I’ve been feeling the weight of moving to a new City lately. I love Brooklyn in the storybook way I always dreamed I would, and it is exhausting to be surrounded by Newness 24/7. I’ve made so many friends and have a real sense of community, but there is a certain loneliness that comes from spending time with people who don’t know all of you yet. That’s the thing they don’t tell you about moving - no matter how many people you meet and hit it off with, it really just takes time to make an old friend.

But in the magical way manifestations always sneak in, my weekend was filled to the brim with nostalgia and my three oldest friends, just when I needed them most.

Sarah

After a week of cold, gray spring weather, the Friday forecast of high 70s and sunshine inspired me to play hooky from my computer and soak up the sun. I texted Sarah to join me days in advance in eager anticipation. Texting Sarah to hang out casually is a perk I never thought New York would give me. Sarah moved to Brooklyn from New Orleans in the fall. After a decade of living in different states and different time zones, we are now a 10-minute drive apart. The majority of our time as friends has been long-distance, but our friendship foundation is rock solid - formed at a critical point in our lives. Sarah and I bonded in high school art classes, in slumber party basements, in hot-boxed cars parked in lots after hours, and in countless formative teen adventures. Sarah is, and always has been, the coolest person I know. The fact that she chooses to be my friend has always been the highest compliment. When everyone was wearing skinny jeans and Hollister tops, Sarah wore flowy harem pants, tank tops, and her signature olive green oversized cardigan. She shopped at Urban Outfitters and American Apparel while we shopped at Aeropostale. By the time the rest of us finally started dressing that well, she was years ahead again. In 2014, she drank kombucha filled with chia seeds as she worked on her exceptional oil paintings. I had never heard of kombucha or chia seeds. One of her high school artworks has hung in every apartment I’ve ever lived in, and it is the most complimented thing I own. Sarah had a small, faded pink backpack that hid her travel-size hookah set up. It had a stain on the bottom that was always wet somehow. Her childhood room had light teal walls covered in clippings, drawings, concert, and museum tickets. Laying in her jewel toned draped bed - angled out from the corner of the room (so cool) I would admire all her things and felt like I was inside a tumblr photo. Now her room is a mix of neutrals and pops of red. Her nightstand is made of stacked cement blocks, and her desk is a dining room table she found on the sidewalk, covered in the drawings that endlessly pour out of her. The lighting is warm and glowy. Her closet is filled with things you want to touch. An accordion sits on her floor next to her trombone, which she has been taking lessons for. She has a crush on her tutor. Sarah always has a crush. She sees beauty and whimsy and magic so easily, and she sees it in people. When I think of an artist, I think of Sarah.

On Friday, we discussed our latest crushes and the infinite pros and cons of lust and romance. Sarah has known or known of nearly every boy I’ve ever kissed. Eventually, we settled into our activities. Sarah worked on a crossword puzzle, and I started a new book - On The Road, a high school assignment I skipped many years ago. Sarah reminded me of the other books we read in school and the authors whose names I forgot. Sarah is very good at remembering.

Paige

On Saturday, Paige made the trek from Hoboken to Brooklyn to attend the James Blake concert together. According to Paige, James Blake is one of the best artists to choreograph contemporary dance to, and he was the soundtrack to many of the aforementioned hot-boxing sessions. But Paige’s and my friendship started before our high school adventure days. Paige and I sat across from each other on the first day of second grade, which was also my first day at my new school. We were class friends then, but it wasn’t until we bunked together at sleepaway camp when we were 12 that we reached BFF status. Paige then connected me to most of my friends from that point on. Sarah included, and Chris, too (we’ll get to him). Paige’s room was also teal, but in a way that reminded you of the beach more than a jewel box. Her room was filled with matching light wood furniture, and we spent what felt like a lifetime lying on the beige carpet and talking. Paige and I discuss everything. She is a very good listener and gives very good advice. Like her room and her advice, Paige appreciates order and simplicity, but is never rigid. This makes sense for someone who’s danced her whole life. I would attend Paige’s recitals and watch in disbelief as she effortlessly performed what I knew to be quite complicated moves. Paige exudes empathy and care. Everyone in her life feels seen and loved by her and trusts her deeply. Paige loves the things she loves. She loves her family. She loves her work helping children as an SLP. She loves dance and dance videos. She loves Golden Retrievers. And she loves her Golden Retriever of a husband. Paige says she’s not creative, but she is elegant, intentional, and clear. She knows what she wants, and she creates it with focus and confidence. Paige believes in right and wrong, but has never made me feel criticized for my grayer decisions. She is an exceptional friend.

After the concert, which was phenomenal by the way, Paige and I finished our pre-concert joint and watched Survivor reruns before she fell asleep halfway into episode 1.

Chris

Paige left after breakfast on Sunday, but before I could miss her, Chris arrived at my door. Chris was also in those hot boxed cars after hours, but through college, cross-state moves, and the passage of time, everyone has fallen out of touch with one another, except for me. College was when I learned I am very good at maintaining long-distance friendships, and my friends and I are all mutually grateful for this natural talent. Chris lives in Baltimore, but his regular outdoor adventures in the Northeast result in regular NYC drop-ins. He’s here for lunch and an afternoon of nothing together. I catch him this time after a wedding weekend, but he tells me all about the upcoming feat he’s planning. Next on the docket is running all 48 of New Hampshire’s White Mountain peaks, which is over 17,000 feet of elevation gain over 270 miles, in 6 days. Chris was number one in track for the state of Maryland when we were in school, and after a successful D1 career in sprinting, he decided to try his hand at long-distance running. Marathons were too easy, and he quickly found himself entering the world of ultra running. His first 100-mile race (as in 3.8 marathons in a row) was through the forest in Arkansas. 11 people started, 9 finished, and he came in first place after a quick 29-hour run. Chris’s mental fortitude and endurance are unlike anything I’ve ever seen before, and yet he’s really just a goofy, internet-meme-brain-rot, nature-loving dude. Chris talks primarily in niche meme references and vocal stims. When he was in grad school, he compared most things to neurons and biological terms. In high school, Chris worked at a running shoe store and continued there through grad school. Now he’s a physical therapist who specializes with runners. Chris loves to run. I hate running. Chris and I bond over laughing, gossiping, our love for the outdoors, the intersection of science, psychology, and spirituality, and taking turns unpacking all of our thoughts and feelings on any given subject.

Chris and I go stretches without talking, but he’s always paying attention to what I am up to. He is extremely supportive of everything I do and insists I am one of the most interesting people he knows. When I feel down, he has empathy, but mostly his frustration that I could ever doubt myself is enough to pump me back up. When I hit a rock-bottom cocktail of daily panic attacks, sobbing, and depression last year, I’d call Chris to give me enough dopamine to get up and brush my teeth. We planned a trip to my favorite National Park so I had something to look forward to amongst my struggles, and at the darkest points I would think “I have to stick around because I really want to go on that trip.”

