate in our own lives.
So this Summer Solstice, I am making a promise to myself:
To seek the light. To follow curiosity. To embrace the season. And to remember that life is meant to be experienced, not simply endured.
April tried to humble me. It worked. But here’s what else happened.
April came in with punches I wasn’t ready for. The PDF I’ve been pouring into for two months is still sitting quiet with no sales. Writing slowed down in a way that scared me a little.
Friendships I thought were solid started showing cracks. Unexpected situations landed one after another and I had to just absorb them. But April also gave me things I didn’t expect to need as much as I did. I saw Naika live.
I walked into an Edgar Allan Poe themed speakeasy and let that be everything it was. I got to go to BookCon.
I stood under the cherry blossoms and let that mean something.
I started documenting what I’m building in a way that feels real. Those moments carried weight. They reminded me I’m still someone who shows up for beauty even when things are hard. So here’s what May is going to be about for me. Getting back to the page. Even if it’s one paragraph. Even one line on a hard day, that counts.
Getting back to moving my body, even if it’s just half a mile. Submitting my poetry. Exploring. Traveling somewhere. Actually being in spring before it disappears.
And this May I turn three years. Three years since a moment that should have ended me and didn’t. I don’t always understand why I’m still here.
Some days I’m still looking for the answer. But I am here. And that means I have to keep going, keep creating, keep finding the light even when I have to squint to see it. April was a teacher.
I woke up early and I was excited. Doors opened at 10 but I knew better than to show up at 10. This was a convention people had been talking about for months. So I got there early, and sure enough, when I turned the corner to find the entrance, the line was already wrapped around the block.
I waited at least 45 minutes before they let us in. And when they did, it was a massive amount of people spread across four floors. All I could think was: we are all here for the same reason. We love books. That was it. That was the thread connecting every single person in that building. Later I found out that while I was inside in awe, absorbing everything, studying the room, people were online complaining that it was too crowded. And I understand that. But that’s not what this is about. This is about what it felt like to be in the room. I didn’t go as a fan this year. I went as a writer doing her homework.
I walked those floors with my eyes wide open, asking myself: what does this feel like from the other side of the table?
Because that’s where I’m headed. I told myself right there, out loud: next year, I’m coming back as an author.
I met some incredible people. I picked up books that called to me. I picked up a little Edgar Allan Poe magnet and now he lives on my writing wall, staring at me every time I sit down to write.
Only a matter of time
I sat on a Naturepedic mattress at a booth, held up a book, and let someone take my picture like it was the most natural thing in the world, because it was.
I stood in front of a backdrop that said I See Books In My Future and I believed it.
Con mucho amor. That’s what one of the authors wrote in my book. With much love. That’s the energy of BookCon, underneath all the crowds and the chaos. People who made things, sharing them with people who needed them. I needed this day more than I knew. The floor was packed. My feet hurt. I was tired before I even got there. And still, I left full. That’s the writer’s life, isn’t it? You show up tired. You find something that feeds you anyway. You go home and you write about it. See you next year. On the other side of the table.
Manifesting where I will be coming next year w my book
Today marks 20 years since my oldest daughter’s passing to SIDS and I thought I’d share 20 things I wish people understood about grief:
“They’re in a better place” doesn’t make the missing stop. Both things can be true and still hurt.
“Don’t be sad” is not comfort. It’s a request for your silence.
“They wouldn’t want you to cry” maybe. But grief isn’t about what they want anymore. It’s about what love does when it has nowhere to go.
“You’re lucky you have other children” is one of the cruelest things you can say to a grieving parent. Children are not interchangeable. Every single one is irreplaceable.
“Just smile” means make me more comfortable with your pain.
Grief has no expiration date. None.
Twenty years later, that is still your person. That is still your baby. Time does not shrink that.
It comes in waves. I can be fine right now and crying in an hour for no reason other than love.
Sometimes the wave hits in the middle of a grocery store. Or a gym. Or a Tuesday morning.
You learn to carry it, not lose it. It becomes part of how you walk through the world.
Anniversaries are not just dates on a calendar. They are full-body experiences.
The ones who feel it most are the ones who say the least about it.
Grief is lonely. Not because no one cares, but because no one else loved them exactly the way you did.
Sometimes I just need someone to say I’m here. That’s all. No fixing. No advice. Just I’m here.
Silence from the people you expected to remember hurts in its own quiet way.
Putting up a face is exhausting. But sometimes it’s how you survive the day.
You don’t grieve less over time. You just get stronger between the waves.
A favorite book, a song, a smell any of it can bring them back in a rush. That is not a breakdown. That is love.
Grief is not weakness. It is the proof of how deeply you loved.
My child will always be my child. In this world and the next. No amount of time, distance, or “looking on the bright side” changes that.
If you are grieving today, I see you. You don’t have to explain yourself. You don’t have to be okay. You just have to keep going, and you are.
When’s the last time someone asked how you were doing and you just… didn’t have an answer?
Not because nothing was happening. But because everything was happening and none of it had a name yet.
Some days arrive heavy. Not dramatic, not falling-apart heavy just the quiet kind of weight that settles in your chest before you even open your eyes.
You go through the motions. You show up. You do the thing. And somewhere underneath all of it, something is asking to be felt but you don’t know what it is yet.
That’s not a problem to fix. That’s actually the beginning of something.
Journal therapy doesn’t ask you to have it all figured out before you sit down to write. It meets you exactly where you are including the days when where you are is I don’t even know. One of the first things journal therapy teaches us is that the body often knows what the mind hasn’t caught up to yet. So when words won’t come, we start there. Try this: before you write a single sentence, pause and ask yourself what does my body feel right now?
Not your thoughts. Not the story. Just the physical. Tight shoulders. Heavy eyes. A breath you keep forgetting to finish. Write that down. That’s your entry point.
From there, let yourself go a little deeper. Ask yourself what you’ve been avoiding thinking about. Not to force it open just to acknowledge it’s there. Sometimes naming the thing we’re circling around is enough to release a little pressure. And then ask the question that changes everything: What would I write if I knew no one was reading?
That’s where the real stuff lives. You don’t have to perform your healing. You don’t have to arrive at a conclusion by the end of the page. Some journal entries are just proof that you showed up on a hard day and that counts.
So if today is one of those days where the feelings don’t have labels yet, grab the
journal anyway. Start with your body. Follow the thread. Trust that clarity comes through writing, not before it. Start here three prompts for the unnamed days: ∙ What does my body feel right now? ∙ What have I been avoiding thinking about? ∙ What would I write if no one was reading?
You don’t need the whole answer. You just need the first honest sentence.
