Honest storytelling as a form of healing.

Lines Between Living

  • When Life Pulls the Tablecloth

    When Life Pulls the Tablecloth

    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.

  • Just another day or was it

    Just another day or was it

    Opened on time.

    Lights on.

    Music playing.

    Everything with its usual humming.

    Members walked in like any other day.

    What they didn’t see?

    I couldn’t find my keys.

    The chunky keychain with all the charms.

    The one that’s impossible to miss until it’s missing.

    I called coworkers.

    No answer.

    I swallowed my pride and called to make .

    Drove to get a backup key.

    Watched the clock like it was a countdown to disaster.

    Adrenaline before sunrise.

    And still the doors opened.

    No one knew the scramble.

    No one felt the panic.

    No one noticed the recalculating, the rerouting, the quiet “figure it out.”

    They just saw access.

    And that’s the part that stayed with me.

    How much of life is held together by people who are internally sprinting while externally steady?

    Last night my coat snagged and fell apart.

    This morning my keys disappeared.

    For a moment, it felt like everything was unraveling.

    But nothing unraveled.

    The doors opened.

    Sometimes resilience doesn’t look glamorous.

    Sometimes it looks like solving a problem before anyone knows there was one.

    Sometimes strength is quiet.

  • Shifts in Mindsets

    Shifts in Mindsets

    Lent has already begun.

    The 100-Day Project is underway.

    I am also doing The Artist’s Way.

    This is not a warm-up.

    This is not preparation.

    This is the work.

    I am in it.

    I am writing this because I know myself.

    What stays in my head stays unfinished.

    What goes on paper becomes a vow.

    What is spoken becomes real.

    The Artist’s Way is my daily return.

    The 100 days are my discipline.

    Lent is my refinement.

    All three are one intention:

    focus.

    This is not about reinvention.

    It is not about performance.

    It is about consistency.

    It is about becoming the woman who does what she says she will do.

    I am showing up.

    Pages written.

    Project created.

    Spirit examined.

    Life throws curveballs.

    Focus adjusts.

    Feet stay planted.

    Eyes stay locked.

    This is my turn at bat.

    No waiting for perfect timing.

    No waiting for better conditions.

    I am already moving.

    I am already committed.

    And I am holding myself to it.

  • Before Resentment, There Was Expectation

    Before Resentment, There Was Expectation

    All right, we’re going to talk about something people usually suppress.

    Resentment.

    What’s interesting is that resentment rarely starts as anger.

    I say this not from theory, but from practice.

    I’ve had to learn how to catch expectation before it turns into resentment, and journal therapy gave me the tools to do that.

    It usually starts as an unspoken expectation.

    A quiet hope.

    A mental script.

    A version of events we never say out loud.

    And when reality doesn’t match that internal script, disappointment hardens quickly into irritation.

    But irritation isn’t the first emotion.

    It’s the second.

    The first emotion was expectation.

    When we don’t name it, the spiral begins.

    3 Ways the Spiral Typically Happens

    1. We Assume They Should Have Known.

    We expect others to intuit what we never expressed.

    2. We Attach Meaning to the Outcome.

    “If this didn’t happen, it must mean I’m not valued.”

    3. We React Instead of Reflect.

    Withdrawal.

    Sharp tone.

    Cold distance.

    Not because we’re cruel but because we feel let down.

    But there is another way.

    3 Different Decisions That Change the Outcome

    1. Name the Hope Before It Turns Into a Story.

    Ask yourself: What was I actually hoping would happen?

    Clarity interrupts resentment.

    2. Separate Fact From Interpretation.

    Something didn’t occur.

    That does not automatically define your worth.

    Pause before attaching narrative.

    3. Choose Conscious Action.

    Communicate the desire clearly.

    Or meet the need yourself without punishment.

    Expectation is human.

    Resentment grows when expectation goes unnamed.

    Journal Prompt:

    What small, unspoken expectation shifts your mood the fastest?

  • Matters of the Four Chambered Organ

    Matters of the Four Chambered Organ

    A couple of months ago, after watching a rom-com of all things, this poem arrived.

    It reminded me that inspiration doesn’t ask permission. It doesn’t care if the source is high art or a late-night movie. It simply taps you on the shoulder and says, pay attention.

    With a weekend that centers everything around love, this feels like the right moment to share

    Love is a chamber
    already loaded.
    One wrong trigger
    and something vital ends.
    They tell us it lives in the heart
    this soft red symbol
    we never see working
    until it fails.
    love can be known as euphoria,
    as breathless light.
    It’s also been known as being
    collapsed on a bathroom floor,
    tiles cold against the cheek,
    trying to remember how to breathe.
    From there love lives
    inside a clear bubble.
    Visible.
    Watched.
    Marked do not touch.
    Strong enough to exist.
    Fragile enough to shatter.
    Maybe one day
    it will swell with courage
    and burst.
    For now,
    it stays still
    beating carefully,
    on purpose    .

    Love isn’t always roses and violins. Sometimes it’s courage. Sometimes it’s caution. Sometimes it’s survival.

  • When Everything Feels Amplified

    When Everything Feels Amplified

    There are days when nothing catastrophic happens,

    yet everything inside me feels louder.

    The thoughts move faster.

    The body feels heavier.

    Ordinary moments carry more weight than they should.

    I’ve learned not to panic when this happens.

    Emotional intensity doesn’t automatically mean something is wrong.

    It doesn’t mean I’m unstable.

    It doesn’t mean I’m failing.

    Sometimes it just means I’m aware.

    Intensity is what happens when I stop numbing.

    When I’m no longer distracting myself enough to avoid what’s stirring underneath.

    When something in me is outgrowing the version of life I’m currently living.

    It shows up as restlessness.

    As heat in the chest.

    As a quiet refusal to keep settling.

    I used to interpret this feeling as a problem to solve.

    Now I see it as information.

    It’s asking questions.

    Where are you misaligned?

    What are you tolerating that you’ve already outgrown?

    What would it look like to choose yourself here?

    I’m learning that I don’t need to escape intensity.

    I need to hold it long enough to understand what it’s pointing toward.

    Not every strong feeling is a crisis.

    Sometimes it’s a compass.

  • Love is in the Air or is it?

    Love is in the Air or is it?

    Yesterday, on my way to therapy, I walked past the little shopping center near the office.

    Everything is hearts and “love is in the air” but what I saw felt different.

    Almost Valentine’s Day

    Almost Valentine’s Day

    and the lonely souls wander

    the small shopping center

    like prayers with no altar.

    One man stumbles toward the liquor store

    another exits, older,

    paper bag folded tight around his arm

    as if it might hold him back together.

    Companionship waits inside

    lined up in glass curves

    dark and gleaming

    all willing

    to offer warmth for a price.

    No roses.

    No cards.

    Just the romance of a bottle’s body

    whispering

    you’re never too old

    to feel something.

  • Relearning How to Come Back to Myself

    Relearning How to Come Back to Myself

    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 see you. I’m here now.”

    And that is enough.

  • Thank you Benito

    Thank you Benito

    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.

  • Five Free Apps That Turn the City Into a Living Archive

    Five Free Apps That Turn the City Into a Living Archive

    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.

    Atlas Obscura

    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.

    PocketBooth

    PocketBooth is documentation in its purest form.

    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.

    Tape

    Tape feels like movement captured honestly.

    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

    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

    This one is for intentional wandering.

    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.

    A city is a living archive.

    So are we.