By the time our Utah trip finally arrived, I had already reached a long-awaited level of acceptance and inner peace. Our rental car was upgraded to a Ford Bronco, and the first song we played was Taylor Swift. The 5-day stretch was one of the best travel experiences of my life. It was a victory lap to celebrate making it out of the worst hole I’d ever been in, and Chris was there cheering every step of the way. He may compete independently as an athlete, but Chris is a wonderful teammate.

Wishing you all a life of chosen family with friends who see every corner of your soul and decide they’d like to stick around. And if that’s not what your relationships look like right now, a gentle reminder: you deserve nothing less than to be loved fully by the people you choose to have in your orbit. xoxo

Julia

Emme was outside ready and waiting looking effortlessly chic as always, and Julia (there’s two of us) was on her way. With $2 bodega iced coffees in hand and Kacey Musgraves playing, we packed up Kermit (my lime green Kia Soul) and made our escape.

The 5 hour drive flew by as we took turns updating each other on the latest news and shared stories of hometown gossip. An exciting new job opportunity, an unfolding love story, and lifetimes of small town drama - the perfect playlist for a drive up North.

As the road shifted from urban sprawl to protected forest parkways, I felt the tension between my City Girl life and the Vermont Girl life I once embodied. These opposing universes feel equally true to me, and yet seem impossible to hold at the same time. I love living in the city, and I love returning to New England, but at least for now, I feel pangs of guilt and grief for “leaving” her behind. Returning feels part homecoming and part being a tourist in your own home. This was punctuated even further as I drove past the familiar exit signs for Victor’s Massachusetts hometown. For the 2 years of long distance we managed back in early Covid-times, those served as eagerly anticipated signs of arrival. Now I sped past them as quickly as I could and insisted to the girls I would stop for a bathroom break soon, but not here.

I love Maine. My first visit to Portland made me question the decision to move to Vermont that I made without knowing that this place was an option. I’ve been many times, but all as a Vermont Girl and all with him. In my enthusiasm for this girls’ trip it never crossed my mind that it would be a return to parts of my past I had boxed away.

Growth is funny that way. You hardly notice any changes day to day, but then you’re met with a place, or a song, or a thing, or a joke and it fires up all the old ties. The space between the memory and you stretches out and you realize just how far you’ve gone, whether you wanted to or not. Ideally, new memories get tied in their place and amidst the growing pain, forward you go. I felt the threads loosen and rearrange as this familiar stretch of road became “the drive to Maine with my girlfriends,” and nothing more.

We arrived in Portland just after 12pm to the retro-gas-station-turned-trendy-cafe where Ashlee, who flew in from Chicago, was waiting for us. Hugs and excitements were exchanged quickly before piling back into the air conditioned car and heading out for our first stop: lobster rolls.

I had been to High Roller before, but not like this. Not as this version of myself, not with these friends all of which were made in the last year, and most importantly not with this disposable income to spend on lobster rolls without wincing! A fresh new memory here was made.

Lobster savored and Diet Cokes crushed, we were ready to enjoy a day of Portland shopping. If you haven’t been yet, I can’t recommend this town enough for the girly-pop window shop of your dreams. The cobblestone streets are packed with passion-project boutiques that make me question the business models, but all filled with little treasures.

Amongst the hand-poured candles, leather goods, and nautical trinkets, it was the people that stood out to me the most.

At Cotton Garden, a petite, fussy woman with box-dyed dark brown hair overcompensating to cover her grays interrupted us while we all happily tried on shawls and ponchos. She shooed us into the dressing room 3 feet away from us claiming the nearly-empty store had gotten too crowded for us to stay where we were. We left with one shawl amongst the four of us, but I’m pretty sure there would’ve been more purchases had she taken a different approach.

At the gelato scoop shop a beautiful, strikingly tall girl with the kind of unbothered youthful glow only a high schooler can maintain greeted us amongst the chaos of the packed shop. She answered our questions with the slightest lisp and remained cheerful despite the never ending line of people swarming the counters for taste tests. The sign boasted they could put as many flavors as you’d like in your cup - no limit. She fit 3 in my kiddie cup happily and I left with the best almond, dark chocolate, and lemon sorbets of my life.

It was 96 degrees as we walked outside and the chocolate sorbet was the fastest to melt. Chocolate dripped down onto my white pants and smudged in the nooks of my hands where they lingered the remainder of the day.

In my favorite shop - a home and gift boutique filled to the brim with the most beautiful, delicate items, a woman shopped loudly on the phone. Based on her style and spray tan, I imagine she was a tourist from New Jersey or the likes of it. She was discussing her financial strain insisting “What I need is a new accountant - then this problem will be solved." She was clearly very irritated and under a lot of pressure, but it did not stop her from browsing the seashell spoons and luxury lip balms. I wondered what her accountant would think of that.

I met a timid, picture book-esque dog at one shop where I befriended him slowly while his owner browsed. I saw him again at our next stop, and this time he welcomed me over, much to his owner’s surprise. She told me he never behaves this way and looked at me like I had some special gift. Ever since living in the city, I’ve liked dogs so much more. I have multiple theories why this is the case, but that’s a Substack for another day.

We popped into a bar seeking a bathroom and were greeted by the local dive bar townie and the peppy bartender entertaining him. As soon as I walked in she commented excitedly on my “Vermont” tank top (method dressing, if you will.) She was from Shelburne, VT and treated me to a diet coke as Ashlee used the loo. In the way all Burlington related conversations go these days, we discussed the rise in crime and drug use in town. I used this as a learning opportunity for my friends to understand the extent of the surprising issue wreaking havoc my beloved past life.

Eventually we made our way out of Portland to our wooded cabin, but the characters continued in our new town. After a dip in the river, cold showers, and a quick change, we headed out to find a meal. Lesson 1: 8pm is too late for dinner here.

We made it to Waters Edge for seafood and gluten free(!) pasta only to be greeted by disgruntled guests waiting to be seated. Our hostess was busy acting as a server. Eventually she came up, and in a fluster she told us it would be a 30 minute wait because “they didn’t anticipate being this busy.” Somehow they forgot it was the Thursday of 4th of July weekend in the nation’s self proclaimed “Vacationland.” She reiterated that she could seat us in 30 minutes, but then added that the restaurant closed in 40 minutes. We moved on.

The only restaurant open past 9pm was nearby but equally as flustered. Ryan, our server, had the whole restaurant to manage himself, while a designated oyster shucker showcased the award winning skills the restaurant boasted. At this point, 8.5 hours had gone by since lunch and we were desperate. Each dish came out one by one, painfully slowly, and smaller than we anticipated. the menu did say the scallop ceviche was served “in the shell,” but still the silence was stark when out first dish in 9 hours ordered to be split 4 ways arrived as a pile no bigger than the palm of a small child’s hand. The silence was quickly broken with giggles and we got to quick work. it was delicious, everything was. “Hunger is the best spice!” exclaimed Julia. Emme successfully ordered what turned out to be the only full-size meal and we congratulated her throughout the night.

We returned to the cabin and satiated our appetites with a girl dinner of chips and popcorn. We sat on the screened in porch, surrounded by the darkness that only a cabin in the woods of Maine can provide. Periodically heat lightning would illuminate the sky and showcase the landscape around us - our first evening of fireworks for the nation’s 250th.

By 11pm I was tucked in bed, windows open and fans blowing. The heat lightening turned to a rainstorm and I began the best night of sleep I’ve had in a long, long time.

“No judgment though! It’s just interesting how perceptions vary when you exist in a world not built for you.” An attempt to save his ego and my lady-likeness…

He’s starting a masters in media production soon, a fully remote program - (for a career based almost entirely on who you know.) He’d like to “create films,” writing is “his thing.” He did not elaborate. He took a break from working his barista job to focus on his applications. Maybe that’s why he didn’t tip the staff at the bagel shop?

He told me he saw himself as a catch. Perhaps he meant the kind of thing you can catch if you don’t wash your hands?

My goal is for Lucky Cricket to become a bi-weekly publication, soon. I’d really love to grow this little corner of the universe. If you enjoy my writing and think your friends would to, please share!

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“…Maintain your sense of humor, you’ll always need that.” - Dr. Cohen

I grew up in an utterly beige suburban town without any distinguishable qualities. In contrast to the neatly designed neighborhoods and chain restaurants, the community was rich with truly lovely people. The best of us was Dr. Larry Cohen. I didn’t know the man personally, but my high school classmates and I were all blessed with his generous and kind spirit monthly on the morning announcements. He was a dedicated educator who became a local celebrity amongst high school students throughout the county thanks to his monthly morning announcement cameos. He’d share his thoughts and wisdom with each school, and send us off with his “closing comments as always.” It’s been over a decade since I last heard those remarks, but they still ring in my mind - Just last month I was referencing his advice in a new project I’m working on (my largest effort to date… stay tuned!) and sharing with friends about how lucky I was to grow up with his regular visits to my school.

As 2025 came to a close though, Dr. Cohen passed away.

Praise is too often reserved until someone has left us, but a quick google search of Dr. Cohen shows how publicly loved he was throughout his career and life. That alone is an inspirational legacy to leave behind, but thankfully a book of his life teachings is immortal online as well. (Quick, someone tell me how to patent the term “e-mmortal” for this phenomenon.)

As the rest of us continue into 2026, aspiring to a life of love, kindness, and generously sharing our personal wisdom with others seems to be the perfect resolution. And if you need a tutorial on how to get started, look no further than Dr. Cohen’s closing remarks.

<3

We don’t talk about that tradition enough, really. A room of 20 or so children squirming in their stiff metal chairs prompted to focus by means of a paper fortress. A sensory deprivation zone delivered in the form of a craft project - or physics project depending on how hard you committed. In a world of open concept everything, I’d like to toss my vote in for more walls. Bring back tunnel vision! One. thing. at. a. time. No distractions.

Lately, putting my phone on Do Not Disturb feels like an act of resistance. God, that’s so depressing. I won’t pretend I plan on radically changing that anytime soon, though. It would be awfully nice, but between you and me, I am banking on phone-addiction becoming so uncool that I am just shamed into disconnection. In the meantime, I’ll do what I can to chill and I won’t be too hard on myself… or you!

“Disconnection” may be the internet-word* of the 2020’s. It’s time to disconnect from social media! Social media is making us “more disconnected than ever” (so “they” say). We’re Disconnected from reality! Male loneliness epidemic! No one throws parties anymore! Connection is everything! May we suggest an app for that? For love? For friends? For networking? Join our like-minded community group! It’s only $60 to come hang out with us for an evening! Drinks provided from our hyper-niche non-alcoholic celebrity-backed herbal infused sparkling tonic event sponsor of course!

*I say internet-word, because if you look up, it’s really quite nice out here. At least in my corner of Brooklyn. The baristas are giggling, the bodegas have regulars, the neighbors are chatting, the restaurants are bustling, the uber drivers’ life advice is as poignant as ever, every event is selling out, and couples are holding hands down the sidewalk. And even more telling - everyone seems to be on the same page energetically. Not because we all read how to feel online, but because something is in the air - in the collective. In the real collective energy that is not developed for us in a state-of-the-art office building, but between every cell of our bodies. The quantum web between us all is buzzing along, seemingly louder than ever.

My astrology accounts tell me we are hurtling towards a massive leap in realities in 2027. I don’t really know what that means, but it sure feels like times are a changin’. They say it’s a good thing by the way - not that we really seem to have a choice in the matter. Hearing from them all of 2019 that “2020 was going to be a year of massive upheaval and change the trajectory of society” did not make it any less intense, but it’s nice to have a heads up, I guess?

Anyways, like I was saying - I got a new laptop! I’ve been putting off replacing my old one for a while now. I surrendered her to the Genius Bar for 5 long days last summer to replace her battery. It was a Tuesday morning at the otherwise-ghost town suburban mall, but the Apple Store was as over crowded as ever. I sat in the unsettlingly open space (again, bring back walls!) and watched the others get shepherded around to various seats. The space is a glorified waiting room disguised as a store, but somehow designed to be as disorienting as possible. There is no indication of where to go or where to wait. After enough time looking confused, someone comes and offers you help. A fabricated hero. I was directed to the iPhone display table to wait. I sat across from a family made up of 3 generations and observed their absence of interaction. (Okay, disconnection exists in real-world, too.) Something hauntingly poetic about a room full of aging, overweight suburban folks motionlessly sitting around waiting for help while surrounded by futuristic utopian-promising products. I kid you not, the next girl to join my table had a Baggu decked in bag charms and as I lamented on her lack of originality in accessorizing, I noticed one bag charm read “Hive Mind.” I assume this is a celebrity fan club - probably Beyonce’s “Beehive?” but as a feeling of dystopia panic started to creep over me the next bag charm offered a gentle comfort “Don’t give up.”

The giant doors of the store remained open, allowing the echoes of mall noise to come in and compete with Dua Lipa blasted over the speakers encouraging us to party. Dua continued just as loud as a mic’d up host appeared from a hidden door to teach a thirty minute(!!) course on how to use the iPhone camera. The mic projected her voice to the 60 or so of us attending against our will. I was impressed with the various ways everyone found to not pay attention, and even more so by the ability of the presenter to carry on unphased to such a disengaged audience.

With the mall buzz, sickly pop music, and now a booming presentation, I struggled to hear my Genius as he told me they didn’t make that kind of battery anymore and I ought to buy a new laptop. Don’t worry he said - you can trade your current one in for $130! I asked him to point me to the $130 new laptop options and we shared a laugh. It was the only moment of real human connection that I felt in that bizarre twilight zone. Miraculously they found the battery they needed in the back, but somehow it would take a week to replace. My pleas for an expedited process (the actual “procedure” takes roughly 3 minutes?) went ignored, and I signed my laptop over to them as Sabrina Carpenter compared herself to espresso.

The new battery made it possible to prolong the inevitable, but this Christmas it was time to say goodbye. My dad took me to Costco to pick out my next partner-in-internet (bit of a stretch, but kinda a cute joke, no?). I told a kiosk screen what I wanted and was given a receipt in return. After shopping the rest of the store, the human cashier scanned my receipt and gave me a blank cardboard box which I blindly trusted housed my new laptop. I shifted the avocados and jumbo pack of deli meat over to make space for this 4-figure purchase, and pushed the cart to the car.

Once home my parents and I cheered when the mystery box revealed the correct laptop inside, and I got on to transfering my data right away. I reminisced on all that my laptop and I had been together as I watched the loading bar grow.

I applied to my job for the City on her. I found my first Vermont apartment on her. I started my freelance career on her. I spent countless hours online shopping, watching Netflix, and Trixie Mattel Youtube on her. I booked so many flights on her. I attended years of therapy on her. I used AI for the first time with her. I planned a move to Brooklyn with her. I started my Substack on her! 2020 to 2026 captured on her 13in screen, held in her 8GB of memory.

Despite the soft sadness of letting go, I was mildly disappointed when the transfer was over and I realized truly everything had been sent over to the new one. My desktop was just as cluttered as before and my download folder the same infinite abyss. Even Chrome kept all my tabs for me. New vessel, same me. Ain’t that just the way?

The thing about symbolism is you’re entirely in control of it. Call it a placebo or call it magic, but I’ve decided that this laptop means something new. Today is 1/1/2026 and my laptop is new! and baby blue! and the screen resolution is as bright as ever! I am utterly giddy at the idea of what my partner-in-internet (is it working yet?) and I will create together over the next 6 years!

I’ve decided it means something, so now it does.

xo,

Julia

I couldn’t make sense of New Year’s resolutions, either. The middle of the cold, dark winter seemed like the most unideal time to throw yourself into a new project. When the sun sets at 4 pm and your body cannot be seen under layers of wool, who on Earth would want to go to the gym for the first time??

Instead, I opted for reflection, resolutions, and future thinking around my birthday at the end of February. While I tangibly feel the passing of time for myself, the world around me matches the energy - the snow is melting, the flowers are budding, the sky is getting lighter, and there is a quiet buzz of momentum bubbling under the semi-frozen surface. THIS is the time to celebrate and to go to the gym, or at least think about going.

As I grow up and deepen my spiritual practices and connection to the universal truths around me, Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, feels significantly more “real” for many of the same reasons. This New Year comes in alignment with the Fall Equinox, at the tail end of a historic eclipse season, and perfectly in sync with the natural movement that happens inside us all as we taper out of summer and slip into cooler weather. It is not an arbitrary date; it is the truth of the cycle we find ourselves in - something has ended, and something new is beginning. Rosh Hashanah also kicks off the Ten Days of Awe and Repentance, leading up to Yom Kippur. The Jewish New Year celebration doesn’t ask us to rush into new efforts, but instead sit and reflect on what has passed and what will come. Newness is an incredible novelty, but its true power comes from its contrast to what is lost or replaced in its arrival.

Astrologically, this year has been marked by shedding, with much of that coming to a close (for now) through this recent eclipse season. I know I have not been alone in experiencing dramatic and unexpected loss this year, but I hope for your sake, your past year has been easier than mine. This New Year brings a sense of long-awaited peace, and I hope you share in my feeling of release and alignment.

I could look back at the past 12 months and write a compelling case that I am terribly unlucky and perhaps cursed. Or that I am in the Truman Show under the control of soap opera writers with a sick, twisted sense of humor. Or that I alone have horrible decision-making skills and ought to hate myself. Or that Gd has forgotten me, or even worse - they’re angry with me. At many points this year, I believed all of this fullheartedly. In the thick of my agony, my beloved acupuncturist Matt assured me that the reward must be larger than my wildest dreams if I was being put through this much undesired transformation. I assured him that when I got to this “other side” everyone kept talking about, I would NOT forget how much this experience SUCKED. I would not romanticize my pain! I would not look back at this time fondly! I would not tell people it’s all going to be worth it!

But here I find myself, on Rosh Hashana, filled with so much joy and energy that all I feel compelled to do is write a list of gratitude.

“Every few hours,
I swear I’m too alive
And I wouldn’t trade it for
anything
A rushing waterfall
is a master of stillness”

Gabi Abrão

(A Non-Exhaustive List of) Things I am Grateful for This Year:

• My mom

• Unconditional love from more people than I can count, but a special note is necessary for Sonya, Paige, Shira, Caroline, and Chris. You all have my whole and endless heart.

• Friends who pick up the phone at 8 am

• Family that picks up the phone at 2 am

• Old Friends who have known me my whole life

• New friends who only know what I choose to tell them (bliss!)

• Time with people who saw me when I couldn't see myself

• The health of my loved ones and the potential for the healing of those in need

• The love and growth I experienced with the people who are no longer in my life

• Every person I cried in the arms of or over the phone with (of whom there are many)

• My therapist, psychiatrist, and acupuncturist(s)

• Modern medicine that works!

• Every person who helped me pack up my Vermont life and unpack my New York life (Special shout-out to Caed for offering unprompted to unpack my entire car and build my bed - a true mensch!)

• Journaling

• To Be Magnetic meditations and guidance

• My adorable rent-controlled apartment

• The world’s best roommates who made me feel at home immediately, despite meeting me at my lowest

• Linen bedding

• Teddy B. Caring, my closest confidant, with whom I’ve snuggled for the past 20(!!) years

• My exceptional collection of trinkets, tchotchkes, and art

• The shop owners and neighbors I’ve befriended on my block

• Fort Greene Park

• Being alive for the golden age of television (Ted Lasso, Brooklyn Nine-Nine, and Avatar the Last Airbender, specifically)

• Comedians and their podcasts

• Instagram

• Being genuinely inspired by trash cans, litter, and just about anything I see in the city

• The way the light hits through the trees in Clinton Hill

• Every time I've had to stop walking to take a photo of the beautiful, funny, interesting thing or person I see on the street

• Creative inspiration

• A foundational sense of child-like wonder

• Clients who trust me with their businesses and dreams

• Room for spontaneity

• My MacBook Air and the Apple store still having “new” 2019 batteries in stock

• My beloved Kia Soul, Kermit, who never needs repairs, is so easy to parallel park, has safely taken me over 100,000+ miles, and held all my belongings as I moved to the city

• The men I've met who have all been nothing but kind, interesting, and energizing as I begin my journey into the wild world of *dating*

• Weed!

• My purse-size VT maple syrup

• Sacheu lip stain (it’s actually so good you guys need to try)

• My new sunglasses (Thank you, Caroline!)

• My growing collection of dresses

• Every really good ballpoint pen I used this year

• Another year successfully avoiding laundromats (for no reason other than a personal quest with myself I’ve been doing for 5 years)

• Anything gluten-free and dairy-free, but especially rice, mayonnaise, and Jolly Llama ice cream cones

• Matcha Lemonades, iced dirty chai lattes, and Vintage Cola Olipop

• My yoga studio membership

• Eavesdropping on interesting conversations

• The night I went to a breakdancer vs stand-up comedian competition

• The massive, fluffy therapy dog named Butters I met at the park when I was particularly sad

• The plastic fork in a patch of dirt that I make a point to check in on on my walk to yoga

• The infinite, magical abundance of New York City

…and despite my promise to Matt not to romanticize the intensity of the pain, I am grateful for the lessons only grief and loss can teach you.

• Losing all my deepest external anchors to become my own

• Experiencing life-changing events out of my control to release the illusion of control

• Insecurities so deafening loud as to demand my attention and care

• Sadness that was impossible to shrink to learn I am lovable regardless of how cheerful I am

• Removing everything familiar from my life to find the familiar in humanity everywhere

• Doors closing that I thought were guaranteed to shepherd me into a whole new universe

• Feeling pain so deep to discover the earliest memories of it, and bring them to the surface with tenderness and love

• Grief so heavy to reach a new level of empathy with the world of people around me

• Questioning my faith in a higher power to arrive back to it with a deeper sense of clarity and peace

• The aftermath of a car accident on the Jersey Turnpike to remind me I very much want to be alive

I have consumed an incredible amount of content, wisdom, guidance, and advice over the past year from anywhere I could find it in a desperate attempt to relieve myself of my discomfort. There’s no telling what or who was most impactful - certainly a case of "the whole is greater than the sum of its parts," but the humble and seemingly obvious practice of gratitude has become a daily routine with noticeable results. As wellness becomes an increasingly capitalistic industry in the US, it’s easy to overlook the fundamentals that make all the difference and are FREE.

So, as we enter into this new year, I offer you a reminder to drink water, spend time with loved ones, be nice to yourself, and practice gratitude!!

L’shana Tova!

So in a blend of show-and-tell and personal research, I have documented all the animals* I could find in the house and present this to you now in the form of a digital zine. Enjoy!

*Note: This does not include the people, or human-like things I have: a small wooden carving of a fisherman, a painted staff with a head sculpted on top, or a human/horse sculpture of a Costa Rican folklore spirit, for example.

Flip through the zine HERE or keep scrolling to read!

…and that’s all folks! If you liked this new format - let me know! It was a treat to make (and time consuming!)

xoxo

Julia + the animals

This summer was particularly phenomenal. It held space for a massive swirl of experiences, challenges, and growth. I felt so lost at times, and the most Me at other times. It felt like it may last forever, and yet, here we are at the end. If this summer had one throughline though, it was the deep nostalgia that veiled every moment. This feeling showed up everywhere and was the topic of many a thought as I laid by the lake eating my stone fruits.

Not to sound like a sign hanging in a lake house and purchased at TJ Maxx, but summer is for memories. For making them, remembering them, and honoring them.

All seasons are fleeting, even winter despite how long it drags on in Vermont. But summer feels more precious than all the others. The whole time there’s a sense that it must be used to its fullest potential before it inevitably slips away again. I’m sure it’s a by-product of our school system that identifies summer as a tangible quantity of weeks to go play before returning to routine. The feeling is reinforced by the slew of summer-only businesses pushing as hard as they can to make the bulk of the year’s profits in these few short months that sunscreen, bathing suits, and pool toys are necessary for day-to-day life. And on a more grounded front, there is a myriad of incredible outdoor activities that can only be done this season, especially in Vermont. So as a result, my weeks are filled with swimming holes, beach days and nights, camping, ice cream lines, star gazing, berry picking, outdoor concerts, and as much time as possible sitting on my porch. The vitamin D is life-altering and the joy is palpable.

While I do my best to remain present in these moments, the feeling of nostalgia is always close by. Perhaps because of the fleeting nature, or maybe because they’re just such good times, I see these summer moments as a fond memory in the making. It feels so obvious that this is a golden period I’ll always look back on fondly. God-willing, I’ll live long enough to muse over my 20’s spent frolicking around Vermont before children or pets or any major responsibilities. A time when all our friends were close by and just as free as us. And the summer of 2024 will surely stand out even more… the summer I launched my business! and the summer Vic and I got engaged!!!!

I saw a quote scribbled on a bar bathroom stall in college that still lingers in my mind (especially when I put on a swimsuit) “Why spend your 20s feeling insecure when you’re going to spend your 30’s, 40’s, 50’s, and 60’s admiring how great you looked in your 20’s?” Signs like this have always stood out to me as reminders to savor and appreciate every moment for what it is.

While summer demands new memories to be made, it also asks them to be honored. Tradition is often left to the holiday season, but it feels just as strong in summer. We welcome back big traditions like the annual camping trip for Vic’s birthday to kick off the season, a weekend in the North East Kingdom to enjoy the nude beach and see the puppet troupe that lives in the woods (this is real), blueberry picking on bluegrass nights (live music in the field while you pick - also real I swear!), the Kassman’s 4th of July weekend, and hosting our parking lot music festivals. Smaller traditions are woven into the days as well: hot dog eating and oyster shucking as much as possible, visits to all our favorite swimming holes, seasonal recipes, and campfires. This year especially I also felt the call back to my sleepaway camp days to make friendship bracelets. The skill came back after years effortlessly, and in one instance as I worked on my bracelet by the light of a campfire while my friends experimented with roasting rice crispy treats for their s’mores, I felt 27, 7, and every age between all at once.

It may have been center stage this summer, but the idea of nostalgia has always enamored me. I remember so distinctly being a six-year-old at Michael’s with my mom and watching her be reminded of a craft set she once had as a child. She noted how visceral the memory was and I thought to myself how I couldn’t feel that yet because I was six, and all my memories were relatively recent! I thought about how interesting it must be to feel that way and that one day I’d feel that way, too. Now twenty-one years later, I feel that way often. (Especially when I walk into Micahel’s and inhale that sweet, sweet craft store scent). And whenever it happens I feel nostalgia for that version of me who wondered about these moments, too.

My constantly reflecting self has always been present, but I didn’t always understand it. I was always very aware that I was a child and that one day I wouldn’t be, and that I’d miss this time so I ought to enjoy it while it’s here. I cried the night before I turned eighteen because I didn’t want to stop being a kid. Except now that we’re nearly a decade away from that moment, I’ve never once wished to be any younger than I am, and I’ve never really felt any less like my kid self. What a gift it is to maintain your child-like sense of wonder while growing the ability to give yourself the things and experiences you always dreamed of.

It seems that nostalgia and a connection to your “inner child” are inexplicably linked. Am I so intertwined with nostalgia because I am regularly in sync with my inner child (and all the other versions of me for that matter), or is my connection to all my past versions causing me to feed into the nostalgia more? While it may be a chicken or egg situation, the two certainly exist in harmony.

Given how often reconnecting with your inner child is discussed in the spiritual/psychology zeitgeist, it’s not lost on me that many people have fallen out of touch with their younger selves. Perhaps it is in part because nostalgia gets a pretty bad rep. We’re constantly being told to look ahead, to “keep going”, to invest in the future, to act now for later benefits, to constantly be filling our calendar, and to always be a better version of ourselves. While this is mostly good, it diminishes our past selves to be smaller, weaker versions we ought not to return to. We forget that this younger self is the one who got us to today! My 24-year-old self found my amazing apartment! My 20-year-old fell in love with my fiancee! My 17-year-old self selected my college! My 8-year-old self found my best friends! my 2-year-old self discovered my creative expression! And my nostalgic thinking regularly reminds me how proud these versions would be of the life their decisions made.

A connection to my younger self is not just gratitude for her, but the connection to that child-like sense of wonder that fuels my life. Connecting with this wonder welcomes creativity, expression, freedom, trust, curiosity, and play. Which, all happen to be essential pieces of being an artist. So once again we ask which came first? Am I an artist because I am connected to my child-like sense of wonder? Or does my child-like way of existing stem from my commitment to making art? I suppose one can be connected to their younger expression and not feel called to creative pursuits, but I am not sure it’s possible to be an artist without the connection. No matter how bruding and dark an artist may go, they intrinsically must rely on creativity, expression, freedom, trust, curiosity, and play… any less and they’re just a producer, or a craftsman at best.

…and what better time to connect with your child-like self and go out and play than SUMMER! (See? We’re looping it all back now!)

While I am an artist year-round, and I am connected to my younger selves year-round, and I am certainly nostolgic year-round, the power of summer supercahrges all of them in a technicolor dream-like flow.

But if summer is for letting your inner child play and explore, fall is for back to school. As the leaves crisp I feel an intrinsic urge to slow down my social plans, build back my routine, be productive, and open a book. I mean, look! I am writing again! So, I’ll savor these last few moments of hot sunshine now, and prepare for what’s next.

XOXO - From my inner child to yours!

HAGF (Have a great Fall)

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The plight of procrastination

When it comes to knocking things off my to-do list I most often tackle it head-on with enthusiasm and ease. Some tasks, however, fall into a black hole of procrastination as I sheepishly push them further and further down the list until it manifests in shame, embarrassment, and complete overwhelm at even the thought of attempting them. It doesn’t matter how small - it can be as simple as replying to a text. Most of this spiral takes place in the corners of my thoughts - just enough to feel the unease, but not center stage enough to force me to handle it. I have yet to crack the code on what makes one task fall into the pit of despair, and another feel like a fun game to cross off the list. There is one consistent black hole resident, though: online returns. Dun dun dunnnnn!

I have been successfully avoiding a pile of returns for over a month. something like $200 worth of crumpled clothes-filled bags has been sitting in my entryway attempting to remind me to send them out, but mostly just reminding me of my continuous failure. I attempted to highlight and bold the task on my to-do list, write it multiple times, announce to Vic “Today was the day!” nearly every day, and point out to myself what $200 could get me instead. All to no avail.

BUT a glimmer of light shined down on my pile and me - a stark deadline of upcoming travel. There are two things more powerful than my procrastination black hole: social accountability (I invite people over when I need a push to clean my apartment) and *prep for a trip.* After a month of lingering, I successfully made ALL my returns just hours before we headed out. It was wildly easy, utterly satisfying, and took all of an hour to do. Oops. This will surely not be the last black hole I find myself in, but here’s hoping the next one is less painful!

The ultimate love language

To kick off our travels, I had the absolute pleasure and heartbreak of visiting a friend struggling with their health. Having your best friend live 6 states away isn’t ideal, but voice notes and FaceTime work wonders and more or less satisfy the need for connection. But when they get sick and usual hours-long chats are off the table, 6 states might as well be another universe. I was raised by a mother who taught me the power of mastering all 5 love languages, but distance diminishes nearly all of them. While the possibility of executing has been paused, the desire to has grown tenfold. The resulting tension mixed with simply missing our regular chats has been uncomfortable, to say the least. Sort of like every cell in my body is swelling up with kinetic energy with nowhere to let it out. A perpetually building song and no bass drop. When you try to run in a dream but your legs are frozen. TLDR: it sucks.

The antidote: crossing 6 states and closing the gap. I brought gifts, shared quality time and physical touch, offered words of affirmation, and performed acts of service like a fish returning to the water. One thing stood out though as the ultimate act of love: a home-cooked meal (or a fridge full of them). This isn’t a groundbreaking revelation - anyone who’s lucky enough to have a home cook knows the joy of receiving a meal. But I must admit I’ve forgotten how good it feels to be the giver. Few things hit as many of the love languages as a home-cooked meal. It is a gift and a service, eaten together it is quality time, and often words of affirmation are shared. The physical sensation of a good meal feels like an internal hug.

I filled my friend’s fridge with lasagna, lentils, hearty salad, chicken tacos, and healthy snacks. I took joy in going to the store and cleaning the dishes (a chore that often lands in the black hole when it’s my own kitchen). When it had all been done, I napped by his side while Monsters Inc. played in the background.

When I woke up it was time to go. Despite all the food - the 6-state gap was more palpable than ever. But now so was the reminder of all the love. We made loose plans for the next visit, it started to rain, and I played dramatically sad songs as I drove teary-eyed to my next destination.

Where there’s smoke, there’s fire(works)

My sad-girl drive through the city was contrasted with hoards of excited people lining the sidewalks in red, white, and blue. It was the 4th of July and I was on my way back to Victor for a BBQ at another dear friend’s apartment. I dried my tears and walked into a party of DC YoPro’s discussing whether or not it was Hunter Biden they saw shirtless on the sidewalk the other day. I looked down and was reminded that I had worn green and brown tye-dye overalls for the occasion. Thankfully telling folks you’re “from Vermont” answers their unsaid questions quickly. The leap from one world to another was jarring, to say the least, but a burger and a joint eased me into my new reality while thoughts of my sick friend politely moved to the edges of my mind.

The dichotomies continued as we made it to our firework viewing point. Crowds of excited people gathered and children ran around fueled by their respective BBQ’s sweet treats. But the 96-degree heat and intermittent rain mixed with the capital’s firework show resulted in a sky full of dense fog that blocked the fireworks completely. The light of the street lamps cast shadows and silhouetted the crowd against the glowing fog sky. It was unexpected, but in its own way thrilling and beautiful. We all peeled our eyes for a glimmer. The crowd disappointingly thinned as the sky filled with impenetrable smoke - but a grassroots operation led by some teenagers took advantage of the open space. Roman candle fireworks started shooting up from feet away and burst above our heads. while their aim was questionable, the show still delivered and we laughed and ducked and marveled at how close they were.

We kept laughing and shrugged at the mixed results as we made our way to our host’s favorite bar. The bartender greeted him like an old friend and over seltzers and cheap beer, we reminisced on past adventures and made plans for the next ones. (A recurring theme is emerging!)

Friends + Time

In the morning we made our way to stop #3: The Kassman River House. One of my oldest childhood friend’s family purchased a gorgeous home on the water when we were juniors in high school, and have made me, and all of their people, feel like welcomed guests there ever since. The piece de resistance of their hospitality is always their 4th of July weekend. Kicking off with a celebration of their oldest’s birthday, the weekend welcomes 40 or so guests for 3 days of buffet-style meals, relaxing, partying, and serious games - an all-day “Olympics” tournament to be exact. I am extremely lucky to still be close with my childhood friend group of twelve (a fact that Mrs. Kassman regularly reminds us we should be so grateful for). This year, seven of the girls were in attendance accompanied by boyfriends, fiances(!), and one husband(!!!) Amidst pool relays, sack races, and hot dog-eating contests, we all updated each other on our current problems and goals, and gabbed about anything under the sun.

The constant activity kept my mind occupied in the present, but in the moments in between it was hard not to reflect on the past. Despite his 21-year-old appearance (and drinking habits) it was impossible to see anyone but the 9-year-old version of my friend’s little brother. As he described his impressive summer internship, I reminisced on the days I’d listen to him describe summer camp. Watching the boyfriends, etc. play basketball together I pictured the conversations we’d have as teenagers on the boat: imagining a time when we’d come to this river with real partners and one day families. As I discussed the best design for the eldest sister’s wedding cocktail napkins, I remembered a time when we all impatiently wondered when her boyfriend would pop the question.

In this current chapter of life, I find myself facing my Saturn Return head-on with a deep desire to move, an unfolding independent career, and the next chapter of my relationship. It’s been intense. While updating my friends on the latest, my fear and doubt were the center of the conversation. But chatting with girls who also remember all the other phases of you is the needed reminder that all these moments I am striving for will one day be a memory, too.

When the weekend ended, goodbyes were softened by the fact we’d all be together again soon for our friend’s wedding, and even better - Victor and I would be joining some of the girls for dinner in New York in just a few days. Another reminder: the moments keep coming and my Saturn Return desires may be closer than I let myself think <3 (and I’d bet yours are, too!)

xo,

Julia

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Recently, my friends hosted a dinner party and requested to use my plates, glassware, and napkins - extremely flattering! However, this dinner party spread brought my attention to a hole in my collection - my silverware. My current set is an utterly uninteresting, slightly mismatched, set of silver flatware from IKEA, desperately ready for an update. I googled “interesting flatware” thinking this would be an easy fix, only to go down a flatware rabbit hole and find there’s next to nothing good out there. It’s all pretty mediocre or chugey or trying too hard to be different. Then of course, the sets I am not not a fan of are priced … accordingly. Here’s what I’ve found so far…

Sticks. So many sticks.

I may be a Vermont-living, nature-loving, Birkenstock-wearing gal, but I prefer my nature to remain outdoors, not in my kitchen drawer. So the myriad stick flatware I found was all an immediate no. I did enjoy the other biophilic designs I found playing with leaves and flowers (these $108 teaspoons from anthropologie are dreamy) so perhaps it is something more nuanced that bothers me than just “nature indoors.” Maybe it’s that these look terribly uncomfortable to hold. Or that thin, stubby little twigs like these aren’t really the stars of the forest. Or that the proportions of these handles to the utensil tops are unbalanced and the contrast in texture is stark in an after-thought sort of way. It’s probably a mix of all the above and some other deep subconscious belief that I don’t know I hold!

Alongside sticks was a niche of bamboo handles. With these, I appreciate the tiki and retro silliness of them and would happily use them for a themed party, but certainly not every day. What I appreciated the most about discovering these though, was how one HGTV Canada writer wrote about them: “Got a farmhouse vibe at home? Keep the theme going with rustic, natural bamboo flatware. Crafted by hand, the cutlery brings a casual, yet stylish feel to the table.” They either used AI or didn’t expect anyone to read the article - either way, I enjoyed the concept that bamboo matches a Canadian farmhouse aesthetic.

Plastic. So much plastic.

The primary search results for “interesting flatware” are acrylic-handled sets in just about every color and pattern you can imagine. I like a lot of these, but was especially interested in none of them. My favorite of the bunch was this Alain Saint-Joanis set, but only when I first read it as “marble” not “marbled resin.” Most surprising of all with the plastic-handle variety: the price point. Those marbled resin bad boys will cost you $80 to $90 apiece. As in, $90 for a single fork. Which in comparison, makes this set designed exclusively for the MoMA a steal at $656 for a 24-piece set! Oh, to be stupidly wealthy.

The consistent stars of the plastic-handle flatware game seem to be the French company, Sabre. According to their website, “The word “limit” doesn’t exist in the Sabre Paris vocabulary – because there are none! From the first day of the adventure, the House has claimed its total creative freedom. It spurns conventions to invent its own rules at the table.” A bit of a stretch i.m.o. but they do seem to be the center of the colorful handle universe, and a husband and wife duo making it 30 years in business is no small feat, so, kudos to them!

The introduction to colored handles spurred a new question - why is it silver anyway? This Google search was much more easily answered. According to the German silver company Robbe & Berking (est. 1874!) “Unlike other metals, silver has an inherent property – it’s antibacterial - that prevents the buildup of bacteria cells in its chemical bonds, inhibiting bacteria from surviving and thriving, which makes it beneficial to use silver cutlery for eating. This aspect of silver has convinced many health-conscious people to use silverware daily. Utilizing silver cutlery has once again become a habit to foster good health.” Apparently this has been common knowledge since 400 B.C. when Hippocrates of Kos, “known as the founding father of Western medicine” wrote about the healing and hygienic benefits of silver. “He used the bioactivity of silver for preparations of ulcer treatment and to promote the healing of wounds. In fact, silver has been widely applied in medicinal use worldwide. Silver has been proven to stimulate new cell growth and therefore is found it in everyday products, such as patches, creams, water- and air-filters etc.”

…The more ya know!

Not all that glitters is [silver]

While silver has been the gold… or should I say silver …standard since earliest written human history, a few brave folks are daring to go against the grain with color-coated stainless steel. Mostly it’s just gold or black, but there is a subset of rainbow metallics taking up a % of the “interesting flatware” market. The oil-spill appearance and aggressively saturated neons are an “ew” from me, but there was one set that turned my “ew” to an “oooh.” (Funny how close two sounds can be and yet, opposite in meaning!) Unfortunately, that “oooh” comes at the price of $335 per set of 5. Go figure. I did also find a set of flower-shaped teaspoons on Amazon that sparked joy despite their Barbie Universe nature. Still, the gold option is my personal favorite and at 8 for $8 I may send it on these. Fun fact: I found the same ones sold on anthropologie for 3 for $14 (;

Unsettling Minimalism

If one side of the flatware spectrum is oil-spill flower spoons, the other side is American-Psycho-approved minimalist flatware. It is not uncommon to spot these stretched-out, thin, surprisingly heavy utensils at contemporary fine dining spots, and despite the beautiful food they often accompany, they weird me out. For context, I’ve always been spooked by things that are disproportionally stretched out - the sleeves of straight jackets, thigh-high boots (specifically when displayed alone, on a person is fine), and this nightmare-fuel sculpture at the BTV Airport. So I may be coming at this with a strong bias, but it’s a definite no for me. And while proportional minimalism does not spook me, it bores me.

A fun fact from our friend at HGTV Canada - The Arne Jacobsen set was originally designed for the SAS Royal Hotel in Copenhagen in 1957 (and can be yours at $335 a set).

Enter: Salvador Dalí!

Overall, I have been deeply underwhelmed by what I’ve found. I’m not exactly sure what I’m looking for, but I was yet to be struck by awe until one Salvador Dalí entered the conversation. If you’re looking for out-of-the-box originality, you can always count on Dalí to deliver even now, 35 years after his death. In addition to his paintings, he has an impressive collection of metalwork - mostly in the form of jewelry but his exploration of flatware is what we’re here to admire today! These sculptural marvels took my breath away and made me wish more than ever to be stupidly wealthy. (A set of 5 sold in 2012 for $28,125.) If you like these, go ahead and give his furniture designs a look, too. This set of drawers is my personal favorite! Did you know he designed the original Lip Couch? He really is worth the hype.

So my takeaway after all of this? I’m a few thousand short of purchasing the flatware that really makes my heart sing, and there’s room at the table (pun intended) for some true creativity in silverware. Until then, utility will win out and my Ikea set will go on to see another day.

xoxo,

Julia

It’s now a seasonable 75-degrees as I write this and we’ve all returned to our own worlds. Here’s what’s taking center stage in mine…

1. The world’s greatest tube top
   I love my collarbones + I don’t love showing cleavage = I love strapless tops. But thanks to the size of my chest (allegedly a 34 DDD(!?) according to the latest online quiz I took), finding the right no-bra top that holds me securely is a rarity. Two years ago I purchased a tube top that promised to do just that after being convinced by another generously-breasted gal on IG. It was all natural materials, naturally dyed, from a small, woman-owned, ethical company in Australia, and $65. Due to the price tag, I limited myself to just one, but my god, did this guy live up to expectations. The most buttery soft double-lined fabric, flattering cut, and it does not budge all day. I have truly no notes - it’s flawless. But before I had the chance to splurge on another - the business closed. Two years have passed (the top is in as great condition as ever) and no other tube top has come even close to comparing. My periodic Depop searches for the top have all come up short - who would part with such a perfect thing?? But this week in a stroke of sheer magic… the company has returned!! and the OG tube top is amongst their capsule collection!! My prayers have been answered!!

   So, take this as my most truthful endorsement and treat yourself to a Hara Ami Bandeau. (I wear size M!)

   

2. The quest for the right shampoo
   May the Hara tube top serve as a reminder that it is possible to find a perfect item as I embark on a shampoo journey. I have spent the past few years on a hormone-healing odessey after a decade of birth control pills wreaked havoc. This should/will be its own post, but the number 1 thing I’ve learned: nearly every mainstream product/food is an endocrine disruptor. Fun! I’ve slowly found healthy alternatives, but the right shampoo/conditioner has alluded me. My goals are volume, shine, and curl definition - a request natural ingredient shampoos seem to struggle with. So far Andalou was flattening and meh, Captain Blankenship has been ultra clean but not moisturizing enough, and while Hask is decent in its effects - has questionable ingredients I missed upon ordering. So if anyone has a recommendation… I’m all ears!!

3. A surprising spice combo

   Dinner duty fell on my shoulders Thursday and consisted of whatever we had left before heading out of town - rice, beans, and chicken. In an attempt to liven it up I got a little silly with the spices for the chicken and stumbled upon gold! Here’s what I did: Oregano, thyme, sea salt, ground black pepper, paprika, a tablespoon of brown sugar, and curry powder! It makes sense in practice but I certainly don’t default to this lineup. Give it a go and let me know what you think (:

4. A sunburn catastrophe avoided

   If you ever want to put your skincare to the test, give yourself a terrible sunburn and see how quickly you can heal yourself. Kidding! always wear sunscreen! …but if you accidentally forget to put it on your face and then sit at the beach on a 90-degree day for 2.5 hours, well you have no other choice. This is the situation I found myself in on Monday. Thanks to a hat, the top half of my face was saved, but what was left was a full beard of bright red sunburn. I pulled out all my moisturizing stops thanks to my holy grail skincare favorite: Badger. Before bed, I used their Aloe gel, seabuckthorn oil, and beauty balm. By morning, the stop-sign red had faded to a blush. By the next day, all but gone. Seriously. No itch, no peeling, no stinging - just immediate healing thanks to good ol’ mother nature and the great people at Badger. If only they had a shampoo/conditioner combo. (They do have a shampoo bar but no conditioners… strange.)

   

5. The luxury of stone fruit
   A persistent theme this week (and hopefully all summer) is the absolute luxury of biting into a juicy fruit outside, ideally on the water. There are few greater joys than sweet plum juice dripping down your fingers and the taste of salty sweat and minerally lake water mixing with the sugar as you catch the drips with your tongue. This was how I spent my Monday evening - on a hot rock on the lake with friends. On Wednesday I ate my way through a bag of cherries while reading a book on the porch during the rain storm (so much luxury in one sentence, my god!). The repetitive act of biting into the cherries and pulling out the pit left my mouth tingling, my lips naturally plumped, and both my lips and fingers dyed cherry red. It was the same blissful high of a the first messy makeout with your biggest high school crush. And to think, I used to hate cherries and was intimidated by plums and their pits. Oh, how grateful I am to have grown out of my picky eater phase!

   

Cheers to a simple, beautiful summer week coming to a close and another ahead!

xoxo,

Julia

I have found that crafting the perfect Instagram story is creatively fulfilling and often brings me the same joy that painting and drawing can. The fleeting nature of Instagram stories is freeing in the creative process, but a lifetime of creating physical works has led me to crave something more concrete, which in part has led me here. This “permanence” I’m craving also intimidates me and puts blocks in my way - each word carries so much importance. The words in an Instagram story do too, and I often hem and haw over the right little quip to include in a slide, but it’s only ever just that - a little quip. Here I am being faced with complete sentences! paragraphs! Do I really have anything to say of importance great enough for a paragraph?

Instagram stories’ brief nature and social media status absolve them of this line of questioning - having anything of value isn’t the point. A fragment of a thought is plenty enough to publish - no one will linger on it for more than a few seconds. This, however, brings me back to my problem of feeling untethered from here and now. In attempting to write/create anything of more substance than an Instagram story, I find my mind prefers to only sit with its thoughts for a few seconds before bopping to the next idea. In my head, it feels like I’ve had a fully flushed-out consideration, but when asked to put it down I find only those fragments. This is frustrating, to say the least. I faintly remember a school-aged version of myself who wrote A+ essays with ease. As a result, I find myself longing for a faraway time before social media where we all sat with our thoughts, discussed them, and pondered. The pro-Instagram girl in me argues the platform is actually the epitome of this - a digital watering hole where ideas are shared and spread to the masses. Accounts like @sighswoon and @jamesfrancis have mastered this art. But the vast majority of the content I breeze through in a day hardly promotes consideration longer than 3 seconds.

Maybe my fragmented mind comes from more than social media: from texting, and emailing, and constant planning for the next thing and the next thing and the next thing. Truthfully, I long to be bored. Some days I find myself successfully in this headspace - untethered to my phone or any digital obligation and blissfully floating through the day. It feels like heaven. Leaving the 9-5 grind has granted me the opportunity to find myself here more often than ever before, and yet, I find myself filling much of that open space with Instagram. Go figure.

This isn’t a declaration that I am going off the (Instagram) grid - my addiction is very much that. But this is an attempt at reconnecting with myself, gluing together these fragmented thoughts, and expanding upon them.

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